THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 
Ada  Nisbet 

ENGLISH  READING  ROOM 


MY  NOVEL. 


"MY  NOVEL" 


OR 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE 


BY  PISISTRATUS  CAXTON 


BY 


SIR  EDWARD  BULWERJLYTTON,  BART. 


'  Neque  enim  notare  singulos  mens  est  mihi, 
Veram  ipsam  vitam  et  mores  hominum  ostendere." 

— Phadrvs. 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CASSELL  PUBLISHING  CO. 
31  EAST  i7TH  ST.  (UNION  SQUARE) 


J3VCM  YM 


4   t 


THE  MBRSHON  COMPANY  PRESS, 
RAHWAY,  N.  J. 

- 


A:<, 
,0'. 

• 


MY  NOVEL, 


BOOK  FIRST.— INITIAL  CHAPTER. 

SHOWING  HOW  MY  NOVEL  CAME  TO  BE  WRITTEN. 

SCENE,  The  Hall  in  Uncle  Roland's  Tower — Time,  Night— 
SEASON,  Winter. 

Mr.  Caxton  is  seated  before  a  great  geographical  globe,  which 
he  is  turning  round  leisurely,  and  "  for  his  own  recreation,"  as, 
according  to  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  a  philosopher  should  turn 
round  the  orb  of  which  that  globe  professes  to  be  the  representa- 
tion and  effigies.  My  mother  having  just  adorned  a  very  small 
frock  with  a  very  smart  braid,  is  holding  it  out  at  arm's-length, 
the  more  to  admire  the  effect.  Blanche,  though  leaning  both 
hands  on  my  mother's  shoulder,  is  not  regarding  the  frock,  but 
glances  toward  PISISTRATUS,  who,  seated  near  the  fire,  leaning 
back  in  the  chair,  and  his  head  bent  Over  his  breast,  seems  in  a 
very  bad  humor.  Uncle  Rolandj  who  has  become  a  great  novel- 
reader,  is  deep  in  the  mysteries  Of  some  fascinating  third  vol- 
ume. Mr.  Squills  has  brought  The  Times  in  his  pocket  for  his 
own  special  profit  and  delectation,  arid  is  now  bending  his  brows 
over  "  the  state  of  the  money  market,"  in  great  doubt  whether 
railway  shares  cart  possibly  fall  lower  ;  for  Mr.  Squills,  happy 
man  !  has  large  savings,  and  does  not  know  what  to  do  with  his 
money,  or,  to  use  his  own  phrase,"  how  to  buy  in  at  the  cheap- 
est, in  order  to  sell  out  at  the  dearest." 

MR.  CAXTON  (musingly). — It  must  have  been  a  monstrous 
long  journey.  It  would  be  somewhere  hereabouts,  I  take  it, 
that  they  would  split  off. 

MY  MOTHER  (mechanically,  and  in  order  to  show  Austin  that 
she  paid  him  the  compliment  of  attending  to  his  remarks). — 
Who  split  off,  my  dear  ? 

•"  Bless  me,  Kitty,"  said  my  father,  in  great  admiration,  "  you 
ask  just  the  question  which  it  is  most  difficult  to  answer.  An 
ingenious  speculator  on  races  contends  that  the  Danes,  whose 
descendants  make  the  chief  part  of  our  northern  population 
(and  indeed,  if  his  hypothesis  could  be  correct,  we  must  suppose 
all  the  ancient  worshippers  of  Odin), 'are  of  the  same  origin  as 
the  Etrurians.  And  why,  Kitty — I  just  ask  you,  why  ? " 

My  mother  shook  her  head  thoughtfully,  and  turned  the  frock 
to  the  other  side  of  the  light. 


4  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

"  Because,  forsooth,"  cried  my  father,  exploding — "  because 
the  Etrurians  called  their  gods  '  the  ^Esaj,'  and  the  Scandina- 
vians called  theirs  the  ^Esir,  or  Aser  !  And  where  do  you  think 
this  adventurous  scholar  puts  their  cradle  ?  " 

"Cradle  !  "  said  my  mother,  dreamily — "  it  must  be  in  the 
nursery." 

MR.  CAXTON. — Exactly — in  the  nursery  of  the  human  race — 
just  here  [and  my  father  pointed  to  the  globe],  bounded,  you 
see,  by  the  river  Halys,  and  in  that  region  which,  taking  its  name 
from  Ees,  or  As  (a  word  designating  light  or  fire),  has  been  im- 
memorially  called  Asia.  Now,  Kitty,  from  Ees  or  As  our  ethno- 
logical speculator  would  derive  not  only  Asia,  the  land,  but^Esar, 
.  or  Aser,its  primitive  inhabitants.  Hence  he  supposes  the  origin 
of  the  Etrurians  and  the  Scandinavians.  But  if  we  give  him  so 
much,  we  must  give  him  more,  and  deduce  from  the  same  origin 
the  Es  of  the  Celt  and  the  Ized  of  the  Persian,  and — what  will 
be  of  more  use  to  him,  I  dare  say,  poor  man,  than  all  the  rest 
put  together — the  JEs  of  the  Romans,  that  is,  the  God  of  Cop- 
per-Money—a  very  powerful  household  god  he  is  to  this  day  ! 

My  mother  looked  musingly  at  her  frock,  as  if  she  were  tak- 
ing my  .father's  proposition  into  serious  consideration. 

"  So  perhaps,"  resumed  my  father,  "  and  not  unconformably 
with  sacred  records,  from  one  great  parent  horde  caqie  all  those 
various  tribes,  carrying  with  them  the  name  of  their  beloved 
Asia  ;  and,  whether  they  wandered  north,  south,  or  west,  exalt- 
ing their  own  emphatic  designation  of  '  Children  of  the  Land 
of  Light '  into  the  title  of  gods.  And  to  think  "  (added  Mr. 
Caxton  pathetically,  gazing  upon  that  speck  in  the  globe  OP 
which  his  forefinger  rested), — "  to  think  how  little  they  changed 
for  the  better  when  they  got  to  the  Don,  or  entangled  their 
rafts  amidst  the  icebergs  of  the  Baltic — so  comfortably  off  as 
they  were  here,  if  they  could  but  have  stayed  quiet." 

"  And  why  the  deuce  could  not  they  ?"  asked  Mr.  Squills. 

"  Pressure  of  population,  and  not  enough  to  live  upon,  1 
suppose,"  said  my  father. 

PISISTRATUS  (sulkily). — More  probably  they  did  away  with 
the  Corn  Laws,  sir. 

"  Papce  /"  quoth  my  father  ;  "  that  throws  a  new  light  on 
the  subject." 

PISISTRATUS  (full  of  his  grievances,  and  not  caring  three 
straws  about  the  origin  of  the  Scandinavians). — I  knowjthat  if  we 
are  to  lose  ^500  every  year  on  a  farm  which  we  hold  rent- 
free,  and  which  the  best  judges  allow  to  be  a  perfect  model  for 
the  whole  country,  we  had  better  make  haste  and  turn  JEsir,  or 


VARIETIES  IN    ENOLISH    LIFE.  5 

Aser,  or  whatever  you  call  them,  and  fix  a  settlement  on  the 
property  of  other  nations — otherwise,  I  suspect,  our  probable 
settlement  will  be  on  the  parish. 

MR.  SQUILLS  (who,  it  must  be  remembered,  is  an  enthu- 
siastic Free-trader). — You  have  only  got  to  put  more  capital 
on  the  land. 

PISISTRATUS. — Well,  Mr.  Squills,  as  you  think  so  well  of 
that  investment,  put  your  capital  on  it.  I  promise  that  you 
shall  have  every  shilling  of  profit. 

MR.  SQUILLS  (hastily  retreating  behind  The  Times). — I  don't 
think  the  Great  Western  can  fall  any  lower  ;  though  it  is 
hazardous — I  can  but  venture  a  few  hundreds 

PISISTRATUS. — On  our  land,  Squills  ?     Thank  you. 

MR.  SQUILLS. — No,  no — anything  but  that — on  the  Great 
Western. 

Pisistratus  relaxes  into  gloom.  Blanche  steals  up  coaxingly, 
and  gets  snubbed  for  her  pains. 

A  pause. 

MR.  CAXTON. — There  are  two  golden  rules  of  life  :  one  re- 
lates to  the  mind,  and  the  other  to  the  pockets.  The  first  is—- 
If our  thoughts  get  into  a  low,  nervous,  aguish  condition,  we 
should  make  them  change  the  air;  the  second  is  comprised  in  the 
proverb,  "  It  is  good  to  have  two  strings  to  one's  bow."  There- 
fore, Pisistratus,  I  tell  you  what  you  must  do — Write  a  Book  J 

PISISTRATUS. — Write  a  Book  ! — Against  the  abolition  of  the 
Corn  Laws  ?  Faith,  sir,  the  mischief's  done.  It  takes  a  much 
better  pen  than  mine  to  write  down  an  Act  of  Parliament. 

MR.  CAXTON. — I  only  said  "  Write  a  book."  All  the  rest  is 
the  addition  of  your  own  headlong  imagination. 

PISISTRATUS  (with  the  recollection  of  The  Great  Book  rising 
before  him). — Indeed,  sir,  I  should  think  that  that  would  just 
finish  us  ! 

MR.  CAXTON  (not  seeming  to  heed  the  interruption).  A  book 
that  will  sell.  A  book  that  will  prop  up  the  fall  of  prices!  A  book 
that  will  distract  your  mind  from  its  dismal  apprehensions,  and 
restore  your  affection  to  your  species,  and  your  hopes  in  the  ulti- 
mate triumph  of  sound  principles — by  the  sight  of  a  favorable 
balance  at  the  end  of  the  yearly  accounts.  It  is  astonishing 
what  a  difference  that  little  circumstance  makes  in  our  views  of 
things  in  general.  I  remember  when  the  bank  in  which  Squills 
had  incautiously  left  ^1,000  broke,  one  remarkably  healthy 
year,  that  he  became  a  great  alarmist,  and  said  that  the  country 
was  on  the  verge  of  ruin  ;  whereas  you  see  now,  when,  thanks 
to  a  long  succession  of  sickly  seasons,  he  has  a  surplus  capital 


6  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

to  risk  in  the  Great  Western,  he  is  firmly  persuaded  that  England 
was  never  in  so  prosperous  a  condition. 

MR.  SQUILLS  (rather  sullenly).— Pooh,  pooh. 

MR.  CAXTON. — Write  a  book,"  my  son — write  a  book.  Need 
I  tell  you  that  Money  or  Moneta,  according  to  Hyginus,  was 
the  mother  of  the  Muses  ?  Write  a  book. 

BLANCHE  and  my  MOTHER  (in  full  chorus).' — O  yes,  Sisty — 
a  book — a  book  !  you  must  write  a  book. 

"  I  am  sure,"  quoth  my  Uncle  Roland,  slamming  down  the 
volume  he  had  just  concluded,  "  he  could  write  a  devilish  deal 
better  book  than  this  ;  and  how  I  come  to  read  such  trash, 
night  after  night,  is  more  than  I  could  possibly  explain  to  the 
satisfaction  of  an  intelligent  jury,  if  I  were  put^into  a  witness- 
bdx,  and  examined  in  the  mildest  manner  by  my  own  counsel." 

MR.  CAXTON. — You  see  that  Roland  tells  us  exactly  what 
sort  of  a  book  it  shall  he. 

PISISTRATUS. — Trash,  sir  ? 

MR.  CAXTON. — No, — that  is,  not  necessarily  trash— but  a 
book  of  that  class  which,  whether  trash  or  not,  people  can't 
help  reading.  Novels  have  become  a  necessity  of  the  age  ; 
you  must  write  a  novel. 

PISISTRATUS  (flattered,  but  dubious). — A  novel  !  But  every 
subject  on  which  novels  can  beiwritten  is  preoccupied.  There 
are  novels  of  low  life,  novels  of  high  life,  military  novels,  naval 
novels,  novels  philosophical,  novels  religious,  novels  historical, 
novels  descriptive  of  India,  the  Colonies,  Ancient  Rome,  and 
the  Egyptian  Pyramids.  From  what  bird,  wild  eagle,  or  barn- 
door fowl,  can  I 

"  Pluck  ofte  unwearied  plume  from  Fancy's  wing?" 

MR.  CAXTON  (after  a  little  thought). — You  remember  the 
story  which  Trevanion  (I  beg  his  pardon,  Lord  Ulswater)  told 
us  the  other  night.  That  gives  you  something  of  the  romance 
of  real  life  for  your  plot — puts  you  chiefly  among  scenes  with 
which  you  are  familiar,  and  furnishes  you  with  characters  which 
have  been  very  sparingly  dealt  with  since  the  time  of  Fielding. 
You  can  give  us  the  Country  Squire,  as  you  remember  him  in 
your  youth;  it  is  a  specimen  of  a  race  worth  preserving — the  old 
idiosyncrasies  of  which  are  rapidly  dying  off,  as  the  railways  bring 
Norfolk  and  Yorkshire  within  easy  reach  of  the  manners  of  Lon- 
don. You  can  give  us  the  old-fashioned  Parson,  as  in  all  essen- 
tials he  may  yet  be  found  ;  but  before,  you  had  to  drag  him  out 
of  the  great  Tractarian  bog  ;  and  for  the  rest,  I  really  think  that 
while,  as  I  am  told,  many  popular  writers  are  doing  their  best, 
especially  in  France,  and  perhaps  a  little  in  England,  to  set  class 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  7 

against  class,  and  pick  up  every  stone  in  the  kennel  to  shy  at  a 
gentleman  with  a  good  coat  on  his  back,  something  useful  might 
be  done  by  a  few  good-humored  sketche^of  those  innocent  crim- 
inals a.  little  better  off  than  their  neighbors,  whom,  however  we 
dislike  them,  I  take  it  for  granted  we  shall  have  to  endure,  in 
one  shape  or  another,  as  long  as  civilization  exists  ;  and  they 
seem,  on  the  whole,  as  good  in  their  present  shape  as  we  are 
likely  to  get,  shake  the  dice-box  of  society  how  we  will. 

PISISTRATUS.^ — Very  wellsaid,  sir;  but  this  rural  country-gentle- 
man life  is  not  so  new  as  you  think.  There's  Washington  Irving — 

MR.  OAXTON.— Charming  ;  but  rather  the  manners  of  the  last 
century  than  this.  You  may  as  well  cite  Addison  and  Sir  Rog- 
er de  Coverley. 

J        _          .  _ 

PISISTRATUS. —  Tremaine  and  De  Vere. 

MR.  CAX TON. —Nothing  can  be  more  graceful,  nor  more  un- 
like what  I  mean.  The  Pales  and  Terminus  I  wish  you  to  put 
up  in  the  fields  are  familiar  images,  that  you  may  cut  out  of  an 
oak-tree — not  beautiful  marble  statue^  on  porphyry  pedestals, 
twenty  feet  high. 

1  Pisisf  RATUS. — M-iss  Austen ;  Miss  Gore  in  her  masterpiece  of 
Mrs.  Armytage ;  Mrs.  Marsh,  too  ;  and  then  (for  Scotch  man- 
ners) Miss  Ferrjfr  ! 

MR.  CAXTON  (growing  cross). — Oh,  if  you  cannot  treat  on 
bucolics,  but  what  you  must  hear  some  Virgil  or  other  cry  "  Stop 
thief,"  you  deserve  to  be  tossed  by  one  of  your  own  "short-horns." 
[Still  more  contemptuously] — rl  am  sure  J  don't  know  why  we 
spend  so  much  money  on  sendingour  sons  tp  school  to  learn  Latin, 
when  that  Anachronism  of  yours,  Mrs.  Caxton, can't  even  construe 
aline  and  a  half  of  'Phgedrus..  Phsedrus,  Mrs.  Caxton— a  book 
which  is  in  Latin  what  Gpody  Two-Shoes  is  in  the  vernacular  ! 

Mrs.  CAXTON  (alarmed  and  indignant), — Fie!  Austin!  I 
am  sure  you  can  construe  Phaedrus,  dear. 

Pisistratus  prudently  preserves  silence. 

Mr.  CAXTON— I'll  try  him- 

"  Sua  cuique  sit  animi  cogitatio        > 
Colorque  propius." 

What  does  that  mean  ? 

PisiSTRATUs(smiling).— That  every  man  h^s  some  coloring 
matter  within  him,  to  give  his  own  tinge  to — 

"His  own  novel," interrupted  my  father.     "  Contentusperagis!" 

During  the  latter  part  of  this  dialogue,  Blanche  had  sewn  to- 
gether three  quiresofthebest  Bath  paper,andshenowplaced  them 
on  a  little  table  before  me,  with  her  own  inkstand  and  steel  pen. 

My  mother  put  her  finger  to  her  lip,  and  said,  "  Hush  !  "  my 


8  MY   NOVEL  J    OR, 

father  returned  to  the  cradle  of  the  ^Esar  ;  Captain  Roland 
leant  his  cheek  on  his  hand,  and  gazed  abstractedly  on  the  fire  ; 
Mr.  Squills  fell  into  a  placid  doze  ;  and,  after  three  sighs  that 
would  have  melted  a  heart  of  stone,  I  rushed  into — MY  NOVEL. 

• 
CHAPTER  II. 

"  THERE  has  never  been  occasion  to  use  them  since  I've 
been  in  the  Parish,"  said  Parson  Dale. 

"  What  doth  that  prove  ? "  quoth  the  Squire,  sharply,  and 
looking  the  Parson  full  in  the  face. 

"  Prove  J  "  repeated  Mr.  Dale,  with  a  smile  of  benign,  yet 
too  conscious  superiority — -"W^hat  does  experience  prove  ?" 

"  That  your  forefathers  were  great  blockheads,  and  that  their 
descendant  is  not  a  whit  the  wiser." 

"  Squire,"  replied  the  Parson,  "  although  that  is  a  melan- 
choly conclusion,  yet  if  you  mean  it  to  apply  universally,  and 
not  to  the  family  of  the  Dales  in  particular,  it  is  not  one  which 
my  candor  as  a  reasoner,  and  my  humility  as  a  mortal,  will 
permit  me  to  challenge." 

"  I  defy  you,"  said  Mr.  Hazeldean,  triumphantly.  "  But  to 
stick  to  the  subject  (which  it  is  monstrous  hard  to  do  when  one 
talks  with  a  parson),  I  only  just  ask  you  to  look  yonder,  and  tell 
me  onjyour  conscience — I  don't  even  sayas  a  parson, but  as  a  par- 
ishioner— whether  you  ever  saw  a  more  disreputable  spectacle?" 

While  he  spoke,  the  Squire,  leaning  heavily  on  the  Parson's 
left  shoulder,  extended  his  cane  in  a  line  parallel  with  the  right 
eye  of  that  disputatious  ecclesiastic,  so  that  he  might  guide  the 
organ  of  sight  to  the  object  he  had  thus  unflatteringly  described. 

"  I  confess,"  said  the  Parson,  "  that,  regarded  by  the  eye  of  the 
senses,  it  is  a  thing  that  in  its  best  day  had  small  pretensions  to 
beauty,  and  is  not  elevated  into  the  picturesque  even  by  neglect 
and  decay.  But,  my  friend,  regarded  by  the  eye  of  the  inner 
man — of  the  rural  philosopher  and  parochial  legislator — I  say  it 
is  by  neglect  and  decay  that  it  is  rendered  a  very  pleasing  feature 
in  what  I  may  call  '  the  moral  topography  of  a  parish.'  " 

The  Squire  looked  at  the  Parson  as  if  he  could  have  beaten 
him  ;  and,  indeed,  regarding  the  object  in  dispute  not  only  with 
the  eye  of  the  outer  man,  but  the  eye  of  law  and  order — the  eye 
of  a  country  gentleman  and  a  justice  of  the  peace,  the  spectacle 
was  scandalously  disreputable.  It  was  moss-grown ;  it  was  worm- 
eaten  ;  it  was  broken  right  in  the, middle  ;  through  its  four  sock- 
etless  eyes,  neighbored  by  the  nettle,  peered  the  thistle  : — the 
thistle !  a  forest  of  thistles  -'—and  to  complete  the  degradation  of 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  9 

the  whole,  those  thistles  had  attracted  the  donkey  of  an  itinerant 
tinker;  and  the  irreverent  animal  was  in  the  very  act  of  taking 
its  luncheon  out  of  the  eyes  and  jaws  of — -THE  PARISH  STOCKS. 

The  Squire  looked  as  if  he  could  have  beaten  the  Parson  ; 
but,  as  he  was  not  without  some  slight  command  of  temper, 
and  a  substitute  was  luckily  at  hand,  he  gulped  down  his  re- 
sentment, and  made  a  rush — at  the  donkey  ! 

Now  the  donkey  was  hampered  by  a  rope  to  its  forefeetyto  the 
which  was  attached  a  billet  of  wood,  called  technically  "a  clog," 
so  that  it  had  no  fair  chance  of  escape  from  the  assault  its  sacri- 
legious luncheon  had  justly  provoked.  But,the  ass  turning  round 
with  unusual  nimbleness  at  the  first  stroke  of  the  cane,  the  Squire 
caught  his  foot  in  the  rope,  and  went  head  over  heels  among  the 
thistles.  Thedonkey gravely bentdown, and  thrice  smelt  or  sniffed 
its  prostrate  foe;  then,having  convinced  itself  that  it  had  nothing 
farther  to  apprehend  for  the  present,and  very  willing  to  make  the 
best  of  the  reprieve,accordingtothepoetical  admonition,  "Gather 
your  rosebuds  while  you  may,"  it  cropped  a  thistle  in  full  bloom 
close  to  the  ear  of  the  Squire; — so  close,  indeed,  that  the  Parson 
thoughttheearwasgone;  andwith  the  more  probability,inasmuch 
as  the  Squire,  feeling  the  warm  breath  of  the  creature,  bellowed 
out  with  all  the  force  of  lungs  accustomed  to  give  a  View-hallo  ! 

"  Bless  me,  is  it  gone  ? "  said  the  Parson,  thrusting  his  per- 
son between  the  ass  and  the  Squire. 

"  Zounds  and  the  dev^l  !  "  cried  the  Squire,  rubbing  himself 
as  he  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  Hush,"  said  the  Parson,  gently.     "  What  a  horrible  oath  !  " 

"Horrible  oath!  If  you  had  my  nankeens  on,"  said  the 
Squire,  still  rubbing  himself,  "  and  had  fallen  into  a  thicket  of 
thistles,  with  a  donkey's  teeth  within  an  inch  of  your  ear  ! — " 

"  It  is  not  gone,  then  ?  "  interrupted  the  Parson. 

"  No — that  is,  I  think  not,"  said  the  Squire,dubiously ;  and  he 
clapped  his  hand  to  the  organ  in  question.  "No !  it  is  not  gone !" 

u  Thank  Heaven  !  "  said  the  good  clergyman,  kindly. 

"  Hum,"  growled  the  Squire,  who  was  now  once  more  en- 
gaged in  rubbing  himself.  "  Thank  Heaven  indeed,  when  I  am 
as  full  of  thorns  as  a  porcupine  !  I  should  like  to  know  what 
use  thistles  are  in  the  world." 

"  For  donkeys  to  eat,  if  you  will  let  them,  Squire,"  answered 
the  Parson. 

"  Ugh,  you  beast !  "  cried  Mr.  Hazeldean,  all  his  wrath  re- 
awakened, whether  by  reference  to  the  donkey  species,  or  his 
inability  to  reply  to  the  Parson,  or  perhaps  by  some  sudden 
prick  too  sharp  for  humanity — especially  humanity  in  nan- 


io  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

keens — to  endure  without  kicking  ;  "  Ugh,  you  beast  !  "  he  ex- 
claimed, shaking  his  cane  at  the  donkey,  which,  at  the  inter- 
position of  the  ParSon,  had  respectfully  recoiled  a  few  paces, 
and  now  stood  switching  its  thin  tail,  and  trying  vainly  to  lift 
one  of  its  fore-legs — for  the  flies  teased  it. 

-  ^  Poor  thing  !  "  said  the  Parson,  pityingly.    "  See,  it  has  a  raw- 
place  on  the  shoulder,  and  the  flies  have  found  out  the  sore." 

"  I  am  devilish  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  the  Squire,  vindictively. 

"Fie,  fie!" 

"  It  ifc  very  well  to  say  '  Fie,  fie.'  It  was  not  you  who  fell 
among  the  thistles.  What's  the  man  about  now,  I  wonder  ?  " 

The  parson  had  walked  toward  a  chestnut-tree  that  stood  on 
the  village  green;  he  broke  off  a  bough — returned  to  the  don- 
key— whisked- away  the  flies,  and  then  tenderly  placed  the  broad 
leaves  over  the  Sore,  as  a  protection  from  the  swarms.  The  don- 
key turned  round  its  head,  and  looked  at  him  with  mild  wonder. 

"  I  would  bet  a  shilling,"  said  the  Parson,  softly,  "that  this 
is  the  first  act  of  kindness  thou  hast  met  with  this  many  a  day. 
And  slight  enough  it  is,  Heaven  knows." 

With  that  the  Parson  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  and  drew 
out  an  apple.  It  was  a  fine,  large,  rose-cheeked  apple — one 
of  the  last  winter's  store,  from  the  celebrated  tree  in  the  par- 
sonage garden1 ;  and 'fre  was  taking  it  as  a  present  to  a  little  boy 
in  the  village,  who  had  notably  distinguished  himself  in  the 
Sunday-schooL  "  Nay,  in  common  justice,  Lenny  Fairfield 
should  have  the  preference,"  muttered  the  Parson.  The  ass 
pricked  up  one  of  its  ears,  and  advanced  its  head  timidly. 
"  But  Lenny  Fairfield  would  be  as  much  pleased  with  twopence  ; 
and  what  could  twopence  do  to  thee  ?  "  The  ass's  nose  now 
touched  the  apple.  "  Take  it,  in  the  name  of  Charity,"  quoth 
the  Parson  ;  "Justice  is  accustomed  to  be  served  last  ";  and 
the  ass  took  the  apple.  "  How  had  you  the  heart  ?  "  said  the 
Parson,  pointing  to  the  Squire's  carre. 

The  ass  stopped  munching,  and  looked  askant  at  the  Squire. 

"  Pooh  !  eat  on  ;  he'll  not  beat  thee  now." 

"  No,"  said  the  Squire,  apologetically.  "  But,  after  all,  he  is 
not  an  Ass  of  the  Parish  ;  he  is  a  vagrant,  and  he  ought  to  be 
pounded.  But  the  pound  is  in  as  bad  a  state  as  the  stocks, 
thanks  to  your  new-fashioned  doctrines."  ' 

"  New-fashioned  ?  "  cried  the  Parson,  almost  indignantly,  for 
he  had  a  great  disdain  of  new  fashions — "  They  are  as  old  as 
Christianity  ;  nay,  as  old  as  Paradise,  which,  you  will  observe, 
is  derived  from  a  Greek  or  rather  a  Persian  word,  and  means 
something  more  than  'garden,' corresponding," -pursued  the 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  II 

Parson,  rather  pedantically,  "with  the  Latin  vivarium,  viz., 
grove,  or  park  full  of  innocent  dumb  creatures.  Depend  on  it, 
donkeys  were  allowed  to  eat  thistles  there." 

"Very  possibly,"  said  the  Squire,  dryly.  "But  Hazeldean, 
though  a  very  pretty  village,  is  not  Paradise.  The  stocks  shall 
be  mended  to-morrow — ay,  and  the  pound  too, — and  the  next 
donkey  found  trespassing  shall  go  into  it,  as  sure  as  my  name's 
Hazeldean." 

"  Then,"  said  the  Parson,  gravely,  "  I  can  only  hope  that  the 
next  parish  may  not  follow  your  example;  and  that  you  and  I  may 
never  be  caught  straying." 

CHAPTER  III. 

Parson  Dale  and  Squire  Hazeldean  parted  company  ;  the 
latter  to  inspect  his  sheep,  the  former  to  visit  some  of  his  par- 
ishioners, including  Lenny  Fairfield,  whom  the  donkey  had 
defrauded  of  his  apple. 

Lenny  Fairfield  was  sure  to  be  in  the  way,  for  his  mother 
rented  a  few  acres  of  grass-land  from  the  Squire,  and  it  was 
now  hay-time.  And  Leonard,  commonly  called  Lenny,  was  an 
only  son,  and  his  mother  a  widow.  The  cottage  stood  apart, 
and  somewhat  remote,  in  one  of  the  many  nooks  of  the  long, 
green,  village  lane.  And  a  thoroughly  English  cottage  it  was — 
three  centuries  old  at  least  ;  with  walls  of  rubble  let  into  oak 
frames,  and  duly  whitewashed  every  summer,  a  thatched  roof, 
small  panes  of  glass,  an  old  doorway  raised  from  the  ground  by 
two  steps.  There  was  about  this  little  dwelling  all  the  homely 
rustic  elegance  which  peasant  life  admits  of  ;  a  honeysuckle 
was  trained  over  the  door  ;  a  few  flower-pots  were  placed  on  the 
window-sills ;  the  small  plot  of  ground  in  front  of  the  house 
was  kept  with  great  neatness,  and  even  taste  ;  some  large  rough 
stones  on  either  side  the  little  path  having  been  formed  into 
a  sort  of  rock-work,  with  creepers  that  were  now  in  flower ; 
and  the  potato-ground  was  screened  from  the  eye  by  sweet-peas 
and  lupine.  Simple  elegance,  all  this,  it  is  true  ;  but  how  well 
it  speaks  for  peasant  and  landlord,  when  you  see  that  the  peas- 
ant is  fond  of  his  home,  and  has  some  spare  time  and  heart  to 
bestow  upon  mere  embellishment.  Such  a  peasant  is  sure  to 
be  a  bad  customer  to  the  ale-house,  and  a  safe  neighbor  to  the 
Squire's  preserves.  All  honor  and  praise  to  him,  except  a  small 
tax  upon  both,  which  is  due  to  the  landlord  ! 

Such  sights  were  as  pleasant  to  the  Parson  as  the  most 
beautiful  landscapes  of  Italy  can  be  to  the  dilettante.  He 
paused  a  moment  at  the  wicket  to  look  around  him,  and  dis- 


1.2  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

tended  his  nostrils  voluptuously  to  inhale  the  smell  of  the  sweet- 
peas,  mixed  with  that  of  the  new -mown  hay  in  the  fields  behind, 
which  a  light  breeze  bore  to  him.  He  then  moved  on,  care- 
fully scraped  his  shoes,  clean  and  well-polished  as  they  were — 
for  Mr.  Dale  was  rather  a  beau  in  his  own  clerical  way, — on 
the  scraper  without  the  door,  and  lifted  the  latch. 

Your  virtuoso  looks  with  artistical  delight  on  the  figure  of 
some  nymph  painted  on  an  Etruscan  vase,  engaged  in  pouring 
out  the  juice  of  the  grape  from  her  classic  urn.  And  the  Par- 
son felt  as  harmless  if  not  as  elegant  a  pleasure  in  contempla- 
ting Widow  Fairfield  brimming  high  a  glittering  can,  which  she 
designed  for  the  refreshment  of  the  thirsty  haymakers. 

Mrs.  Fairfield  was  a  m-iddle-aged,  tidy  woman,  with  that  alert 
precision  of  movement  which  seems  to  come  from  an  active,  or- 
derly mind ;  and  as  she  now  turned  her  head  briskly  at  the  sound 
of  the  Parson's  footstep,  she  showed  a  countenance  prepossess- 
ing, though  not  handsome — a  countenance  from  which  a  plea- 
sant, hearty  smile,  breaking  forth  at  that  moment,  effaced  some 
lines  that  in  repose  spoke  "  of  sorrows,  but  of  sorrows  past  ";  and 
her  cheek,  paler  than  is  common  to  the  complexions  even  of  the 
fair  sex,  when  born  and  bred  amidst  a  rural  population,  might 
have  favored  the  guess  that  the  earlier  part  of  her  life  had  been 
spent  in  the  languid  air  and"within-doors"occupations  of  a  town. 

"  Never  mind  me,"  said  the  Parson,  as  Mrs.  Fairfield 
dropped  her  quick  curtsey,  and  smoothed  her  apron  ;  "if  you 
are  going  into  the  hay-field,  I  will  go  with  you;  I  have  some- 
thing .to  say  to  Lenny— an  excellent  boy." 

WIDOW.— Well,  sir,  and  you  are  kind  to  say  it  ;  but  so  he  is. 

PARSON. — He  reads  uncommonly  well,  he  writes  tolerably  ; 
he  is  the  best  lad  in  the  whole  school  at  his  Catechism  and  in 
the  Bible  lessons  ;  and  I  assure  you,  when  I  see  his  face  at 
church,  looking  up  so  attentively,  I  fancy  that  I  shall  read  my 
sermon  all  the  better  for  such  a  listener  ! 

WIDOW  (wiping  her  eyes  with  the  corner  of  her  apron). 
— 'Deed,  sir,  when  my  poor  Mark  died,  I  never  thought  I  could 
have  lived  on  as  I  have  done.  But  that  boy  is  so  kind  and 
good,  that  when  I  look  at  him  sitting  there  in  dear  Mark's 
chair,  and  remember  how  Mark  loved  him,  and  all  he  used  to 
say  to  me  about  him,  I  feel  somehow  or  other  as  if  my  good- 
man  smiled  on  me,  and  would  rather  I  was  not  with  him  yet, 
till  the  lad  had  grown  up,  and  did  not  want  me  any  more. 

PARSON  (looking  away,  and  after  a  pause).— You  never  hear 
anything  of  the  old  folks  at  Lansmere  ? 

"  'Deed,  sir,  sin'  poor  Mark  died,  they  han't  noticed  me  nor 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  13 

the  boy;  but,"  added  the  Widow,  with  all  a  peasant's  pride, 
"it  isn't  that  I  wants  their  money;  only  it's  hard  to  feel 
strange-like  to  one's  own  father  and  mother  !  " 

PARSON. — You  must  excuse  them.  Your  father,  Mr.  Avenel, 
was  never  quite  the  same  man  after  that  sad  event  which — 
but  you  are  weeping,  my  friend  ;  pardon  me.  Your  mother 
is  a  little  proud  ;  but  so  are  you,  though  in  another  way. 

WIDOW. — I  proud  !  Lord  love  ye,  sir,  I  have  not  a  bit  o*  pride 
in  me  !  and  that's  the  reason  they  always  looked  down  on  me. 

PARSON. — Your  parents  must  be  well  off  ;  and  I  shall  apply 
to  them  in  a  year  or  two  on  behalf  of  Lenny,  for  they  promised 
me  to  provide  for  him  when  he  grew  up,  as  they  ought. 

WIDOW  (with  flashing  eyes). — I  am  sure,  sir,  I  hope  you  will 
do  no  such  thing  ;  for  I  would  not  have  Lenny  beholden  to  them 
as  has  never  given  him  a  kind  word  sin'  he  was  born  ! 

The  Parson  smiled  gravely,  and  shook  his  head  at  poor  Mrs. 
Fairfield's- hasty  confutation  of  her  own  self-acquittal  from  the 
charge  of  pride;  but  he  saw  that  it  was  not  the  time  for  effectual 
peace-makinginthemost  irritable  of  all  rancors,viz.,that  nourish- 
ed against  one's  nearest  relations.  He  therefore  dropped  the  sub- 
ject, and  said:  ''Well,  time  enough  to  think  of  Lenny's  future 
prospects;  meanwhile,  we  are  forgetting  the  haymakers.  Come." 

The  widow  opened  the  back  door,  which  led  across  a  little 
apple-orchard  into  the  fields. 

PARSON. — You  have  a  pleasant  place  here  ;  and  I  see  that  my 
friend  Lenny  should  be  in  no  want  of  apples.  I  had  brought 
him  one,  but  I  have  given  it  away  on  the  road. 

WIDOW.— Oh,  sir,  it  is  not  the  deed — it  is  the  will,  as  I  felt 
when  the  Squire,  God  bless  him  !  took  two  pounds  off  the 
rent  the  year  he — that  is,  Mark — died. 

PARSON. — If  Lenny  continues  to  be  such  a  help  to  you,  it  will 
not  be  long  before  the  Squire  may  put  the, two  pounds  on  again. 

"Yes,  sirj"  said  the  Widow,  simply  ;  "  I  hope  he  will." 

"  Silly  woman  !  "  muttered  the  Parson.  "  That's  not  exactly 
what  the  schoolmistresswouldhavesaid.  Youdon'treadnorwrite, 
Mrs.  Fairfield ;  yet  you  express  yourself  with  great  propriety." 

"  You  know  Mark  was  a  schollard,  sir,  like  my  poor,  poor 
sister  ;  and  though  I  was  a  sad  stupid  girl  afore  I  married,  I 
tried  to  take  after  him  when  we  came  together." 

CHAPTER  IV. 

THEY  were  now  in  the  hay-field  ;  and  a  boy  of  about  six- 
teen, but,  like  most  country  lads,  to  appearance  much  younger 


14  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

than  he  was,  looked  up   from   his  rake,  with  lively  blue 
beaming  forth  under  a  profusion  of  brown  curly  hair. 

Leonard  Fairfield  was  indeed  a  very  handsome  boy — not  so 
stout  nor  so  ruddy  as  one  would  choose  for  the  ideal  of  rustic 
beauty  ;  nor  yet  so  delicate  in  limb  and  keen  in  expression  as 
are  those  children  in  cities,  in  whom  the  mind  is  cultivated  at 
the  expense  of  the  body  ;  but  still  he  had  the  health  of  the 
country  in  his  cheeks,  and  was  not  without  the  grace  of  the 
city  in  his  compact  figure  and  easy  movements.  There  was  in 
his  physiognomy  something  interesting  from  its  peculiar 
character  of  innocence  and  simplicity.  You  could  see  that  he 
had  been  brought  up  by  a  woman,  and  much  apart  from  fa- 
miliar contact  with  other  children  ;  and  such  intelligence  as 
was  yet  developed  in  him  was  not  ripened  by  the  jokes  and 
cuffs  of  his  coevals,  but  fostered  by  decorous  Jecturings  from 
his  elders,  and  good-li.ttle-boy  maxims  in  good-little-boy  books. 

PARSON. — Come  hither,  Lenny.  You  know  the  benefit  of 
school,  I  see  ;  it  can  teach  you  nothing  better  than  to  be  a 
support  to  your  mother. 

LENNY  (looking  down  sheepishly,  and  with  a  heightened  glow 
over  his  face). — Please,  sir,  that  may  come  one  of  these  days. 

PARSON. — That's  right,  Lenny.  Let  me  see  !  why,  you  must 
be  nearly  a  rnan.  How  old  are  you  ? 

Lenny  looks  up  inquiringly  at  his  mother. 

PARSON.— You  ought  to  know,  Lenny  ;  speak  for  yourself. 
Hold  your  tongue,  Mrs.  Fairfield. 

LENNY  (twirling  his  -hat,  and  in  great  perplexity). — Well, 
and  there  is  Flop,  neighbor  Dutton's  old  sheep-dog.  He  be 
very  old  now. 

PARSON. — I  am  not  asking  Flop's  age,  but  your  own. 

LENNY. — 'Deed,  sir,  I  have  heard  say  as  how  Flop  and  I 
were  pups  together.  That  is,  I — I- 

For  the  Parson  is  laughing,  and  so  is  Mrs.  Fairfield  ;  and 
the  haymakers,  who  have  stood  still  to  listen,  are  laughing  too. 
And  poor  Lenny  has  quite  lost  his  head,  and  looks  as  if  he 
would  Jike  to  cry. 

PARSON  (patting  the  curlylocks  encouragingly). — Nevermind; 
it  is  not  so  badly  answered  after  all.  And  how  old  is  Flop  ? 

LENNY. — Why,  he  must  be  fifteen  year  or  more. 

PARSON. — How  old,  then,  are  you  ? 

LENNY  (looking  up,  with  a  beam  of  intelligence). — Fifteen 
year  and  more. 

Widow  sighs  ami  nods  her  head. 

"  That's  what  we  call  putting  two  and  two  together,"  said 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  1$ 

the  Parson.  "  Or,  hi  other  words,"  an d,  here  he  raised  his  eyes 
majestically  toward  the  haymakers — "in  other  words — thanks 
to  his  love  for  his  book — simple  as  he  stands  here,  Lenny  Fair- 
field  has  shown  himself  capable  of  INDUCTIVE  RATIOCINATION. 

At  those  words,  delivered  ore  rotundo,  the  haymakers 
ceased  laughing  ;  for  even  in  lay  matters  they  held  the  Parson  to 
be  an  oracle,  and  words  so  long  must  have  a  great  deal  in  them. 

Lenny  drew  up  his  head  proudly. 

"  You  are  very  fond  of  Flop,  I  suppose  ?  " 

'"Deed  he  is,"  said  the  Widow,  "and  of  all  poor  dumb 
creatures." 

"  Very  good.  Suppose,  my  lad,  that  you  had  a  fine  apple, 
and  that  you  met  a  friend  who  wanted  it  more  than  you  ;  what 
would  you  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  Please  you,  sir,  I  would  give  him  half  of  it," 

The  Parson's  tape  fell. — "  Not  the  whole,  Lenny  ?  " 

Lenny  considered.— r>"  If  he  was  a  friend,  sir,  he  would  not 
like  me  to  give  him  all  ?  " 

"  Upon  my  word,  Master  Leonard^  you  speak  so  well  that  I 
must  e'en  tell  the  truth.  I  brought  you  an  apple,  as  a  prize 
for  good  conduct  in  school;  but  I  met  by  the  way  a  poor 
donkey,  and  some  one  beat  him  for  eating  a  thistle,  so, I  thought 
I  would  make  it  up  by  giving  him  the  apple.  Ought  I  only  to 
have  given  him  the  half?" 

Lenny's  innocent  face  became  all  smile  ;  his  interest  was 
aroused. — "And  did  the  donkey  like  the  apple?  " 

"  Very  much,"  said  the  Parson,  fumbling  in  his  pocket ;  but 
thinking  of  Leonard  Fairfield's  years  and  understanding  ;  and 
moreover,  observing,  in  the  pride  of  his  heart,  that  there  were 
many  spectators  to  his  deed,  he  thought  the  meditated  two-pence 
not  sufficient,  and  he  generously  produced  a  silver  sixpence. 

"  There,  my  man,  that  will  pay  for  the  half-apple  which  you 
would  have  kept  for  yourself."  The  parson  again  patted  the 
curly  locks,  and,  after  a  hearty  word  or  two  with  the  other 
haymakers,  and  a  friendly  "  Good-day "..  to  Mrs.  Fairfield, 
struck  into  the  path  that  led  toward  his  own  glebe.  . 

He  had  just  crossed  the  stile,  when  he  heard  hasty  but  timo- 
rous feet  behind  him.  He  turned,  and  saw  his  friend  Lenny. 

LENNY  (half-crying,  and  holding  out  the  sixpence). — indeed, 
sir,  I  would  rather  not,  I  would  have  given  all  to  the  Neddy. 

PARSON. — Why,  then,  my  man,  you  have  a  still  greater  riyht 
to  the  sixpence. 

LENNY. — No,  sir,  'cause  you  only  ga^e  it  to. make  up  for  the 
half-apple.  And  if  I  had  given  him  the  whole,  as  1  ought  to 


l6  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

have  done,  why,  I  should  have  had  no  right  to  the  sixpence. 
Please,  sir,  don't  be  offended  ;  do  take  it  back,  will  you  ? 

The  Parson  hesitated.  And  the  boy  thrust  the  sixpence 
into  his  hand,  as  the  ass  had  poked  its  nose  there  before  in 
quest  of  the  apple. 

"  I  see,"  said  Parson  Dale,  soliloquizing,  "  that  if  one  don't 
give !-'  Justice  the  first  place  at  the  table,  all  the  other  Virtues 
eat  up  her  share." 

Indeed,  the  case  was  perplexing.  Charity,  like  a  forward, 
impudent  baggage  as  she  is,  always  thrusting  herself  in  the  way, 
and  taking  other  people's  apples  to  make  her  own  little  pie, 
had  defrauded  Lenny  of  his  due  ;  and  now  "Susceptibility,  who 
looks  like  a  shy,  blush-faced,- awkward  Virtue  in  her  teens — 
but  who,  nevertheless,  is  always  engaged  in  picking  the  pockets 
of  her  sisters,  tried  to  filch  from  him  his  lawful  recompense. 
The  case  was  perplexing  ;  forrthe  Parson  held  Susceptibility  in 
great  h'onor,  despite  her  hypocritical  tricks,  and  did  not  like  to 
give  her  a  slap  in  the  face,  which  might  frighten  her  away  for 
ever.  So  Mr.  Dale  stood  irresolute,  glancing  from  the  six- 
pence to  Lenny,  and  from  Lenny  to  the  sixpence. 

"  Buon  giornoy  Good-day  to  you,"  said  a  voice  behind,  in  an 
accent  slightly  but  unmistakably  foreign,  and  a  strange-look- 
ing figure  presented  itself  at  the  stile. 

Imagine  a  tall  and  exceedingly  meagre  man,  dressed  in  a 
rusty  suit  of  black — the  pantaloons  tight  at  the  calf  and  ankle, 
and  there  forming  a  loose  gaiter  over  thick  shoes,  buckled  high 
at  the  instep  ; — an  old  cloak,  lined  with  red,  was  thrown  over 
one  shoulder,  though  the  day  was  sultry  ;  a  quaint,  red,  out- 
landish umbrella,  with  a  carved  brass  handle,  was  thrust  under 
one  arm,  though  the  sky  was  cloudless  ; — a  profusion  of  raven 
hair,  in  waving  curls  that  seemed  as  fine  as  silk,  escaped  from 
the  sides  of  a  straw  hat  of  prodigious  brim  ;  a  complexion 
sallow  and  swarthy,  and  features  which,  though  not  without 
considerable  beauty  to  the  eye  of  the  artist,  were  not  only  un- 
like what  we  fair,  well-fed,  neat-faced  Englishmen  are  wont  to 
consider  comely,  but  exceedingly  like  what  we  are  disposed  to 
regard  as  awful  and  Satanic — to  wit,  a  long  hooked  nose, 
sunken  cheeks,  black  eyes,  whose  piercing  brilliancy  took 
something  wizard-like  and  mystical  from  the  large  spectacles 
through  which  they  shone  ;  a  mouth  round  which  played  an 
ironical  smile,  and  in  which  a  physiognomist  would  have  re- 
marked singular  shrewdness,  and  some  closeness,  complete  the 
picture.  Imagine  this  figure,  grotesque,  peregrinate,  and  to 
the  eye  of  a  peasant  certainly  diabolical ;  then  perch  it  on  the 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  17 

Itile  in  the  midst  of  those  green  English  fields,  and  .n  sight  of 
thatjprimitive  English  village  ;  there  let  it  sit  straddling,  its  long 
legs  dangling  down,  a  short  German  pipe  emitting  clouds  from 
one  corner  of  those  sardonic  lips,  its  dark  eyes  glaring  through 
the  spectacles  full  upon  the  Parson,  yet  askant  upon  Lenny 
Fairfield.  Lenny  Fairfield  looked  exceedingly  frightened. 

"Upon  my  word,  Dr.  Riccabocca,"said  Mr.  Dale,  smiling,  "  you 
come  in  good  time  to  solvea  very  nice  question  in  casuistry";  and 
herewith  the  Parson  explained  the  case,  and  put  the  question — 
"  Ought  Lenny  Fairfield  to  have  the  sixpence,  or  ought  he  not? " 

"Cospetto!  "  said  the  Doctor,  "  if  the  hen  would  but  hold  her 
tongue  nobody  would  know  that  she  had  laid  an  egg." 

•  . 
CHAPTER  V 

"  GRANTED,"  said  the  Parson  ;  "  but  what  follows  ?  The 
saying  is  good,  but  I  don't  see  the  application." 

"  A  thousand  pardons  !  "  replied  Dr.  Riccabocca,  with  all 
the  urbanity  of  an  Italian  ;  "but  it  seems  to  me  that  if  you  had 
given  the  sixpence  to  the  fanciulio — that  is,  to  this  good  little 
boy — without  telling  him  the  story  about  the  donkey,  you 
would  never  put  him  and  yourself  into  this  awkward  dilemma." 

"  But,  my  dear  sir,"  whispered  the  Parson  mildly,  as  he  in- 
clined his  lips  to  the  Doctor's  ear,  "  I  should  then  have  lost  the 
opportunity  of  inculcating  a  moral  lesson — you  understand." 

Dr.  Riccabocca  shrugged  his  shoulders,  restored  his  pipe 
to  his  mouth,  and  took  a  long  whiff.  It  was  a  whiff  eloquent, 
though  cynical — a  whiff  peculiar  to  your  philosophical  smoker — 
a  whiff  that  implied  the  most  absolute,  but  the  most  placid 
incredulity  as  to  the  effect  of  the  Parson's  moral  lesson. 

"  Still  you  have  not  given  us  your  decision,"  said  the  Parson, 
after  a  pause. 

The  Doctor  withdrew  his  pipe.  "  Cospetto  !  "  said  he — "  He 
who  scrubs  the  head  of  an  ass  wastes  his  soap." 

"  If  you  scrubbed,  mine  fifty  times  over  with  those  enigmati- 
cal proverbs  of  yours,"  said  the  Parson,  testily,  "you  would  not 
make  it  any  the  wiser." 

"  My  good  sir,"  said  the  Doctor,  bowing  low  from  his  perch 
on  the  stile,  "  I  never  presumed  to  say  that  there  were  more 
asses  than  one  in  the  story  ;  but  I  thought  that  I  could  not  bet- 
ter explain  my  meaning,  which  is  simply  this — you  scrubbed 
the  ass's  head,  and  therefore  you  must  lose  the  soap.  Let  the 
fanciulio  have  the  sixpence  ;  and  a  great  sum  it  is  too,  for  a 
little  boy,  who  may  spend  it  all  as  pocket-money  !  " 


l8  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

"There,  Lenny^you  hear  ? "  said  the  Parson,  stretching  out 
the  sixpence.  But  Lenny  retreated,  and  cast  on  the  umpire  a 
look  of  great  aversion  and  disgust. 

"  Please,  Master  Dale,"  said  he,  obstinately,  "  I'd  rather  not." 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  feeling,  you  see,"  said  the  Parson,  turning 
to  the  umpire  ;  "  and  I  believe  the  boy  is  right." 

"  If  it  be  a  matter  of  feeling,"  replied  Dr.  Riccabocca,  "  there 
is  rio  more  to  be  said  on  it.  When  Feeling  comes  in  at.  the 
door,  Reason  has  nothing  todo.but  to  jump  out  of  the  window." 

"Go,  my  good  boy," said  the  Parson, pocketing  the  coin;  "  but 
stop!  givremeyourhand  first.  77^;-^ I  understand you;—good-by !" 

Lenny's  eyes  glistened  as  the  Parson  shook  him  by 'the  hand, 
and,  not  trusting  himself  to  speak,  he  walked  off  sturdily.  The 
Parson  wiped  his  forehead,  and  sat  himself  down  on  the  stile 
beside  the  Italian.  The  view  before  them  was  lovely,  and 
both  enjoyed  it  (though  not  equally)  enough  to.be  silent  .for 
some  moments.  On  the  other  side  the  iane  seen  between  gaps 
in  the  old  oaks  and  chestnuts  that  hung  over  the  moss-grown 
pales  of  Hazeldean  Park,  rose  gentle,  verdant  slopes,  dotted 
with  sheep  and  herds  .of.  .deer  ;  a  stately  avenue  stretched  far 
away  to  the  left,  and  ended. at  the  right-hand,  within  a  few 
yards  of  a  haha  that  divided  the  park  from  a  level  sward  of 
table-land  gay  with  shrubs  and  flower-pots,  relieved  by  the 
shade  of  two  mighty  cedars.  And  on  this  platform,  only  seen 
in  part,  stood  the  Squire's  old-fashioned  house,  red-brick,  with 
stone  mullions,  gable-ends,  and  quaint  chimney-pots.  On  this 
side  the  road,  immediately  facing  the  two  gentlemen,  cottage 
after  cottage  whitely  emerged  from  the  curves  in  the  lane, 
while,  beyond,  the  ground  declining,  gave  an  extensive  pros- 
pect of  woods  and  corn-fields,  spires  and  farms.  'Behind,  from 
a  belt  of  lilacs  and  evergreens,  you  caught  a  peep  of  the  par- 
sonage-house, backed  by  woodlands,  and  a  little  noisy  rill 
running  in  front. .  The  birds  were  still  in  the  hedge-rows, — 
only,  as  if  from  the  very  heart  of  the  most  distant  woods, 
there  came  now  and  then  the  mellow  note  of  the  cuckoo. 

"  Verily,"  said  Mr..  Dale,  softly,  "  my  lot  has  fallen  on  a 
goodly  heritage." 

The  Italian  twitched  his  cloak  over  him,  and  sighed  almost 
inaudibly.  Perhaps  he  thought  of  his  own  Summer  Land,  and 
felt  that,  amidst  all  that  fresh  verdure  of  the  North,  there  was  no 
heritage  for  the  stranger. 

However,  before  the  Parson  could  notice  the  sigh,  or  con- 
jecture the  cause,  Dr.  Riccabocca's  thin  lips  toqk  an  expression 
almost  malignant. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  19 

u  Per  Bacco  !  "said  he  ;  "  in  every  country  I  observe  that  the 
rockssettlewherethetreesare  thefinest.  I  am  surethat,whenNoah 
first  landed  on  Ararat,  he  must  have  found  some  gentleman  in 
black  already  settled  in  the  pleasantest  part  of  the  mountain,  and 
waiting  tor  his  tenth  of  the  cattle  as  they  came  out  of  the  Ark." 

The  Parson  fixed  his  meek  eyes  on  the  philosopher,  and  there 
was  in  them  something  so  deprecating,  rather  than  reproachful, 
that  Dr.  Riccabocca  turned  away  his  face,  and  refilled  his  pipe. 
Dr.  Riccabocca  abhorred  priests ;  but  though  Parson  Dale  was 
emphatically  a  parson,  he  seemed  at  that  moment  so  little  of 
what  Dr.  Riccabocca  understood  by  a  priest,  that  the  Italian's 
heart  smote  him  for  his  irreverent  jest  on  the  cloth.  Luckily 
at  this  moment  there  was  a  diversion  to  that  untoward  com- 
mencement of  conversation,  in  the  appearance  of  no  less  a  per- 
sonage than  the  donkey  himself — I  mean  the  donkey  who  ate 
the  apple. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  Tinker  was  a  stout  swarthy  fellow,  jovial  and  musical 
withal,  for  he  was  singing  a  stave  as  he  flourished  his  staff,  and 
at  the  end  of  each  refrain  down  came  the  staff  on  the  quarters 
of  the  donkey.  The  Tinker  went  behind  and  sung,  the  donkey 
went  before  and  was  thwacked. 

"Yours  is  a  droll  country,"  quoth  Dr.  Riccabocca;  "in  mine,it 
is  not  the  ass  that  walks  first  in  the  procession  that  gets  the  blows." 

The  Parson  jumped  from  the  stile,  and  looking  over  the 
hedge  that  divided  the  field  from  the  road — "  Gently,  gently," 
said  he  ;  "  the  sound  of  the  stick  spoils  the  singing  !  O,  Mr. 
Sprott,  Mr.  Sprott  !  a  good  man  is  merciful  to  his  beast." 

The  donkey  seemed  to  recognize  the  voice  of.  its  friend,  for 
it  stopped  short,  pricked  one  ear  wistfully,  and  looked  up. 

The  Tinker  touched  his  hat  and  looked  up  too.  "  Lord  bless 
your  reverence  !  he  does  not  mind  it,  he  likes  it.  I  vould  not 
hurt  thee  ;  vould  I,  Neddy  ?  " 

The  donkey  shook  his  headand  shivered;  perhaps  a  fly  had  set- 
tled on  the  sore,  which  the  chestnut-leaves  no  longer  protected. 

"  I  am  sure  you  did  not  mean  to  hurt  him,  Sprott,"  said  the 
Parson,  more  politely  I  fear  than  honestly — for  he  had  seen 
enough  of  that  cross-grained  thing  called  the  human  heart,  even 
in  the  little  world  of  a  country  parish,  to  know  that  it  requires 
management,  and  coaxing,  and  flattering,  to  interfere  success- 
fully between  a  man  and  his  own  donkey — "  I  am  sure  you  did 
not  mean  to  hurt  him  ;  but  he  has  already  got  a  sore  on  his 
shoulder  as  big  as  my  hand,  poor  thing  !  " 


20  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  Lord  love  'un  !  yes  ;  that  was  done  a-playing  with  the  man- 
ger, the  day  I  gave  'un  oats  !"  said  the  Tinker. 

Dr.  Riccabocca  adjusted  his  spectacles,  and  surveyed  the  ass. 
The  ass  pricked  up  his  other  ear,  and  surveyed  Dr.  Riccabocca. 
In  this  mutual  survey  of  physical  qualifications,  each  being 
regarded  according  to  the  average  symmetry  of  its  species,  it 
may  be  doubted  whether  the  advantage  was  on  the  side  of  the 
philosopher. 

The  Parson  had  a  great  notion  of  the  wisdom  of  his  friend, 
in  all  matters  not  purely  ecclesiastical  : 

"  Say  a  good  word  for  the  donkey  !  "  whispered  he. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  Doctor,  addressing  Mr.  Sprott,  with  a  respect- 
ful salutation,  "  there's  a  great  kettle  at  my  house— the  Casino — 
which  wants  soldering  ;  can  you  recommend  me  a  tinker  ?"• 

"  Why,  that's  all  in  my  line,"  said  Sprott,  "  and  there  ben't  a 
tinker  in  the  country  that  I  vould  recommend  like  myself,  thof 
J  say  it." 

"  You  jest,  good  sir,"  said  the  Doctor,  smiling  pleasantly.  "  A 
man  who  can't  mend  a  hole  in  his  own  donkey;  can  never  de- 
mean himself  by  patching  up  my  great  kettle." 

"  Lord,  sir  !  "  said  the  Tinker,  archly,  "if  I  had  known  that 
poor  Neddy  had  had  two  sitch  friends  in  court,  I'd  had  seen  he 
vas  a  gintleman,  and  treated  him  as  sitch." 

"  Corpo  di  Bacco  !  "  quoth  the  Doctor,  "  though  that  jest's 
not  new,  I  think  the  Tinker  comes  very  well  out  of  it." 

"  True  ;  but  the  donkey  ?"  said  the  Parson  ;  "I've  a  great 
mind  to  buy  it." 

"  Permit  me  to  tell  you  an  anecdote  in  point,"  said  Dr.  Ricca- 
bocca. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  the  Parson,  interrogatively. 

"  Once  in  a  time,"  pursued  Riccabocca:,  "  the  Emperor  Adrian, 
going  to  the  public  baths,  saw  an  old  soldier,  who  had  served 
under  him,  rubbing  his  back  against  the  marble  wall.  The  Em- 
peror, who  was  a  wise,  and  therefore  a  curious,  inquisitive  man, 
sent  for  the  soldier,  and  asked  him  why  he  resorted  to  that  sort 
of  friction.  '  Because,'  answered  the  veteran,  '  I  am  too  poor 
to  have  slaves  to  rub  me  down.'  The  Emperor  was  touched, 
and  gave  him  slaves  and  money.  The  next  day,  when  Adrian 
went  to  the  baths,  all  the  old  men  in  the  city  were  to  be  seen 
rubbing  themselves!  against  the  marble  as  hard  as  they  could. 
The  Emperor  sent  for  them,  and  asked  them  the  same  question 
which  he  had  put  to  the  soldier  ;  the  cunnin'g  old  rogues,  of 
course,  made  the  same  answer.  '  Friends,'  said  Adrian,  '  since 
there  are  so  many  of  you,  you  will  just  rub  one  another  ! '  Mr. 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  21 

Dale,  if  you  don't  want  to  have  all  the  donkeys  in  the  country  with 
holes  in  their  shoulders,  you  had  better  not  buy  the  Tinker's  !  " 

"  It  is  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  do  the  least  bit  of 
good,"  groaned  the  Parson,  as  he  broke  a  twig  off  the  hedge  ner- 
vously, snapped  it  in  two,  and  flung  away  the  fragments  ;  one  of 
them  hit  the  donkey  on  the  nose.  If  the  ass  could  have  spoken 
Latin,  he  would  have  said,  "  Et  tit,  Brute!  "  As  it  was, he  hung 
down  his  ears,  and  walked  on. 

"Gee  hup  !"  said  the  Tinker;  and  he  followed  the  ass. 
Then  stopping,  he  looked  over  his  shoulder,  and  seeing  the  par- 
son's eyes  were  gazing  mournfully  on  his/r<?/^/,  "  Never  fear, 
your  reverence,"  cried  the  Tinker,  kindly  ;  "  I'll  not  spite  'un." 

CHAPTER  VII. 

"  FOUR  o'clock,"  cried  the  Parson,  looking  at  his  watch  ;  "  half 
an  hour  after  dinner-time,  and  Mrs.  Dale  particularly  begged  me 
to  be  punctual,  because  of  the  fine  trout  the  squire  sent  us.  Will 
you-venture  on  what  our  homely  languagecalls 'pot  luck, "Doctor?" 
.Now  Riccabocca  was  a  professed  philosopher,  and  valued 
himself  on  his  penetration  into  the  motives  of  human  conduct. 
And  when  the  Parson  thus  invited  him  to  pot  luck,  he  smiled 
with  a  kind  of  lofty  complacency  ;  for  Mrs.  Dale  enjoyed  the 
reputation  of  having  what  her  friends  styled,"  her  little  tempers." 
And,  as  well-bred  ladies  rarely  indulge  "  little  tempers"  in  the 
presence  of  a  third  person  not  of  the  family,  so  Dr.  Riccabocca 
instantly  concluded,  that  he  was  invited  to  stand  between  the 
pot  and  the  luck  !  Nevertheless — as  he  was  fond  of  trout,  and 
a  much  more  good-natured  man  than  he  ought  to  have  been  ac 
cording  to  his  principles — he  accepted  the  hospitality;  but  he  did 
so  with  a  sly  look  from  over  his  spectacles,  which  brought  a  blush 
into  the  guilty  cheeks  of  the  Parson.  Certainly  Riccabocca  had 
for  once  guessed  right,  in  his  estimate  of  human  motives. 

The  two  walked  on,  crossed  a  little  bridge  that  spanned  the  rill, 
and  entered  the  parsonage  lawn.  Two  dogs,  that  seemed  to  have 
sate  on  watch  for  their  master,  sprang  toward  him,  barking;  and 
the  sound  drew  the  noticeof  Mrs.  Dale,who,with  parasol  in  hand, 
sallied  out  from  the  sash  windowwhich  opened  on  the  lawn.  Now, 
Oreader !  I  knowthat,  in  thysecret  heart, thou  art  chuckling  over 
thewantof  knowledge  in  the  sacred  arcana  of  thedomestic  hearth, 
betrayed  by  the  author;  thou  art  saying  to  thyself,  "  A  pretty  way 
to  conciliate  '  little  tempers,'  indeed,  to  add  to  the  offence  of 
spoiling  the  fish  the  crime  of  bringing  an  unexpected  friend  to  eat 
it,  Pot  luck,  quotha,  when  the  pot's  boiled  over  this  half  hour ! " 


22  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

But,  to  thy  utter  shame  and  confusion,  O  reader!  learn  that  both 
the  author  and  Parson  Dale  knew  very  well  what  they  were  about. 

Dr.  Riccabocca  was  the  special  favorite  of  Mrs.  Dale,  and  the 
only  person  in  the  whole  country  who  never  put  her  out,  by  drop- 
ping in.  In  fact,  strange  though  it  may  seem  at  first  glance,  Dr. 
Riccabocca  had  that  mysterious  something  about  him,  which  we 
of  his  own  sex  can  so  little  comprehend,  but  which  always  pro- 
pitiates the  other.  He  owed  this,  in  part,  to  his  own  profound 
but  hypocritical  policy  ;  for  he  looked  upon  woman  as  the  nat- 
ural enemy  to  man — against  whom  it  was  necessary  to  be  always 
on  the  guard  ;  whom  it  was  prudent  to  disarm  by  every  species 
of  fawning  servility  and  abject  complaisance.  He  owed  it  also, 
in  part,  to  the  compassionate  and  heavenly  nature  of  the  angels 
whom  his  thoughts  thus  villainously  traduced — for  women  like 
one  whom  they  can  pity  without  despising  ;  and  there  was  some- 
thing in  Signor  Riccabocca's  poverty,  in  his  loneliness,  in  his 
exile,  whether  voluntary  or  compelled,  that  excited  pity  ;  while, 
despite  the  threadbare  coat,  the  red  umbrella,  and  the  wild  hair, 
he  had,  especially  when  addressing  ladies,  that  air  of  gentleman 
and  cavalier,  which  is  or  was  more  innate  in  an  educated  Italian, 
of  whatever  rank,  than  perhaps  in  the  highest  aristocracy  of  any 
any  other  country  in  Europe.  For,  though  I  grant  that  nothing 
is  more  exquisite  than  the  politeness  of  your  French  marquis 
of  the  Old  regime— nothing  more  frankly  gracious  than  the  cor- 
dial address  of  a  high-bred  English  gentleman — nothing  more 
kindly  prepossessing  than  the  genial  good-nature  of  some  patri- 
archal German,  who  will  condescend  to  forget  his  sixteen  quar- 
terings  in  the  pleasure  of  doing  you  a  favor — yet  these  speci- 
mens of  the  suavity  of  their  several  nations  are  rare ;  whereas 
blandness  and  polish  are  common  attributes  with  your  Italian. 
They  seem  to  have  been  immemorially  handed  down  to  him, 
from  ancestors  emulating  the  urbanity  of  Caesar,  and  refined  by 
the  grace  of  Horace. 

"  Dr.  Riccabocca  consents  to  dine  with  us,"  cried  the  Parson, 
hastily. 

"  If  Madame  permit  ?  "  said  the  Italian,  bowing  over  the  hand 
extended  to  him,  which,  however,  he  forbore  to  take,  seeing  it 
was  already  full  of  the  watch. 

"  I  am  only  sorry  that  the  trout  must  be  quite  spoiled,"  be- 
gan Mrs.  Dale,  plaintively. 

"  It  is  not  the  trout  one  thinks  of  when  one  dines  with  Mrs. 
Dale,"  said  the  infamous  dissimulator. 

"  But  I  see  James  coming  to  say  that  dinner  is  ready,"  ob- 
served the  Parson. 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFF.  23 

"  He  said  that  three  quarters  of  an  -hour  ago,  Charles  dear," 
retorted  Mrs.  Dale,  taking  the  arm  of  Dr.  Riccabocca. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

' 

WHILE  the  Parson  and  his  wife  are  entertaining  their  guest,  I 
propose  to  regale  the  reader  with  a  small -treatise  apropos  of  that 
"  Charles  dear,"  murmured  by  Mrs.  Dale— a  treatise  expressly 
written  for  the  benefit  of  THE  DOMESTIC  CIRCLE. 

It  is  an  old  jest  that  there  is  not  a  word  in  the  language  that 
conveys  so  little  endearment  as  the  word  "  dear."  But  though 
the  saying  itself,  like  most  truths,  be  trite  and  hackneyed,  no 
little  novelty  remains  to  the  search  of  the  inquirer  into  the  vari- 
eties of  inimical  import  comprehended  in  that .  malign  mono- 
syllable. For  instance,  I  submit  to  the  experienced  that  thtf 
degree  of  hostility  it  betrays  is  in  much  proportion  to  its  colloca* 
tion  in  the  sentence.  When,  gliding  indirectly  through  the  rest  of 
the  period, it  takes  its  stand  at  the  close,as  in  that  "Charles.dear" 
of  Mrs.-  Dale,  it  has  spilt  so  much  of  its  natural  bitterness  by  the 
way  that  it  assumes  even  a  smile,  "amara  lento  temperet  risu." 
Sometimes  the  smile  is  plaintive,  sometimes  arch.  Ex.  gr. 

(Plaintive.}^-"  I  know  very  well  that  whatever  I  do  is  wrong, 
Charles  dear." 

"  Nay,  I  am  very  glad  you  amused  yourself  so  much  without 
me,  Charles  dear." 

"  Not  quite  so  loud  !  If  you  had  but  my  poor  head,  Charles 
dear,"  etc. 

(Arch.} — "If  you  could  spill  the  ink  any  where  but  on  the  best 
table-cloth,  Charles  dear  !  " 

"  But  though  you  must  always  have  your  own  way,  you  are  not 
quite  faultless,  own,  Charles  dear  !  "  etc, 

When  the  enemy  stops  in  the  middle  of  the  sentence  its  venom 
is  naturally  less  exhausted.  Ex.  gr. 

"  Really,  I  must  say,  Charles  dear,  that  you  are  the  most 
fidgety  person,"  etc. 

"  And  if  the  house  bills  were  so  high  last  week,  Charles  dear, 
I  should  just  like  to  know  whose  fault  it  was — that's  all." 

"  But  you  know,  Charles  dear,  that  you  care  no  more  for  me 
and  the  children  than — "etc. 

But  if  the  fatal  word  spring  up,  in  its  primitive  freshness,  at 
the  head  of  the  sentence,  bow  your  head  to  the  storm.  It  then 
assumes  the  majesty  of  "  my"  before  it  ;  it  is  generally  more 
than  objurgation — -it  prefaces  a  sermon.  My  candor  obliges  me 
to  confess  that  this  is  the  mode  in  which  the  hateful  mono- 


24  MY    NOVEL  ;   OR, 

syllable  is  more  usually  employed  by  the  marital  part  of  the  one 
flesh  ;  and  has  something  about  it  of  the  odious  assumption  of 
the  Petruchian  pater-familias — the  head  of  the  family — boding, 
not  perhaps  "peace  and  love,  and  quiet  life,"  but  certainly 
"  awful  rule  and  right  supremacy."  Ex.  gr. 

"  My  dear  Jane — I  wish  you  would  just  put  by  that  ever- 
lasting crochet,  and  listen  to  me  for  a  few  moments,"  etc. 

"  My  dear  Jane — I  wish  you  would  understand  me  for  once—- 
don't think  I  am  angry — no,  but  I  am  hurt.  You  must  consider," 
etc. 

"  My  dear  Jane — I  don't  know  if  it  is  your  intention  to  ruin 
me,  but  I  only  wish  you  would  do  as  all  other  women  do  who 
care  three  straws  for  their  husband's  property,"  etc. 

"  My  dear  Jane — I  wish  you  to  understand  that  I  am  the 
last  person  in  the  world  to  be  jealous  ;  but  I'll  be  d — d  if  that 
puppy,  Captain  Prettyman,"  etc. 

Now,  few  so  carefully  cultivate  the  connubial  garden,  as  to 
feel  much  surprise  at  the  occasional  sting  of  a  homely  nettle 
or  two  ;  who  ever  expected,  before  entering  that  garden,  to  find 
himself  pricked  and  lacerated  by  an  insidious  exotical  "dear," 
which  he  had  been  taught  to  believe  only  lived  in  a  hothouse, 
along  with  myrtles  and  other  tender  and  sensitive  shrubs,  which 
poets  appropriate  to  Venus  ?  Nevertheless  Parson  Dale,  being  a 
patient  man,  and  u  pattern  to  all  husbands,  would  have  found  no 
faultwith  his  garden, though  there  had  not  been  a  single  specimen 
of  "dear,"  whether  the  dear  humilis,  or  the  &Qa.*superbaj  the  dear 
pallida,rubra,mnigra;  the  dear  suav/s,or  the  dear  horrida ; — no, 
not  a  single  "  dear  "  in  the  whole  horticulture  of  matrimony, 
which  Mrs.  Dale  had  not  brought  to  perfection.  But  this  was  far 
from  being  thecase — Mrs.  Dale,livingmuchinretirement,  was  un- 
aware of  the  modern  improvements,in  variety  of  color  and  sharp- 
ness of  prickle,  which  have  rewarded  the  persevering  skill  of  our 
female  florists. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

IN  the  cool  of  the  evening  Dr.  Riccabocca  walked  home 
across  the  fields.  Mr.  and  Mrs.Dalehad  accompanied  him  half- 
way; and  as  they  now  turned  back  to  the  parsonage,  they  Iqoked 
behind  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  tall,  outlandish  figure  winding 
slowly  through  the  path  amidst  the  waves  of  the  green  corn. 

"  Poor  man  !"  said  Mrs.  Dale,  feelingly;  "  and  the  button  was 
off  his  wristband  ?  What  a  pity  he  has  nobody  to  take  care  of 
him  !  He  seems  very  domestic.  Don't  you  think,  Charles,  it 
would  be  a  great  blessing  if  we  could  get  him  a  good  wife  ? " 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  25 

"  Um,"  said  the  Parson  ;  "  I  doubt  if  he  values  the  married 
state  as  he  ought." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Charles  ?  I  never  saw  a  man  more 
polite  to  ladies  in  my  life." 

"  Yes,  but—" 

"But  what  ?    You  are  always  so  mysterious,  Charles  dear." 

"  Mysterious  !  No,  Carry  ;  but  if  you  could  hear  what  the 
Doctor  says  of  the  ladies  sometimes." 

"  Ay,  when  you  men  get  together,  my  dear.  I  know  what 
that  means — pretty  things  you  say  of  us.  But  you  are  all 
alike  ;  you  know  you  are,  love  !  " 

"I  am  sure,"  said  the  Parson  simply,  "that  I  have  good  cause  to 
speak  well  of  the  sex — whenlthink  of  you, and  my  poor  mother." 

Mrs.  Dale,  who,  with  all  her  "  tempers,"  was  an  excellent 
woman  and  loved  her  husband  with  the  whole  of  her  little 
heart,  was  touched.  She  pressed  his  hand,  and  did  not  call 
him  dear  all  the  way  home. 

Meanwhile  the  Italian  passed  the  fields,  and  came  upon  the 
high-road  about  two  miles  from  Hazeldean.  On  one  side  stood 
an  old-fashioned  solitary  inn,  such  as  English  inns  used  to  be 
before  they  became  railway  hotels — square,  solid,  old-fash- 
ioned, looking  so  hospitable  and  comfortable,  with  their  great 
signs  swinging  from  some  elm-tree  in  front,  and  the  long  row 
of  stables  standing  a  little  back,  with  a  chaise  or  two  in'the  yard, 
and  the  jolly  landlord  talking  of  the  crop  to  some  stout  farmer, 
whose  rough  pony  halts  of  itself  at  the  well-known  door. 
Opposite  this  inn,  on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  stood  the 
habitation  of  Dr.  Riccabocca. 

A  few  years  before  the  date  of  these  annals,  the  stage-coach 
on  its  way  to  London  from  a  seaport  town  stopped  at  the  inn,  as  '• 
was  its  wont,  for  a  good  hour,  that  its  passengers  might  dine  like 
Christian  Englishman — not  gulp  down  a  basin  of  scalding  soup, 
like  everlasting  heathen  Yankees,  with  that  cursed  railway  whis- 
tle shrieking  like  a  fiend  in  their  ears  ?  It  was  the  best  dining- 
place  on  the  whole  road,  for  the  trout  in  the  neighboring  rill  were 
famous,and  so  was  the  mutton  which  came  from  Hazeldean  Park. 

From  the  outside  of  the  coach  had  descended  two  passengers, 
who,  alone  insensible  to  the  attraction  of  mutton  and  trout,  re- 
fused to  dine — two  melancholy-looking  foreigners,  of  whom  one 
was  Signor  Riccabocca,  much  the  same  as  we  see  him  now,  only 
that  the  black  suit  was  less  threadbare,  the  tall  form  less  meagre, 
and  he  did  hot  then  wear  spectacles  ;  and  the  other  was  his  ser- 
vant. "  They  would  walk  about  while  the  coach  stopped."  Now 
the  Italian's  eye  had  been  caught  by  a  mouldering,  dismantled 


26  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

house  on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  which  nevertheless  was  well 
situated  ;  half-way  up  a  green  hill,  with  its  aspect  due  south,  a 
little  cascade  falling  down  artificial  rock-work,  a  terrace  with  a 
balustrade,  and  a  few  broken  urns  and  statues  before  its  Ionic  por- 
tico ;  while  on  the  roadside  stood  a  board,  with  characters  al- 
ready half-effaced,  implying  that  the  house  was  "  To  be  let  un- 
furnished, with  or  without  land." 

The  abode  that  looked  so  cheerless,  and  which  had  soevident- 
ly  hung  long  on  hand,  was  the  property  of  Squire  Hazeldean. 
It  had  been  built  by  his  grandfather  on  the  female  side — a  coun- 
try gentleman  who  had  actually  been  in  Italy  (a  journey  rare 
enough  to  boast  of  in  those  days),  and  who,  on  his  return  .home, 
had  attempted  a  miniature  imitation  of  an  Italian  villa.  He  left 
an  only  daughter  and  sole  heiress,  who  married  Squire  Hazel- 
dean's  father.  ;  and  since  that  time,  the  house,. abandoned-by  its 
proprietors  for  the  larger  residence  of  the  Hazeldeans,  had  been 
uninhabited  and  neglected.  Several  tenants,  indeed,  had  offered 
themselves  ;  but  your  true  country  squire  is  slow  in  admitting 
upon  his  own  property  a  rival  neighbor.  Some  wanted  shooting. 
"That,"  said  the  Hazeldeans,  who  were  great  sportsmen  and 
strict  preservers,  "  was  quite  out  <?f  the  question."  Others  were 
fine  folks  from  London.  "  London  servants,"  said  the  Hazel- 
deans,  who  were  moral  and  prudent  people,  "  would  corrupt  their 
own,  and  bring  London  prices."  Others,  again,  were  retired 
manufacturers,  at  whom  the  Kazeldeans  turned  up  their  agricult- 
ural noses.  In -short,  some  were  too  grand,  and  others  too 
vulgar.  Some  were  refused  because  they  were  known  so  well  : 
"Friends  are  best  at  a  distance,"  said  the  Hazeldeans.  Others 
because  they  were  not  known  at  all  :  "  No  good  comes  of  stran- 
gers," said  the  Hazeldeans,  And  finally,  ,as  the  house  fell  more 
and  more  into  decay,  no  one  would  take  it  unless  it  was  put 
into  thorough  repair  :  "  As  if  ope  was  made  of  money  !  "  said 
the  H'az.eldeans.  In  short,  there  stood  the  house  unoccupied 
and  ruinous  ;  and  there,  on  its  terrace,  stood  the  two  forlorn 
Italians,  surveying  it  with  a  smile  at  each  other,  as,  for  the 
first  time  since  they  set  foot  in  England,  they  recognized,  in 
dilapidated  pilasters  and  broken  .statues,  in  a  weed-grown 
terrace,  and  the,remains  of  an  orangery,  something  that  remind- 
ed them  of.  the. land  they  had  left  behind. 

On  returning  to  the  inn,  Dr.  Ricc.abocca  took  the  occasion  to 
learn  from  the  innkeeper(who  was  indeed  a  tenant  of  the  Squire's) 
such  particulars  as  he  could  collect ;  and  a  few  days  after- 
ward Mr.  Hazeldean  received  a  letter  from  a  solicitor  of  re- 
pute in  London,  stating  that  a  very  respectable  foreign  gentle- 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  2"J 

man  had  commissioned  him  to  treat  for  Clump  Lodge,  otherwise 
called  the  "Casino  ";  that  the  said  gentleman  did  not  shoot — 
lived  in  great  seclusion — and,  having  no  family,  did  not  care 
about  the  repairs  of  the  place,  provided  only  it  were  made 
weather-proof — if  the  omission  of  more  expensive  reparations 
could  render  the  rent  suitable  to  his  finances,  which  were  very 
limited.  The  offer  came  at  a  fortunate  moment — when  the  stew- 
ard had  just  been  representing  to  the  Squire  the  necessity  of 
doing  something  to  keep  the  Casino  from  falling  into  positive 
ruin,  and  the  Squire  was  cursing  the  fates  which,  had  put  the 
Casino  into  an  entail — so  that  he  could  not  pull  it  down  for  the 
building  materials.  Mr  Hazeldean  therefore  caught  at  the  pro- 
posal even  as  a  fair. lady,  who  has  refused  the  best  offers  in  the 
kingdom,  catches,  at  last,  at  some  battered  old  captain  on  half- 
pay,  and  replied  that,  as  for  rent,  if  the  solicitor's  client  was  a 
quiet,  respectable  man,  he  did  not  care  for  that,  but  that  the 
gentleman  might  have  it  for  the  first  year  rent-free,  on  con- 
dition of  paying  the  taxes  and  putting  the  place  a  little  in  order. 
If  they  suited  each  other,  they  could  then  come  to  terms.  Ten 
days  subsequently  to  this  gracious  reply,  Signer  Riccabocca 
and  his  servant  arrived  ;  and,  before  the  year's  end,  the  Squire 
was  so  contented  with  his  tenant  that  he  gave  him  a  running 
lease  of  seven,  fourteen,  or  twenty-one  years,  at  a  renjt  merely 
nominal,  on  condition  that  Signer  Riccabocca  would  put  and 
maintain  the  place  in  repair,  barring  the  roof  and  fences, 
which  the  Squire  generously  renewed  at  his  own  expense.  It 
was  astonishing,  by  little  and  little,  what  a  pretty  place  the 
Italian  had  made  of  it,  and,  what  is  more  astonishing,  ho\v  little 
it  had  cost  him.  He  had,  indeed,  painted  the  walls  of  the  hall, 
staircase,  and  the  rooms  appropriated  to  himself,  with  his  own 
hands.  His  servant  had  done  the  greater  part  of  the  upholstery. 
The  two  between  them  had  got  the  garden  into  order.  The  Ital- 
ians seemed  to  have  taken  a  joint  love  to  the  place,  and  to  deck  it 
as  they  would  have  done  some  favorite  chapel  to  their  Madonna. 
It  was  long  before  the  natives  reconciled  themselves  to  the 
odd  ways  of  the  foreign  settlers — the  first  thing  that  offended 
them  was  the  exceeding  smallness  of  their  household  bills. 
Three  days  out  of  the  seven,  indeed,  both  man  and  master 
dined  on  nothing  else  but  the  vegetables  in  the  garden,  and  the 
fishes  in  the  neighboring  rill  ;  when  no  trout  could  be  caught, 
they  fried  the  minnows  (and  certainly,  even  in  the  best  streams, 
minnows  are  more  frequently  caught  than  trouts).  The  next 
thing,  which  angered  the  natives  quite  as  much,  especially  the 
female  part  of  the  neighborhood,  was  the  very  sparing  employ- 


28  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

ment  the  two  he-creatures  gave  to  the  sex  usually  deemed  so 
indispensable  in  household  matters.  At  first,  indeed,  they  had 
no  woman  servant  at  all.  But  this  created  such  horror,  that 
Parson  Dale  ventured  to  hint  upon  the  matter,  which  Ricca- 
bocca  took  in  very  good  part,  and  an  old  woman  was  forthwith 
engaged,  after  some  bargaining — at  three  shillings  a  week — to 
wash  and  scrub  as  much  as  she  liked  during  the  daytime.  She 
always  returned  to  her  own  cottage  to  sleep.  The  man-servant, 
who  was  styled  in  the  neighborhood  "  Jackeymo,"  did  all  else 
for  his  master — smoothed  his  room,  dusted  his  papers,  pre- 
pared his  coffee,  cooked  his  dinner,  brushed  his  clothes,  and 
cleaned  his  pipes,  of  which  Riccabocca  had  a  large  collection. 
But  however  close  a  man's  character,  it  generally  creeps  out  in 
driblets;  andonmanylittle  occasionstheltalian  hadshown  acts  of 
kindness,  and,  on  some  more  rare  occasions,  even  of  generosity, 
which  hadservedtosilencehiscalumniators,andbydegrees  he  had 
established  averyfair  reputation — suspected,  it  is  true,  of  being  a 
little  inclined  totheBlackArt,and  of  a  strange  inclination  to  starve 
Jackeymo  and  himself, — and  in  other  respects  harmless  enough. 

Signer  Riccabocca  had  become  very  intimate,  as  we  have  seen, 
at  the  parsonage.  But  not  so  at  the  hall.  Forthough  the  Squire 
was  inclined  to  be  very  friendly  to  all  his  neighbors,  he  was, 
like  most  country  gentleman,  rather  easily  huffed.  Riccabocca 
had,  if  with  great  politeness,  still  with  great  obstinacy,  refused 
Mr.  Hazeldean's  earlier  invitations  to  dinner  ;  and  when  the 
Squire  found  that  the  Italian  rarely  declined  to  dine  at  the  par- 
sonage, he  was  offended  in  one  of  his  weak  points — viz.,  his  pride 
in  the  hospitality  of  Hazeldean  Hall — and  he  ceased  altogether 
invitations  so  churlishly  rejected.  Nevertheless,  as  it  was  im- 
possible for  the  Squire,  however  huffed,  to  bear  malice,  he  now 
and  then  reminded  Riccabocca  of  his  existence  by  presents  of 
game,  and  would  have  called  on  him  more  often  than  he  did,  bat 
thnt  Riccabocca  received  him  with  such  excessive  politeness,  that 
the  blunt  country  gentleman  felt  shy  and  put  out,  and  used  to 
say  that"  to  call  on  Rickeybockey  was  as  bad  as  going  to  court." 

But  we  have  left  Dr.  Riccabocca  on  the  high-road.  By  this 
time  he  has  ascended  a  narrow  path  that  winds  by  the  side  of 
the  cascade  ;  he  has  passed  'a  trellis-work  covered  with  vines, 
from  the  which  Jackeymo  has  positively  succeeded  in  making 
what  he  calls  wine — a  liquid,  indeed,  that  if  the  cholera  had  been 
popularly  known  in  those  days,  would  have  soured  the  mildest 
member  of  the  Board  of  Health  ;  for  Squire  .Hazeldean,  though 
a  robust  man,  who  daily  carried  off  his  bottle  of.  port  with  im- 
punity, having  once  rashly  tasted  it,  did  not  recover  the  effect 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  89 

till  he  fiad  had  a  bill  from  the  apothecary  as  long  as  his  own  arm. 
Passing  this  trellis,  Dr.  Riccabocca  entered  upon  the  terrace, 
with  its  stone  pavement  smoothed  and  trimmed  as  hands  could 
make  it.  Here,  on  neat  stands,  all  his  favorite  flowers  were 
arranged  ;  here  four  orange-trees  were  in  full  blossom  ;  here  a 
kind  of  summer-house  or  belvidere,  built  by  Jackeymo  and  him- 
self, made  his  chosen  morning  room  from  May  till  October ;  and 
from  this  belvidere  there  was  as  beautiful  an  expanse  of  pros- 
pect as  if  our  English  nature  had  hospitably  spread  on  her  green 
board  all  that  she  had  to  offer  as  a  banquet  to  the  exile. 

A  man  without  his  coat,  which  was  thrown  over  the  balus- 
trade, was  employed  in  watering  the  flowers  ;  a  man  with  move- 
ments so  mechanical,  with  a  face  so  rigidly  grave  in  its  tawny 
hues,  that  he  seemed  like  an  automaton  made  out  of  mahogany. 

"Giacomo,"  said  Dr.  Riccabocca,  softly. 

The  automaton  stopped  its  hand,  and  turned  its  head. 

"  Put  by  the  watering-pot,  and  come  hither,"  continued  Ric- 
cabocca,  in  Italian;  and  moving  toward  the,  balustrade,  he  leaned 
over  it.  Mr.  Mitford,  the  historian,  calls  Jean  Jacques  '"''John 
James."  Following  that  illustrious  example,  Giacomo  shall  be 
Anglified  into  Jackeymo.  Jackeymo  came  to  the  balustrade 
also,  and  stood  a  little  behind  his  master. 

*'  Friend,"  said  Riccabocea,  "enterprises  have  not  always  suc- 
ceeded with  us.  Don't  you  think,  after  all,  it  is  tempting  our 
evil  star  to  rent  those  fields  from  the  landlord  ?  "  Jackeymo 
crossed  himself,  and  madfc  some  strange  movement  with  a  little 
coral  charm  which  he  wore  set  in  a  ring  on  his  finger. 

."  If  the   Madonna  send  us  luck,   and   we  could  hire  a  lad 
cheap  ?  "  said  Jackeymo,  doubtfully. 

"  Piu  vale  un  presente  che  dui  futuri"  said  Riccabocea  ("  A 
bird  in  the  hand  is  worth  two  in  the  bush.") 

"  Chi  non  fa  quando  pub,  nonpubyfare  quando  vuole  " — ("  He 
who  will  not  when  he  may,  when  he  will  it  shall  have  nay  "), — 
answered  Jackeymo,  as  sententiously  as  his  master.  "  And  the 
Padrone  should  think  in  time  that  he  must  lay  by  for  the  dower 
of  the  poor  signorina  "  (young  lady). 

Riccabocea  sighed,  and  made  no  reply. 

"  She  must  be  that  high  now  !  "  said  Jackeymo,  putting  his 
hand  on  some  imaginary  line  a  little  above  the  balustrade.  Ric- 
cabocca's  eyes,  raised  over  the  spectacles,  followed  the  hand. 

"  If  the  Padrone  could  but  see  her  here — " 

"  I  thought  I  did  !  "  muttered  the  Italian. 

"  He  would  never  let  her  go  from  his  side  till  she  went  to  a 
husband's,"  continued  Jackeymo. 


30  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  But  this  climate — she  could  never  stand  it,"  said  Ricca- 
bocca,  drawing  his  cloak  round  him,  as  the  north  wind  took 
him  in  the  rear. 

"  The  orange-trees  blossom  even  here  with  care,"  said  Jackey- 
mo,  turning  back  to  draw  down  an  awning  where  the  orange- 
trees  faced  the  north.  "  See  !  "  he  added,  as  he  returned  with 
a  sprig  in  full  bud. 

Dr.  Riccabocca  bent  over  the  blossom,  and  then  placed  it 
in  his  bosom. 

"  The  other  one  should  be  there  too,"  said  Jackeymo. 

"  To  die — as  this  does  already  ! "  answered  Riccabocca. 
"  Say  no  more." 

Jackeymo  shrugged  his  shoulders  ;  and  then,  glancing  at  his 
master,  drew  his  hand  over  his  eyes. 

There  was  a  pause.     Jackeymo  was  the  first  to  break  it. 

"  But,  whether  here  or  there,  beauty  without  money  is  the 
orange-tree  without  shelter.  If  a  lad  could  be  got  cheap,  I 
would  hire  the  land,  and  trust  for  the  crop  to  the  Madonna." 

"  I  think  I  know  of  such  a  lad, "said  Riccabocca,  recovering 
himself,  and  with  his  sardonic  smile  once  more  lurking  about 
the  corners  of  his  mouth, — "  a  lad  made  for  us." 

"  Diavolo  !" 

"  No,  not  the  Diavolo  !  Friend,  I  have  this  day  seen  a  boy 
who— refused  sixpence  !  " 

"  Cosa  stupenda  !  " — (Stupendous  thing  !) — exclaimed  Jackey- 
mo, opening  his  eyes,  and  letting  fall  the  watering-pot. 

"  It  is  true,  my  friend." 

"Take  him,  Padrone,  in  Heaven's  name,  and  the  fields  will 
grow  gold." 

"  I  will  think  of  it,  for  it  must  require  management  to  catch  such 
a  boy,"  said  Riccabocea.  "  Meanwhile,  light  a  candle  in  the  par- 
lor, and  bring  from  my  bedroom  that  great  folio  of  Machiavelli." 

CHAPTER  X. 

IN  my  next  chapter  I  shall  present  Squire  Hazeldean  in  patri- 
archal state — not  exactly  under  the  fig-tree  he  has  planted,  but 
before  the  stocks  he  has  reconstructed — Squire  Hazeldean  and 
his  family  on  the  village  green  !  The  canvas  is  all  ready  for 
the  colors. 

But  in  this  chapter  I  must  so  far  afford  a  glimpse  into  ante- 
cedents as  to  let  the  reader  know  that  there  is  one  member  of 
the  family  whom  he  is  not  likely  to  meet  at  present,  if  ever,  on 
the  village  green  at  Hazeldean. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  31 

Oar  Squire  lost  his  father  two  years  after  his  birth  ;  his 
mother  was  very  handsome — and  so  was  her  jointure  ;  she  mar- 
ried again  at  the  expiration  of  her  year  of  mourning;  the  ob- 
ject of  her  second  choice  was  Colonel  Egerton. 

In  every  generation  of  Englishmen  (at  least  since  the  lively 
reign  of  Charles  II.)  there  are  a  few  whom  some  elegant  genius 
skims  off  from  the  milk  of  human  nature,  and  reserves  for  the 
cream  of  society.  Colonel  Egerton  was  one  of  these  ter  quatuor- 
que  beati,  and  dwelt  apart  on  a  top  shelf  in  that  delicate  porce- 
lain dish — not  bestowed  upon  vulgar  buttermilk — which  per- 
sons of  fashion  call  The  Great  World.  Mighty  was  the  marvel 
of  Pall  Mall,  and  profound  was  the  pity  of  Park  Lane,  when 
this  super-eminent  personage  condescended  to  lower  himself 
into  a  husband.  But  Colonel  Egertort  was  "not  a  mere  gaudy 
butterfly  ;  he  had  the  provident  instincts  ascribed  to  the  bee. 
Youth  Had  passed  from  him,  and  carried  off  much  solid  prop- 
erty in  its  flight  ;  he  saw  that  a  time  was  fast  coming  when  a 
home,  with  a  partner  who  could  help  to  maintain  it,  would  be 
conducive  to  his  comforts,  and  an  occasional  hum-drum  even- 
ing by  the  fireside  beneficial  to  his  health.  In  the  midst  of  one 
season  at  Brighton,  to  which  gay  place  he  had  accompanied  the 
Prince  of  Wales,  he  saw  a  widow  who,  though  in  the  weeds  of 
mourning,  did  not  appear  inconsolable.  Her  person  pleased  his 
taste — the  accounts  of  her  jointure  satisfied  his  understanding: — 
he  contrived  an  introduction,  and  brought  a  brief  wooing  to  a 
happy  close.  The  late  Mr.  Hazeldean  had  so  anticipated  the 
chance  of  the  young  widow's  second  espousals,  that,  in  case  of 
the  event,  he  transferred,  by  his  testamentary  dispositions,  the 
guardianship  of  his  infant  heir  from  the  mother  to  two  squires, 
whom  he  had  named  his  executors.  This  circumstance  com- 
bined with  her  ne'w  ties  somewhat  to  alienate  Mrs.  Hazeldean 
from  the  pledge  of  her  former  loves  ;  and  when  she  had  borne 
a  son  to  Colonel  Egerton,  it  was  upon  that  child  that  her  mater- 
nal affections  gradually  concentrated. 

William  Hazeldean  was  sent  by  his  guardians  to  a  large  pro- 
vincial academy,  at  which  his  forefathers  had  received  their 
education  time  out  of  :rnind.  At  first  he  spent  his  holidays 
with  Mrs.  Egerton  ;  but  as  she  now  resided  either  in  London,  or 
followed  her  lord  to  Brighton,  to  partake  of  the  gaieties  at  the 
Pavilion^ — so,  as  he  grew  older,  William,  who  had  a  hearty  af- 
fection for  country  life,  and  of  whose  bluff  manners  and  rural 
breeding  Mrs.  Egerton  (having  grown  exceedingly  refined)  was 
openly  ashamed,  asked  and  obtained  permission  to  spend  his 
vacations  either  with  his  guardians  or  at  the  old  Hall.  He 


»2  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

went  late  to  a  small  college  at  Cambridge,  endowed  in  the  fif- 
teenth century  by  some  ancestral  Hazeldean;  and  left  it,  on  com- 
ing of  age,  without  taking  a  degree.  A  few  years  afterward 
he  married  a  young  lady,  country  born  and  bred  like  himself. 

Meanwhile  his  half-brother,  Audley  Egerton,  may  be  said  to 
have  begun  his  initiation  into  the  beau  monde  before  he  had  well 
cast  aside  his  coral  and  bells  ;  he  had  been  fondled  in  the  lap  of 
duchesses,  and  had  galloped  across  the  room  astride  on  the 
canes  of  ambassadors  and  princes^  For  Colonel  Egerton  was 
not  only  very  highly  connected — not  only  one  of  the  Dii  majores 
of  fashion — but  he  had  the  still  rarer  good  fortune  to  be  an 
exceedingly  popular  man  with  all  who  knew  him  ;  so  popular, 
that  even  the  fine  ladies  whom  he  had  adored  and  abandoned 
forgave  him  for  marrying  out  of  "the  set,"  and  continued  to  be 
as  friendly  as  if  he  had  not  married  at  all.  People  who  were 
commonly  called  heartless  were  never  weary  of  doing  kind 
things  to  the  Egertons.  When  the  time  came  for  Audley  to 
leave  the  preparatory  school  at  which  his  infancy  budded  forth 
amongst  the  stateliest  of  the  little  lilies  of  the  field,  and  go  to 
Eton,  half  the  fifth  and  sixth  forms  had  been  canvassed  to  be 
exceedingly  civil  to  young  Egerton.  The  boy  soon  showed  that 
he  inherited  his  father's  talent  for  acquiring  popularity,  and 
that  to  this  talent  he  added  those  which  put  popularity  to  use. 
Without  achieving  any  scholastic  distinction,  he  yet  contrived 
to  establish  at  Eton  the  most  desirable  reputation  which  a  boy 
can  obtain — namely,  that  among  his  own  contemporaries,  the 
reputation  of  a  boy  who  was  sure  to  do  something  when  he  grew 
to  be  a  man.  As  a  gentleman  commoner  at  Christ  Church, 
Oxford,  he  continued  to  sustain  this  high  expectation,  though 
he  won  no  prizes,  and  took  but  an  ordinary  degree  ;  and  at 
Oxford  the  future  "  something  "  became  more  defined — it  was 
"  something  in  public  life  "  that  this  young  man  was  to  do. 

While  he  was  yet  at  the  university,both  his  parents  died — with- 
in a  few  months  of  each  other.  And  when  Audley  Egerton  came 
of  age,  he  succeeded  to  a  paternal  property  which  was  supposed 
to  be  large,  and  indeed  had  once  been  so  ;  but  Colonel  Eger- 
ton had  been  too  lavish  a  man  to  enrich  his  heir,  and  about 
^1500  a  year  was  all  that  sales  and  mortgages  left  of  an  estate 
fhat  had  formerly  approached  a  rental  of  j£  10,000. 

Still,  Audley  was  considered  to  be  opulent,  and  he  did  not 
dispel  that  favorable  notion  by  any  imprudent  exhibition  of 
parsimony.  On  entering  the  world  of  London,  the  Clubs  flew 
open  to  receive  him,  and  he  woke  one  morning  to  find  himself, 
not  indeed  famous — but  the  fashion.  To  this  fashion  he  at  once 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  33 

£ave  a  certain  gravity  and  value — he  associated  as'  much  as  possi- 
ble with  public  men  and  political  ladies — he  succeeded  in  con- 
firming the  notion  that  he  was  "  born  to  ruin  or  to  rule  the  State.'* 

The  dearest  and  most  intimate  friend  of  Audley  Egerton  was 
Lord  L'Estrange,  from  whom  he  had  been  inseparable  at  Eton  ; 
and  who  now,  if  Audley  Egerton  was  the  fashion,  was  abso- 
lutely the  rage  in  London. 

Harley,  Lord  L'Estrange,  was  the  only  son  of  the  Earl  of 
Lansmere,  a  nobleman  of  considerable  wealth,  and  allied,  by  in- 
termarriages, to  the  loftiest  and  most  powerful  families  in  Eng- 
land. Lord  Lansmere,  nevertheless,  was  but  little  known  in  the 
circles  of  London.  He  lived  chiefly  on  his  estates,  occupying 
himself  with  the  various  duties  of  a  great  proprietor,  and  when  he 
came  to  the  metropolis,  it  was  rather  to  save  than  to  spend  ;  so 
that  he  could  afford  to  give  his  son  a  very  ample  allowance,  when 
Harley,  at  the  age  of  sixteen  (having  already  attained  to  the  sixth 
form  at  Eton),  left  school  for  one  of  the  regiments  of  the  Guards. 

Few  knew  what  to  make  of  Harley  L'Estrange — and  that  was, 
perhaps,  the  reason  why  he  was  so  much  thought  of.  He  had 
been  by  far  the  most  brilliant  boy  of  his  time  at  Eton — not  only 
the  boast  of  the  cricket-ground,  but  the  marvel  of  the  school- 
room ;  yet  so  full  of  whims  and  oddities,  and  seeming  to  achieve 
his  triumphs  with  so  little  aid  from  steadfast  application,  that 
he  had  not  left  behind  him  the  same  expectations  of  solid  emi- 
nence which  his  friend  and  senior,  Audley  Egerton,  had  ex- 
cited. His  eccentricities — his  quaint  sayings,  and  out-of-the- 
way  actions,  became  as  notable  in  the  great  world  as  they  had 
been  in  the  small  one  of  a  public  school.  That  he  was  very  clever 
there  was  no  doubt,  and  that  the  cleverness  was  of  a  high  order 
might  be  surmised,  not  only  from  the  originality  but  from  the 
independence  of  his  character.  He  dazzled  the  world,  without 
seeming  to  care  for  its  praise  or  its  censure — dazzled  it,as  it  were, 
because  he  could  not  help  shining.  He  had  some  strange  notions, 
whether  political  or  social,  which  rather  frightened  his  father. 
According  to  Southey,  "  A  man  should  be  no  more  ashamed  of 
having  been  a  republican  than  of  havingbeen  young."  Youth  and 
extravagant  opinions  naturally  go  together.  Idon't  know  whether 
Harley  L'Estrange  was  a  republican  at  the  age  of  eighteen  ;  but 
there  was  no  young  man  in  London  who  seemed  to  care  less  for 
being  heir  to  an  illustrious  name  and  some  forty  or  fifty  thousand 
pounds  a  year.  It  was  a  vulgar  fashion  in  that  day  to  play  the 
exclusive,  and  cut  persons  who  wore  bad  neckcloths,  and  called 
themselves  Smith  or  Johnson.  Lord  L'Estrange  never  cut  any 
one,  and  it  was  quite  enough  to  slight  some  worthy  man  because 


34  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

of  his  neckcloth  or  his  birth,  to  insure  to  the  offender  the  pointed 
civilities  of  thiseccentricsuccessor to theBelfortsandtheWildairs. 

It  was  the  wish  of  his  father  that  Harley,  as  soon  as  he  came 
of  age,  should  represent  the  borough  of  Lansmere  (which  said 
borough  was  the  single  plague  of  the  Earl's  life.)  But  this  wish 
was  never  realized.  Suddenly,  when  the  young  idol  of  London 
still  wanted  some  two  or  three  years  of  his  majority,  a  new  whim 
appeared  to  seize  him.  He  withdrew  entirely  from  society — 
he  left  unanswered  the  most  pressing  three-cornered  notes  of 
inquiry  and  invitation  that  ever  strewed  the  table  of  a  young 
Guardsman  ;  he  was  rarely  seen  anywhere  in  his  former  haunts — 
when  seen,  was  either  alone  or  with  Egerton  ;  and  his  gay  spirits 
seemed  wholly  to  have  left  him,  A  profound  melancholy  was 
written  on  his  countenance,  and  breathed  in  the  listless-  tones  of 
his  voice.  About  this  time  a  vacancy  .happening  to  occur  for 
the  representation  of  Lansmere,  Harley  made  it  his  special  re- 
quest to  his  father  that  the  family  interest  might  be  given  to 
Audley  Egerton — a  request  which,  was  backed  by  all  the  influ- 
ence of  his  lady  mother,  who  shared  in  the  esteem  which  her  son 
felt  for  his  friend.  The  Earl  yielded  ;  and.  Egerton,  accom- 
panied by  Harley,  went  down  to  Lansmere  Park,  which  adjoined 
the  borough,  in  order  to  be  introduced  to  the  electors.  This 
visit  made  a  notable  epoch  in.  the  history  of  many  personages 
who  figure  in  my  narrative  ;  but. at  present  I  content  myself  with 
saying,  that  circumstances  arose  which,  just  as  the  canvass  for 
the  new  election  commenced,  caused  both  L'Estrange  and  Aud- 
ley to  absent  themselves  from  the  scene  of  action,  and  that  the 
last  even  wrote  to  Lord  Lansmere  expressing  his  intention  of  de- 
clining to  contest  the  borough. 

Fortunately  for  the  parliamentary  career  of  Audley  Egerton, 
the  election  had  become  to  Lord  Lansmere  not  only  a  matter 
of  public  importance,  but  of  personal  feeling.  He  resolved  that 
the  battle  should  be  fought  out,  even  in  the  absence  of  the  can- 
didate, and  at  his  own  expense.  Hitherto  the  contest  for  this 
distinguished  borough  had  been,  to  use  the  language  of  Lord 
Lansmere,  "conducted  in  the  spirit  of  gentlemen," — that  is  to 
say,  the  only  opponents  to  the  Lansmere  interest  had  been  found 
in  one  or  the  other  of  two  rival  families  in  the  same  county  ; 
and  as  the  Earl  was  a  hospitable,  courteous  man,  much  respected 
and  liked. by  the  neighboring  gentry,  so  the  hostile  candidate 
had  interlarded  his  speeches  with  profuse  compliments  to  his 
Lordship's  high :  character,  and  civil  expressions  to  his  Lord- 
ship's candidate.  But,  thanks  to  successive  elections,  one  of 
these  two  families  had  come  to  an  end,  and  its  actual  r.epre- 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  35 

sentative  was  now  residing  within  the  Rules  of  the  Bench  ;  the 
head  of  the  other  family  was  the  sitting  member,  and  by  an  ami- 
cable agreement  with  the  Lansmere  interest,  he  remained  as 
neutral  as  it  is  in  the  power  of  any  sitting  member  to  be  amidst 
the  passions  of  an  intractable  committee.  Accordingly,  it  had 
been  hoped  that  Egerton  would  come  in  without  opposition, 
when,  the  very  day  on  which  he  had  abruptly  left  the  place,  a 
handbill,  signed  "  Haverill  Dashmore,  Captain  R.  N.,  Baker 
Street,  Portman  Square,"  announced,  in  .very  spirited  language, 
the  intention  of  that  gentleman  "  to  emancipate  :the  borough 
from  the  unconstitutional  domination  of  an  oligarchical  faction, 
not  with  a  view  to  his  own  political  aggrandizement — indeed, 
at  great  personal  inconvenience — but  actuated  solely  by  abhor- 
rence to  tyranny,and  patriotic  passion  for  the  purity  of  election.'.' 

This  announcement  was  followed,  within  two' hours,  by  the 
arrival  of  Captain  Dashmore  himself,  in  a  carriage  and  four, 
covered  with  yellow  favors,  and  filled,  inside  and  out,  with 
harum-scarum-looking  friends,  who  had  come  down  with  him 
to  share  the  canvass  and  partake  the  fun. 

Captain  Dashmore  was  a  thorough  sailor,  who  had;  however, 
conceived  a  disgust  to  the  profession  from  the  date  in  which 
a  minister's  nephew  had  been  appointed  to  the  command  of  a 
ship  to  which  the  Captain  considered  himself  unquestionably 
entitled.  It  is  just  to  the  minister  to  add,  that  Captain  Dash- 
more  had  shown  as  little  regard  to  orders  from  a  distance,  as 
had  immortalized  Nelson  himself  ;  but  then  the  disobedience 
had  not  achieved  the  same  redeeming  success  as  that  of  Nelson, 
and  Captain  Dashmore  ought  to  have  thought  himself  fortunate 
in  escaping  a  severer  treatment  than  the  loss  of  promotion.  But 
no  man  knows  when  he  is  well  off  ;  and  retiring  on  half-pay, 
Just  as  he  came  into  unexpected  possession  of  some  forty  or 
fifty  thousand  pounds,  bequeathed  by  a  distant  relation,  Captain 
Dashmore  was  seized  with  a  vindictive  desire  to  enter  Parlia- 
ment, and  inflict  oratorical  chastisement  on  the  Administration. 

A  very  few  hours  sufficed  to  show  the  sea-captain  to  be  a 
most  capital  electioneerer  for  a  popular  but  not  enlightened  con- 
stituency. It  is  true  that  he  talked  the  saddest  nonsense ;ever 
heard  from  an  open  window  ;  but  then  his  jokes  were  so  broad, 
his  manner  so  hearty,  his  voice  so  big,  that  in  those  dark  days, 
before  the  schoolmaster  was  abroad,  he  would  have  beaten  your 
phidosophical  Radical  and  moralizing  Democrat  hollow.  More- 
over, he  kissed  all  the  women,  old  arid-  young,  with,  the  zest  of 
a  sailor  who  has  known  what  it  is. to  be  three  years  at  sea  with- 
out sight  of  a  beardless  lip;  he  threw  'open  all  the  public 


36  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

houses,  asked  a  numerous  committee  every  day  to  dinner,  and, 
chucking  his  purse  up  in  the  air,  declared  "  he  would  stick  to 
his  guns,  while  there  was  a  shot  in  his  locker."  Till  then,  there 
had  been  but  little,  political  difference  between  the  candidate 
supported  by  Lord  Lansmere's  interest  and  the  opposing  par- 
ties— for  country  gentlemen,  in  those  days,  were  pretty  much 
of  the  same  way  of  thinking,  and  the  question  had  been  really 
local — viz.,  whether  the  Lansmere  interest  shoulder  should  not 
prevail  over  that  of  the  two  squirearchical  families  who  had 
alone,  hitherto,  ventured  to  oppose  it.  But  though  Captain 
Dashmore  was  really  a  very  loyal  man,  and  much  too  old  a 
sailor  to  think  that  the  State  (which,  according  to  established 
metaphor,  is  a  vessel  par  excellence)  should  admit  Jack  upon 
quarter-deck,  yet,  what  with  talking  against  lords  and  aristoc- 
racy, jobs  and  abuses,  and  searching  through  no  very  refined 
.vocabulary  for  the  strongest  epithets  to  apply  to  those  irritat- 
ing nouns-substantive,  his  bile  had  got  the  better  of  his  under- 
standing, and  he  became  fuddled,  as  it  were,  by  his  own  elo- 
quence. Thus,  though  as  innocent  of  Jacobinical  designs  as  he 
was  incapable  of  setting  the  Thames  on  fire,  you  would  have 
guessed  him,  by  his  speeches,  to  be  one  of  the  most  determined 
incendiaries  that  ever  applied  a  match  to  the  combustible  mate- 
rials of  a  contested  election  ;  while,  being  by;  no  means  accus- 
tomed to  respect  his  adversaries,  he  could  not  have  treated  the 
Earl  of  Lansmere  with  less  ceremony  if  his  Lordship  had  been 
a  Frenchman.  He  usually  designated  that  respectable  noble- 
man, who  was  still  in  the  prime  of  life,  by  the  title  of  "  Old 
Pompous";  and  the  Mayor,  who  was  never  seen  abroad  but  in 
top-boots,  and  the  solicitor,  who  was  of  a  large  build,  received 
from  his  wit  the  joint  sobriquet  of  "  Tops  and  Bottoms  !  "  Hence 
the  election  had  now  become,  as  I  said  before,  a  personal  matter 
with  my  Lord,  and  indeed,  with  the  great  heads  of  the  Lansmere 
interest.  The  Earl  seemed  to  consider  his  very  coronet  at  stake 
in  the  question.  "  The  man  from  Baker  Street,"  with  his  pre- 
ternatural audacity,  appeared  to  him  a  being  ominous  and  aw- 
ful— not  so  much  to  be  regarded  with  resentment  as  with  super- 
stitious terror  ;  he  felt  as  felt  the  dignified  Montezuma,  when 
that  ruffianly  Cortez,  with  his  handful  of  Spanish  rapscallions, 
bearded  him  in  his  own  capital  and  in  the  midst  of  his  Mexican 
splendor.  The  gods  were  menaced  if  man  could  be  so  insolent ! 
wherefore,  said  my  Lord,  tremulously — "  The  Constitution  is 
gone  if  the  man  from  Baker  Street  comes  in  for  Lansmere  !  " 

But,  in  the  absence  of  Audley  Egerton,  the  election  looked 
extremely  ugly,  and  Captain  Dashmore  gained  ground  hourly, 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  37 

when  the  Lansmere  solicitor  happily  bethought  him  of  a  not- 
able proxy  for  the  missing  candidate.  The  Squire  of  Hazel- 
dean,  with  his  young  wife,  had  been  invited  by  the  earl  in  honor 
of  Audley  ;  and  in  the  Squire,  the  solicitor  beheld  the  only  mor- 
tal who  could  cope  with  the  sea-captain — a  man  with  a  voice 
as  burly  and  a  face  as  bold — a  man  who,  if  permitted  for  the 
nonce  by  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  would  kiss  all  the  women  no  less 
heartily  than  the  captain  kissed  them;  and  who  was,  moreover,  a 
taller,  and  a  handsomer,  and  a  younger  man — all  three  great  rec- 
ommendations in  the  kissing  department  of  a  contested  election. 
Yes,  to  canvass  the  borough,  and  to  speak  from  the  windows, 
Squire  Hazeldean  would  be  even  more  popularly  presentable  than 
the  London-bred  and  accomplished  Audley  Egerton  himself. 

The  Squire,  applied  to  and  urged  on  all  sides,  at  first  said 
bluntly,  "  that  he  would  do  anything  in  reason  to  serve  his 
brother,  but  that  he  did  not  like,  for  his  own  part,  appearing, 
even  in  proxy,  as  a  lord's  nominee  ;  and  moreover,  if  he  was  to 
be  sponsor  for  his  brother,  why,  he  must  promise  and  vow,  in 
his  name,  to  be  staunch  and  true  to  the  land  they  lived  by ! 
And  how  could  he  tell  that  Audley,  when  he  once  got  into  the 
House,  would  not  forget  the  land,  and  that  he,  William  Hazel- 
dean,  would  be  made  a  liar,  and  look  like  a  turncoat !  " 

But  thesescruples  beingoverruled  by  the  arguments  of  the  gen- 
tlemen, and  the  entreaties  of  the  ladies,  who  took  in  the  election 
that  intense  interest  which  those  gentle  creatures  usually  do  take 
in  all  matters  of  strife  and  contest,  the  Squire  at  length  consented 
to  confront  the  Man  from  Baker  Street,  and  went  accordingly  in- 
to the  thing  with  that  good  heart  andold  English  spirit  with  which 
he  went  into  everything  whereon  he  had  once  made  up  his  mind. 

The  expectations  formed  of  the  Squire's  capacities  for  popu- 
lar electioneering  were  fully  realized.  He  talked  quite  as  much 
nonsense  as  Captain  Dashmore  on  every  subject  except  the  land- 
ed interest ;  there  he  was  great,  for  he  knew  the  subject  well — 
knew  it  by  the  instinct  that  comes  with  practice,  and  compared 
to  which  all  your  showy  theories  are  mere  cobwebs  and  moonshine. 

The  agricultural  outvoters — many  of  whom,  not  living  under 
Lord  Lansmere,  but  being  small  yeomen,  had  hitherto  prided 
themselves  on  their  independence,  and  gone  against  my  Lord — 
could  not  in  their  hearts  go  against  one  who  was  every  inch  the 
farmer's  friend.  They  began  to  share  in  the  Earl's  personal  inter- 
est against  the  Man  from  Baker  Street;  and  big  fellows, with  legs 
bigger  round  than  Captain  Dashmore'stight  littlebody,andhuge 
whips  in  their  hands, were  soon  seen  entering  the  shops,  "  intimi- 
dating the  electors,"  as  Captain  Dashmore  indignantly  declared. 


38  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

These  new  recruits  made  a  great  difference  in  the  muster- 
roll  of  the  Lansmere  books;  and  when  the  day  for  polling  arrived, 
the  result  was  a  fair  question  for  even  betting.  At  the  last  hour, 
after  a  neck-and-neck  contest,  Mr.  Audley  Egerton  beat  the 
Captain  by  two  votes.  And  the  names  of  these  voters  were 
John  Avenel,  resident,  freeman,  and  his  son-in-law,  Mark  Fair- 
field,  an  outvoter,  who,  though  a  Lansmere  freeman,  had  set- 
tled in  Hazeldean,  where  he  had  obtained  the  situation  of  head 
carpenter  on  the  Squire's  estate. 

These  votes  were  unexpected  ;  for,  though  Mark  Fairfield 
had  come  to  Lansmere  on  purpose  to  support  the  Squire's 
brother,  and  though  the  Avenels  had  been  always  staunch 
supporters  of  the  Lansmere  Blue  interest,  yet  a  severe  affliction 
(as  to  the  nature  of  which,  not  desiring  to  sadden  the  opening 
of.  my  story,  I  am.  considerately  silent)  had  befallen  both  these 
persons,  and  they  had  left  the  town  on  the  very  day  after  Lord 
L'Estrange  and  Mr.  Egerton  had  quitted  Lansmere  Park.  - 

Whatever  might  have  been  the  gratification  of  the  Squire,  as 
a' canvasser  and  a  brother,  at  Mr.  Egerton's  triumph,  it;  was 
much  damped  when,  on  leaving  the  dinner  given  in  honor  of 
the  victory  at  the  Lansmere  Arms,  and  about,  with  no  steady 
step,  to  enter  the  carriage  which  was  to  convey  him  to  his  lord- 
ship's house,  a  letter  was  put  into  his  hands  by  one  of  the  gen- 
tlemen who  had  accompanied  the  Captain  to  the  scene  of 
action;  and  the  persual  of  that  letter,  and  a  few  whispered 
words  from  the  bearer  thereof,  sent  the  Squire  back  to  Mrs. 
Hazeldean  a  much  soberer  man  than  she  had  ventured  to  hope 
for.  The  fact  was,  that  on  the  day  of  nomination,  the  Captain 
having  honored  Mr.  Hazeldean  with  many  poetical  and  figura- 
tive appellations — such  as  "  Prize  Ox,"  "  Tony  Lumpkin," 
"Blood-sucking  Vampire,"  and  "  Brotherly  Warming-pan,"  the 
Squire  had  retorted  by  a  joke  about  "  Salt-water  Jack";  and 
the  Captain,  who,  like  all  satirists,  was  extremely  susceptible 
and  thin-skinned  could  not  consent  to  to  be  called  "  Salt-water 
Jack  "  by  a  "  Prize  Ox  "  and  a  ''Bloodsucking  Vampire." 

The  letter,  therefore,  now  conveyed  to  Mr.  Hazeldean  by  a 
gentleman,  who,  being  from  the  Sister  Country,  was  deemed  the 
most  fitting  accomplice  in  the  honorable  destruction  of  a  brother 
mortal,  contained  nothing  more  nor  less  than  an  invitation  to 
single'  combat  ;  and  the  bearer  thereof,  with  the  suave  polite- 
ness enjoined  by  etiquette  on  such  well-bred  homicidal  occa- 
sions, suggested  the  expediency  of  appointing  the  place  of  meet- 
ing in  the  neighborhood  of  London,  in  order  to  prevent  interfer- 
ence from  the  suspicious  authorities  of  Lansmere. 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  39 

The  natives  of  some  countries — the  warlike  French  in  par- 
ticular— think  little  of  that  formal  operation  which  goes  by  the 
name  of  DUELLING.  Indeed,  they  seem  rather  to  like  it  than 
otherwise.  But  there  is  nothing  your  thorough-paced  English- 
man— a  Hazeldean  of  Hazeldean — considers  with  more  repug- 
nance and  aversion,  than  that  same  cold-blooded  ceremonial.  It 
is  not  within  the  range  of  an  Englishman's  ordinary  habits  of 
thinking.  He  prefers  going  to  law — a  much  more  destructive 
proceeding  of  the  two.  Nevertheless,  if  an  Englishman  must 
fight,  why,  he  will  fight.  'He  says  "  it  is  very  foolish  ";  he  is  sure 
"  it  is  mostunchristianlike  ";  he  agrees  with  all  that  Philosophy, 
Preacher,  and  Press  have  laid  down  on  the  subject  ;  but  he 
makes  his  will,  says  his  prayers,  and  goes  out — like  a  heathen. 

It  never,  therefore,  occurred  to  the  Squire  to  show  the  white 
feather  upon  this  unpleasant  occasion.  The  next  day,  feigning 
excuse  to  attend  the  sale  of  a  hunting  stud  at  Tattersall's,  he 
ruefully  went  up  to  London-,  after  taking  a  peculiarly  affection- 
ate leave  of  his  wife.  Indeed,  the  Squire" felt  convinced  that 
he  should  never  return  home  except  in  a  coffin.  "  It  stands 
to  reason,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  that  a  man  who  has  been  actu- 
ajly  paid  by  the  King's  Government  for  shooting  people  ever 
since  he  was  a  little  boy,  in  a  midshipman's  jacket,  must  be  a 
dead  hand  at  the  job.  1  should  not  mind  if  it  was  with  double- 
barrelled  Mantons  and  small  shot  ;  but,  ball  and  pistol  !  they 
aren't  human  nor  sportsmanlike  !"  However,  the  Squire,  af- 
ter settling  his  worldly  affairs,  and  hunting  up  an  old  college 
friend  who  undertook  to  be  his  second,  proceeded  to  a  seques- 
tered cornerof  Wimbledon  Common,  and  plan  ted  himself,  not  side- 
ways, as  one  ought  to  do  in  such  encounters  (the  which  posture 
the  Squire  swore  was  an  unmanly  way  of  shirking),  but  full  front 
tothe  mouth  of  hisadversary's  pistol,  with  such  sturdy  composure, 
that  Captain  Dashmore,  who,  though  an  excellent  shot,  was  at 
bottom  as  good-natured  a  fellow  as  ever  lived, testified  his  admir- 
ation by  letting  bff  his  gallant  opponent  with  a  ball  in  the  fleshy 
part  of  the  shoulder,  after  which  he  declared  himself  perfectly 
satisfied.  The  parties  then  shook  hands,  mutual  apologies  were 
exchanged,  and  the  Squire,  much  astonished  to  find  himself  still 
alive, was  conveyed  to Limmer's  Hotel, where, after  a  considerable 
amount  of  anguish,  the  ball  was  extracted  and  the  wound  healed. 
Now  it  was  all  over,  the  Squire  felt  very  much  raised  in  his  own 
conceit  ;  and  when  he  was  in  a  humor  more  than  ordinarily 
fierce,  that  perilous  event  became  a  favorite  allusion  with  him. 

He  considered,  moreover,  that  his  brother  had  incurred  at 
his  hand  the  most  lasting  obligations  ;  and  that,  having  pro- 


4o  MY  NOVEL  ;  on, 

cured  Audley's  return  to  Parliament,  and  defended  his  interests 
at  risk  of  his  own  life,  he  had  an  absolute  right  to  dictate  to 
that  gentleman  how  to  vote — upon  all  matters,  at  least,  con- 
nected with  the  landed  interest.  And  when,  not  very  long  after 
Audley  took  his  seat  in  Parliament  (which  he  did  not  do  for  some 
months),  he  thought  proper  both  to  vote  and  to  speak  in  a 
manner  wholly  belying  the  promises  the  Squire  had  made  on  his 
behalf,  Mr.  Hazeldean  wrote  him  such  a  trimmer  that  it  could  not 
but  produce  an  unconciliatory  reply.  Shortly  afterward,  the 
Squire's  exasperation  reached  the  culminating  point ;  for  having 
to  pass  through  Lansmere  on  a  market-day,  he  was  hooted  by  the 
very  farmers  whom  he  had  induced  to  vote  for  his  brother  ;  and 
justly  imputing  the  disgrace  to  Audley,  he  never  heard  the  name 
of  that  traitor  to  the  land  mentioned  without  a  heightened  color 
and  an  indignant  expletive.  Monsieur  de  Ruqueville — who  was 
the  greatest  wit  of  his  day — had,  like  the  Squire,  a  half-brother, 
with  whom  he  was  not  on  the  best  of  terms,  and  of  whom  he 
always  spoke  as  his  "  frere  de  loin  !  "  Audley  Egerton  was  thus 
Squire  Hazeldean's  "  distant  brother  !  " — Enough  of  these  ex- 
planatory antecedents — let  us  return  to  the  Stocks. 

CHAPTER  XL 

THE  Squire's  carpenters  were  taken  from  the  park  pales,  and 
set  to  work  at  the  Parish  Stocks.  Then  came  the  painter  and 
colored  them  a  beautiful  dark  blue,  with  white  border — and  a 
white  rim  round  the  holes — with  an  ornamental  flourish  in  the 
middle.  It  was  the  gayest  public  edifice  in  the  whole  village — 
though  the  village  possessed  no  less  than  three  other  monu- 
ments of  the  Vitruvian  genius  of  the  Hazeldeans — to  wit,  the 
almshouse,  the  school,  and  the  parish  pump. 

A  more  elegant,  enticing,  coquettish  pair  of  stocks  never  glad- 
dened the  eye  of  a  justice  of  the  peace. 

And  Squire  Hazeldean's  eye  was  gladdened.  In  the  pride  of 
his  heart  he  brought  all  the  family  down  to  look  at  the  stocks. 
The  Squire's  family  (omitting  the  frere  de  loin)  consisted  of 
Mrs.  Hazeldean,  his  wife  ;  next,  of  Miss  Jemima  Hazeldean, 
his  first-cousin  ;  thirdly,  of  Mr.  Francis  Hazeldean,  his  only 
son  ;  and  fourthly,  of  Captain  Barnabas  Higginbotham,  a  dis- 
tant relation — who,  indeed,  strictly  speaking,  was  not  of  the 
family,  but  only  a  visitor  ten  months  in  the  year.  Mrs.  Hazel- 
dean  was  every  inch  the  lady — the  lady  of  the  parish.  In  her 
comely,  florid,  and  somewhat  sunburnt  countenance,  there  was 
an  equal  expression  of  majesty  and  benevolence  ;  she  had  a  blue 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  41 

•ye  that  invited  liking,  and  an  aquiline  nose  that  commanded 
respect.  Mrs.  Hazeldean  had  no  affectation  of  fine  airs — no 
wish  to  be  greater  and  handsomer  and  cleverer  than  she  was. 
She  knew  herself,  and  her  station,  and  thanked  heaven  for  it. 
There  was  about  her  speech  and  manner  something  of  the  short- 
ness and  bluntness  which  often  characterize  royalty  ;  and  if 
the  lady  of  a  parish  is  not  a  queen  in  her  own  circle,  it  is  never 
the  fault  of  a  parish.  Mrs.  Hazeldean  dressed  her  part  to 
perfection.  She  wore  silks  that  seemed  heirlooms — so  thick 
were  they,  so  substantial  and  imposing.  And  over  these,  when 
she  was  in  her  own  domain,  the  whitest  of  aprons  ;  while  at  her 
waist  was  seen  no  fiddle-faddle  chatelaine,  with  breloques  and 
trumpery,  but  a  good  honest  gold  watch  to  mark  the  time,  and 
a  long  pair  of  scissors  to  cut  off  the  dead  leaves  from  her 
flowers — for  she  was  a  great  horticulturist.  When  occasion 
needed,  Mrs.  Hazeldean  could,  however,  lay  by  her  more  sump- 
tuous and  imperial  raiment  for  a  stout  riding-habit,  of  blue 
Saxony,  and  canter  by  her  husband's  side  to  see  the  hounds 
throw  off.  Nay,  on  the  days  on  which  Mr.  Hazeldean  drove 
his  famous  fast- trotting  cob  to  the  market-town,  it  was  rarely 
that  you  did  not  see  his  wife  on  the  left  side  of  the  gig.  She 
cared  as  little  as  her  lord  did  for  wind  and  weather,  and  in  the 
midst  of  some  pelting  shower,  her  pleasant  face  peeped  over  the 
collar  and  capes  of  a  stout  dreadnought,  expanding  into  smiles 
and  bloom  as  some  frank  rose,  that  opens  from  its  petals  and 
rejoices  in  the  dews.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  the  worthy  couple 
married  for  love  ;  they  were  as  little  apart  as  they  could  help  it. 
And  still,  on  the  first  of  September,  if  the  house  was  not  full,  of 
company  which  demanded  her  cares,  Mrs.  Hazeldean  "  stepped 
out  "  over  the  stubbles  by  her  husband's  side,with  as  light  a  tread 
and  as  blithe  an  eye  as  when,  in  the  first  bridal  year,  she  had 
enchanted  the  Squire  by  her  genial  sympathy  with  his  sports. 

So  there  now  stands  Harriet  Hazeldean,  one  hand  leaning 
on  the  Squire's  broad  shoulder,  the  other  thrust  into  her  apron, 
and  trying  her  best  to  share  her  husband's  enthusiasm  for  his 
own  public-spirited  patriotism,  in  the  renovation  of  the  parish 
stocks.  A  little  behind,  with  two  fingers  resting  on  the  thin 
arm  of  Captain  Barnabas,  stood  Miss  Jemima,  the  orphan  daugh- 
ter of  the  Squire's  uncle,  by  a  runaway  imprudent  marriage 
with  a  young  lady  who  belonged  to  a  family  which  had  been  at 
war  with  the  Hazeldeans  since  the  reign  of  Charles  the  First, 
respecting  a  right  of  way  to  a  small  wood  (or  rather  spring)  of 
about  an  acre,  through  a  piece  of  furze  land,  which  was  let  to 
a  brickmaker  at  twelve  shillings  a-year.  The  wood  belonged 


42  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

to  the  Hazeldeans,  the  furze  land  to  the  Sticktorights  (an  old 
Saxon  family,  if  ever  there  was  one).  Every  twelfth  year,  when 
the  fagots  and  timber  were  felled,  this  feud  broke  out  afresh  ; 
for  the  Sticktorights  refused  to  the  Hazeldeans  the  right  to  cart 
off  the  said  fagots  and  timber  through  the  only  way  by  which 
a  cart  could  possibly  pass.  It  is  just  to  the  Hazeldeans  to  say 
that  they  had  offered  to  buy  the  land  at  ten  times  its  value. 
But  the  Sticktorights,  with  equal  magnanimity,  had  declared 
that  they  would  not  "  alienate  the  family  property  for  the  con- 
venience of  the  best  squire  that  ever  stood  upon  shoe-leather." 
Therefore,  every  twelfth  year,  there  was  always  a  great  breach 
of  the  peace  on  the  part  of  both  Hazeldeans  and  Stcktorights, 
magistrates  and  deputy-lieutenants  though  they  were.  The 
question  was  fairly  fought  out  by  their  respective  dependents, 
and  followed  by  various  actions  for  assault  and  trespass.  As 
the  legal  question  of  right  was  extremely  obscure,  it  never  had 
been  properly  decided  ;  and  indeed,  neither  party  wished  it 
to  be  decided,  each  at  heart  having  some  doubt  of  the  propriety 
of  its  own  claim.  A  marriage  between  a  younger  son  of  the 
Hazeldeans,  and  a  younger  daughter  of  the  Sticktorights,  was 
viewed  with  equal  indignation  by  both  families  ;  and  the  con- 
sequence had  been  that  the  runaway  couple,  unblessed  and  un- 
forgiven,  had  scrambled  through  life  as  they  could,  upon  the 
scanty  pay  of  the  husband,  who  was  in  a  marching  regiment, 
and  the  interest  of  ^rooo,  which  was  the  wife's  fortune  inde- 
pendent of  her  parents.  They  died  and  left  an  only  daughter 
(upon  whom  the  maternal  £1000  had  been  settled),  about  the 
time  that  the  Squire  came  of  age  and  into  possession  of  the  es- 
tates. And  though  he  inherited  all  the  ancestral  hostility  to- 
ward the  Sticktorights,  it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  be  unkind  to 
a  poor  orphan,  who  was,  after  all,  the  child  of  a  Hazeldean. 
Therefore,  he  had  educated  and  fostered  Jemima  with  as  much 
tenderness  as  if  she  had  been  his  sister  ;  put  out  her  £1000 
at  nurse,  and  devoted,  from  the  ready  money  which  had  ac- 
crued from  the  rents  during  his  minority,  as  much  as  made  her 
fortune  (with  her  own  accumulated  at  compound  interest),  no 
less  than  ^4000,  the  ordinary  marriage  portion  of  the  daughters 
of  Hazeldean.  On  her  coming  of  age,  he  transferred  this  sum 
to  her  absolute  disposal,  in  order  that  she  might  feel  herself 
independent,  see  a  little  more  of  the  world  than  she  could  at 
Hazeldean,  have  candidates  to  choose  from  if  she  designed  to 
marry  ;  or  enough  to  live  upon,  if  she  chose  to  remain  single: 
Miss  Jemima  had  somewhat  availed  herself  of  this  liberty,  by 
occasional  visits  to  Cheltenham  and  other  watering-places. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  4| 

But  her  grateful  affection  to  the  Squire  was  such,  that  she  could 
never  bear  to  be  long  away  from  the  Hall.  And  this  was  the  more 
praise  to  her  heart,  inasmuch  as  she  was  far  from  taking  kindly 
to  the  prospect  of  being  an  old. maid.  And  there  were  so  few 
bachelors  in  the  neighborhood  of  Hazeldean,  that  she  could  not 
but  have  that  prospect  before  her  eyes  whenever  she  looked 
out  of  the  Hall  windows.  Miss  Jemima  was  indeed  one  of  the 
most  kindly  and  affectionate  of  beings  feminine  ;  and  if  she 
disliked  the  thought  of  single  blessedness,  it  really  was  fro'm 
those  innocent  and  womanly  instincts  toward  the  tender  chari- 
ties of  hearth  and  home,  without  which  a  lady,  however  other- 
wise estimable,  is  little  better  than  a  Minerva  in  bronze.  But 
whether  or  not,:  despite  her  fortune  and  her  face,  which  last, 
though  not  strictly  handsome,  was  pleasing,  and  would  have 
been  positively  pretty  if  she  had  laughed  more  often  (for  when, 
she  laughed  there,  appeared  three  charming  dimples,  invisible 
when  she  was  grave)— whether  or  not,  I  say,  it  was  the  fault  of 
our  insensibility  or  her  own  fastidiousness,  Miss  Jemima  ap- 
proached her  thirtieth  year,  and  was  still  Miss  Jemima.  Now, 
therefore  that  beautifying  laugh  of  hers  was  very  rarely  heard, 
and  she  had  of  late  become  confirmed  in  two  opinions,  not  at  all 
conducive  to  laughter.  One  was  a  conviction  of  the  general 
and  progressive,  wickedness  of  the  male, sex, and  the  other  was 
a  decided  and  lugubrious  belief  that  the  world  was  coming  to 
an  end.  Miss  Jemima  was  now  accompanied  by  a  small  canine 
favorite,  true  Blenheim,  with  a  snub  nose.  It  was  advanced  in, 
life,  and  somewhat  obese.  It  sate  on  its  haunches,  with  its 
tongue : but  of  its  mouth,. except  when  it  snapped  at  the  flies. 
There  was  a  strong  platonic  friendship  between  Miss  Jemima 
and  Captain  Barnabas  Higginbotham;  for  he  too  was  unmarried, 
and  he  had  the  same  ill  opinion  of  your  sex,  my  dear  madam,  that 
Miss  Jemima  had  of  ours.  The  Cap.tain.was  a  man  of  a  slim  and 
elegant  figure;  the  less  said  about  the  face  the  better,  a  truth  of 
which  theCaptainhimself  was  sensible,  for  itwas  a  favorite  maxim 
of  his — "  that  in  a  man,  everything  is  a  slight,  gentlemanlike  fig- 
ure." Captain  Barnabas  did  not  absolutely  deny  that  the  world 
was  coming  to  an  end,  only  he  thought  it  would  last  his  time. 

Quite  apart  from  all  the  rest,  with  the  nonchalant  survey  of 
virgin  dandyism,  Francis  Hazeldean  looked  over  one  of  the  high 
starched  neckcloths  which  were  then  the  fashion — a  handsome 
lad,  fresh  from  Eton  for  the  summer  holidays,  but  at  that 
ambiguous  age,  when  one  disdains  the  sport  of  the  boy,  and 
has  not  yet  arrived  at  the  resources  of  the  man. 

"I  should  be  glad,  Frank,"  said  the  Squire,  suddenly  turning 


44  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

round  to  his  son, "  to  see  you  take  a  little  more  interest  in  duties 
which,  one  day  or  the  other,  you  may  be  called  upon  to  discharge. 
I  can't  bear  to  think  that  the  property  should  fall  into  the  hands 
of  a  fine  gentleman,  who  will  let  things  go  to  rack  and  ruin 
instead  of  keeping  them  up  as  I  do." 

And  the  Squire  pointed  to  the  stocks. 

Master  Frank's  eye  followed  the  direction  of  the  cane,  as 
well  as  his  cravat  would  permit ;  and  he  said  dryly — 

"Yes,  sir;  but  howcame  the  stocks  to  besolongout  of  repair?" 

"  Because  one  can't  see  to  everything  at  once,"  retorted  the 
Squire,  tartly.  "When  a  man  has  got  eight  thousand  acres  to 
look  after,  he  must  do  a  bit  at  a  time." 

"  Yes,"  said  Captain  Barnabas.     "  I  know  that  by  experience." 

"  The  deuce  you  do  !  "  cried  the  Squire,  bluntly.  "  Experi- 
ence in  eight  thousand  acres  ! " 

"  No  ;  in  my  apartments  in  the  Albany — No.  3  A.  I  have 
had  them  ten  years,  and  it  was  only  last  Christmas  that  I 
bought  my  Japan  cat." 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Miss  Jemima  ;  "a  Japan  cat !  that  must  be 
very  curious.  What  sort  of  a  creature  is  it  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  know?  Bless  me,  a  thing  with  three  legs,  and 
holds  toast !  I  never  thought  of  it,  I  assure  you,  till  my  friend 
Cosey  said  to  me,  one  morning  when  he  was  breakfasting  at  my 
rooms — '  Higginbotham  how  is  it  that  you,  who  like  to  have 
things  comfortable  about  you,  don't  have  a  cat ! '  '  Upon 
my  life,'  said  I,  'one  can't  think  of  everything  at  a  time  ; '  just 
like  you,  Squire." 

"Pshaw,"  said  Mr  Hazeldean,  gruffly — "not  at  all  like  ir.e. 
And  I'll  thank  you  another  time,  Cousin  Higginbotham,  not  to 
put  me  out,  when  I  am  speaking  on  matters  of  importance  ; 
poking  your  cat  into  my  stocks  !  They  look  something  like 
now,  my  stocks — don't  they,  Harry  ?  I  declare  that  the  whole 
village  seems  more  respectable.  It  is  astonishing  how  much  a 
little  improvement  adds  to  the — to  the — " 

"  Charm  of  the  landscape,"  put  in  Miss  Jemima,  sentimentally. 

The  Squire  neither  accepted  nor  rejected  the  suggested 
termination  ;  but,  leaving  his  sentence  uncompleted,  broke  sud- 
denly off  with — 

"And  if  I  had  listened  to  Parson  Dale — " 

"You  would  have  done  a  very  wise  thing,"  said  a  voice 
behind,  as  the  Parson  presented  himself  in  the  rear. 

"  Wise  thing  !  Why,  surely,  Mr.  Dale,"  said  Mrs.  Hazeldean, 
with  spirit,  for  she  always  resented  the  least  contradiction  to 
her  lord  and  master — perhaps  as  an  interference  with  her  own 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  45 

special  right  and  prerogative  ! — "  why,  surely  if  it  is  necessary 
to  have  stocks,  it  is  necessary  to  repair  them." 

"  That's  right — go  it,  Harry  !  "  cried  the  Squire,  chuckling, 
and  rubbing  his  hands  as  if  he  had  been  setting  his  terrier  at 
the  Parson  ;  "  St— St— at  him  !  Well,  Master  Dale,  what  do 
you  say  to  that  ?" 

"  My  dear  ma'am,"  said  the  Parson,  replying  in  preference  to 
the  lady,  "  there  are  many  institutions  in  the  country  which  are 
very  old,  look  very  decayed,  and  don't  seem  of  much  use  ;  but 
I  would  not  pull  them  down  for  all  that." 

"  You  would  reform  them,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  doubt- 
fully, and  with  a  look  at  her  husband,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  He 
is  on  politics  now — that's  your  business." 

"No,  I  would  not,  ma'am,"  said  the  Parson,  stoutly. 

"  What  on  earth  would  you  do,  then  ?  "  quoth  the  Squire. 

"  Just  let  'em  alone,"  said  the  Parson.  "  Master  Frank,  there's 
a  Latin  maxim  which  was  often  in  the  mouth  of  Sir  Robert 
Walpole,  and  which  they  ought  to  put  into  the  Eton  grammar — • 
'  Quieta  non  movere?  If  things  are  quiet,  let  them  be  quiet !  I 
would  not  destroy  the  stocks,  because  that  might  seem  to  the 
ill-disposed  like  a  license  to  offend  ;  and  I  would  not  repair  the 
stocks,  because  that  puts  it  into  people's  heads  to  get  into  them." 

The  Squire  was  a  staunch  politician  of  the  old  school,  and  he 
did  not  like  to  think  that,  in  repairing  the  stocks,  he  had  perhaps 
been  conniving  at  revolutionary  principles. 

"  This  constant  desire  of  innovation,"  said  Miss  Jemima, 
suddenly  mounting  the  more  funereal  of  her  two  favorite  hob- 
bies, "  is  one  of  the  great  symptoms  of  the  approaching  crash. 
We  are  altering,  and  mending,  and  reforming,  when  in  twenty 
years  at  the  utmost  the  world  itself  may  be  destroyed  !  "  The 
fair  speaker  paused  and — 

Captain  Barnabas  said  thoughtfully — "Twenty  years! — the 
insurance  offices  rarely  compute  the  best  life  at  more  than  four- 
teen." He  struck  his  hand  on  the  stocks  as  he  spoke,  and 
added,  with  his  usual  consolatory  conclusion — "  The  odds  are, 
that  it  will  last  our  time,  Squire." 

But  whether  Captain  Barnabas  meant  the  stocks  or  the  world, 
he  did  not  clearly  explain,  and  no  one  took  the  trouble  to  inquire. 

"  Sir,"  said  Master  Frank  to  his  father,  with  that  furtive  spirit 
of  quizzing,  which  he  had  acquired  amongst  other  polite  accom- 
plishments at  Eton — "  sir,  it  is  no  use  now  considering  whether 
the  stocks  should  or  should  not  have  been  repaired.  The  only 
question  is,  whom  you  will  get  to  put  into  them  ?  " 

"  True,"  said  the  Squire,  with  much  gravity. 


46  MY   NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  Yes,  there  it  is  !  "  said  the  Parson,  mournfully.  "  If  you 
would  but  learn  '  non  guieta  movere  ! ' ' 

"  Don't  spout  your  Latin  at  me,  Parson  !  "cried  the  Squire, 
angrily  ;  "  I  can  give  you  as  good  as  you  bring,  any  day. 
'  Propria  quse  maribus  tribuuntur  mascula  dicas.— 
As  in  prsesenti,  perfectum  format  in  avi.'  " 

There,"  added  the  Squire,  turning  triumphantly  toward  his 
Harry,  who  looked  with  great  admiration  at  this  unprecedented 
burst  of  learning  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Hazeldean — "  there,  two  can 
play  at  that  game  !  And  now  that  we  have  all  seen  the  stocks-, 
we  may  as  well  go  home,  and  drink  tea.  Will  you  come  up  and 
play  a  rubber,  Dale  ? 'No  ! — hang  it,  man,  I've  not  offended 
you — you  know  my  ways." 

"  That  I  do,  and  they  are  among  the  things  I  would  not  have 
altered,"  cried  the  Parson — holding  out  his  hand  cheerfully. 
The  Squire  gave  it  a  hearty  shake,  and  Mrs.  Hazeldean  has- 
tened to  do  the  same. 

"  Do  eome;  I  am  afraid  we've  been  very  rude;  we  are  sad  blunt 
folks.  Do  come;  that's  a  dear  good  man  ;  and  of  course,  poor 
Mrs.  Dale  too,"  Mrs.  Hazeldean's  favorite  epithet  for  Mrs. 
Dale  was  -poor,  and  for  reasons  to  be  explained  hereafter. 

"  I  fear  my  wife  has  got  one  of  her  bad  headaches,butl  will  give 
heryourkind  message, andatalleventsyoumaydependuponme." 

'*  That's  right,"  said  the  Squire  ;  "  in  half-an-hour,  eh  ? — How 
dy'e  do,  my  little  man  ? "  as  Lenny  Fairfield,  on  his  way  home 
from  some  errand  in  the  village,  drew  aside  and  pulled  off  his 
hat  with  both  hands.  "  Stop — you  see  those  stocks— eh  ?  Tell 
all  the  bad  boys  in  the  parish  to  take  care  how  they  get  into 
them — a  sad  disgrace — you'll  never  be  in  such  a  quandary?" 

"That  at  least  I  will  answer  for,"  said  the' Parson. 

"  And  I  too,"  added  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  patting  the  boy's  curly 
head.  "  Tell  your  mother  I  shall  come  and  have  a  good  chat 
with  her  to-morrow  evening." 

And  so  the  party  passed  on,  and  Lenny  stood  still  on  the 
road,  staring  hard  at  the  stocks,  which  stared  back  at  him  from 
its  four  great  eyes. 

But  Lenny  did  not  remain  long  alone.  As  soon  as  the  great  folks 
had  fairly  disappeared,  a  large  number  of  small  folks  emerged 
timorously  from  the  neighboring  cotta'ges,  and  approached  the 
site  of  the  stocks  with  much  marvel,  fear,  and  curiosity. 

In  fact,  the  renovated  appearance  of  this  monster — &  propos 
de  bottes,  as  one  may  say — had  already  excited  considerable  sensa- 
tion among  the  population  of  Hazeldean.  And  even  as  when 
an  unexpected  owl  makes  his  appearance  in  broad  daylight,  all 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  47 

the  little  birds  rise  from  tree  and  hedgerow,  and  cluster  round 
their  ominous  enemy,  so  now  gathered  all  the  much-excited 
villagers  round  the  intrusive  and  portentous  phenomenon. 

"  D'ye  know  what  the  diggins  the  Squire  dit  it  for,  Gaffer 
Solomons  ?"  asked  one  many-childed  matron,  with  a  baby  in  arms, 
an  urchin  three  years  old  clinging  fast  to  her  petticoat,  and  her 
hand  .maternally  holding  back'a  more  adventurous  hero  of  six, 
whohad  a  greatdesire  tothrust  his  head  intoone  of  the  grislyaper- 
tures/  All  eyes  turned  to  a  sage  old  man,  the  oracle  of  the  village, 
who,  leaning  both  hands  on  his  crutch,  shook  his  head  bodingly. 

"  Maw  be,"  said  Gaffer  Solomons,  "  some  of  the  boys  ha' 
been  robbing  the  orchards." 

•'  Orchards!"cried  a  big  lad, who  seemed  to  think  himself  per- 
sonally appealed  to — "  Why,  the  bud's  scarce  off  the  trees  yet!" 

"  No  more  it  in't !  "  said  the  dame  with  many  children,  and 
she  breathed  more  freely. 

"  Maw  be,"  said  Gaffer  Solomons,  "  some  o'  ye  has  been  sit- 
ting .snares." 

"  What  for  ? "  said  a  stout,  sullen-looking  young  fellow,  whom 
conscience  possibly  pricked  to  reply — "  what  for,  when  it  bean't 
the  season  ?  And  if  a  poor  man  did  find  a  hear  in  his  pocket 
i'  the  hay-time,  I  should  like  to  know  if  ever  a  Squire  in  the 
world  would  let  un  off  with  the  stocks — eh  ?  " 

This  last  question  seemed  a  settler,  and  the  wisdom  of  Gaffer 
Solomons  went  down  fifty  per  cent,  in  the  public  opinion  of 
Hazeldean. 

"  Maw  be,"  said  the  Gaffer — this/time  with  a  thrilling  effect, 
which  restored  his  reputation — "  maw  be  some  o'  ye  ha*  been 
getting  drunk,  and  making  beestises  o'  yoursels  !  " 

There  was  a  dead  pause,  for  this  suggestion  applied  too  gen- 
erally to  be  met  with  a  solitary  response.  At  last  one  of  the 
women  said,  with  a  meaning  glance  at  her  husband,  "  God  bless 
the  Squire  ;  he'll  make  some  on  us  happy  women,  if  that's  all!  " 

There  then  arose  an  almost  unanimous  murmur  of  approba- 
tion among  the  female  part  of  the  audience  ;  and  the  men 
looked  at  each  other,  and  then  at  the  phenomenon,  with  a  very 
hang-dog  expression  of  countenance. 

"Or,  maw  be,"  resumed  Gaffer  Solomons,  encouraged  to  a 
fourth  suggestion  by  the  success  of  its  predecessor — "  maw  be 
some  o'  the  Misseses  ha'  been  making  a  rumpus,  and  scolding 
their  goodmen.  I  heard  say  in  my  gran  fey  thir's  time,  that  arter 
old  Mother  Bang  nigh  died  o'  the  ducking-stool,  them  ere  stocks 
were  first  made  for  the  women,  out  o'  compassion  like  J  And  ev- 
ery one  knows  the  Squire  is  a  koind-hearted  man,God  bless  un! " 


48  MY    NOVEL  J    OR 

"  God  bless  un  !  "  cried  the  men  heartily  ;  and  they  gathered 
lovingly  round  the  phenomenon,  like  heathens  of  old  round  a 
tutelary  temple.  But  then  there  rose  one  shrill  clamor  among 
the  females,  as  they  retreated  with  involuntary  steps  toward  the 
verge  of  the  green,  whence  they  glared  at  Solomons  and  the 
phenomenon  with  eyes  so  sparkling, and  pointed  at  bothwith  ges- 
tures so  menacing,  that  Heaven  only  knows  if  a  morsel  of  either 
would  have  remained  much  longer  to  offend  the  eyes  of  the  justly 
enraged  matronage  of  Hazeldean,  if  fortunately  Master  Stirn, 
the  Squire's  right-hand  man,  had  not  come  up  in  the  nick  of  time. 

Master  Stirn  was  a  formidable  personage — more  formidable 
than  the  Squire  himself — as,  indeed,  a  Squire's  right  hand  is 
generally  more  formidable  than  the  head  can  pretend  to  be. 
He  inspired  the  greater  awe,  because,  like  the  stocks,  of  which 
he  was  deputed  guardian,  his  powers  were  undefined  and  ob- 
scure, and  he  had  no  particular  place  in  the  out-of-door  estab- 
lishment. He  was  not  the  steward,  yet  he  did  much  of  what 
ought  to  be  the  steward's  work;  he  was  not  the  farm-bailiff,  for 
the  Squire  called  himself  his  own  farm-bailiff  ;  nevertheless, 
Mr.  Hazeldean  sowed  and  ploughed,  cropped  and  stocked, 
bought  and  sold  very  much  as  Mr.  Stirn  condescended  to  ad- 
vise. He  was  not  the  park-keeper,  for  he  neither  shot  the 
deer  nor  superintended  the  preserves  ;  but  it  was  he  who  always 
found  out  who  had  broken  a  park-pale  or  snared  a  rabbit.  In 
short,  what  may 'be  called  the  harsher  duties  of  a  large  landed 
proprietor  devolved,  by  custom  and  choice,  upon  Mr.  Stirn.  If 
a  laborer  was  to  be  discharged,  or  a  rent  enforced,  and  the 
Squire  knew  that  he  should  be  talked  over  and  that  the  stew- 
ard would  be  as  soft  as  himself,  Mr.  Stirn  was  sure  to  be  the 
avenging  ayyeXo?  or  messenger,  to  pronounce  the  words  of 
fate  ;  so  that  he  appeared  to  the  inhabitants  of  Hazeldean  like 
the  Poet's  Sceva  Necessitas,  a  vague  incarnation  of  remorseless 
power,  armed  with  whips,  nails,  and  wedges.  The  very  brute 
creation  stood  in  awe  of  Mr.  Stirn.  The  calves  knew  that  it 
was  he  who  singled  out  which  should  be  sold  to  the  butcher, 
and  huddled  up  into  a  corner  with  beating  hearts  ;at  his  grim 
footstep  ;  the  sow  grunted,  the  duck  quacked,  the  hen  bristled 
her  feathers  and  called  to  her  chicks  when  Mr.  Stirn  drew  near. 
Nature  had  set  her  stamp  upon  him.  Indeed,  it  may  be  ques- 
tioned whether  the  great  M.  de  Chambray  himself,  surnamed  the 
brave,  had  an  aspect  so  awe-inspiring  as  that  of  Mr.  Stirn;  albeit 
the  face  of  that  hero  was  so  terrible,  that  a  man  who  had  been 
his  lackey,  seeing  his  portrait  after  he  had  been  dead  twenty 
years,  fell  a-trembling  all  over  like  a  leaf  ! 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  49 

"  And  what  the  plague  are  you  all  doing  here  ?  "  said  Mr. 
Stirn,  as  he  waved  and  smacked  a  great  cart- whip  which  he  held 
in  his  hand,  "  making  such  a  hullabaloo,  you  women,  you  !  that 
I  suspect  the  Squire  will  be  sending  out  to  know  if  the  village 
is  on  fire.  Go  home,  will  ye  ?  High  time  indeed  to  have  the 
stocks  ready,  when  you  get  squalling  and  conspiring  under  the 
very  nose  of  a  justice  of  the  peace,  just  as  the  French  revolu- 
tioners  did  afore  they  cut  off  their  king's  head  ;  my  hair  stands 
on  end  to  look  at  ye."  But  already,  before  half  this  address 
was  delivered,  the  crowd  had  dispersed  in  all  directions — the 
women  still  keeping  together,  and  the  men  sneaking  off  toward 
the  ale-house.  Such  was  the  beneficent  effect  of  the  fatal  stocks, 
on  the  first  day  of  their  resuscitation  ! 

However,  in  the  break-up  of  every  crowd  there  must  always 
be  one  who  gets  off  the  last ;  and  it  so  happened  that  our 
friend  Lenny  Fairfield,  who  had  mechanically  approached  close 
to  the  stocks,  the  better  to  hear  the  oracular  opinions  of  Gaffer 
Solomons,  had  no  less  mechanically,  on  the  abrupt  appearance 
of  Mr.  Stirn,  crept,  as  he  hoped,  out  of  sight  behind  the  trunk 
of  the  elm-tree  which  partially  shaded  the  stocks;  and  there  now, 
as  if  fascinated,  he  still  cowered,  not  daring  to  emerge  in  full 
view  of  Mr.  Stirn,  and  in  immediate  reach  of  the  cart-whip — 
when  the  quick  eye  of  the  right-hand  man  detected  his  retreat. 

"  Hallo  you,  sir — what  the  deuce,  laying  a  mine  to  blow  up 
the  stocks  !  just  like  Guy  Fox  and  the  Gunpowder  Plot,  I  de- 
clares !  What  ha'  you  got  in  your  willanous  little  fist  there  ?" 

"  Nothing,  sir,"  said  Lenny,  opening  his  palm; 
."  Nothing — urn!"  said  Mr.  Stirn,  much  dissatisfied  ;  and  then, 
as  he  gazed  more  deliberately,  recognizing  the  pattern  boy  of 
the  village,  a  cloud  yet  darker  gathered  over  his  brow — for  Mr. 
Stirn, whovalued  himself  nuichon  his  learning — andwho,indeed, 
by  dint  of  more  knowledge  as  well  as  more  wit  than  his  neighbors, 
had  attained  his  present  eminent  station  of  life — was  extremely 
anxious  that  his  only  son  should  also  be  a  scholar  ;  that  wish 

"  The  gods  dispersed  in  empty  air." 

Master  Stirn  was  a  notable  dunce  at  the  Parson's  school,  while 
Lenny  Fairfield  was  the  pride  and  boast  of  it  ;  therefore  Mr. 
Stirn  was  naturally,  and  almost  justifiably,  ill-disposed  toward 
Lenny  Fairfield,  who  had  appropriated  to  himself  the  praises 
which  Mr.  Stirn  had  designed  for  his  own  son. 

"  Um  !  "  said  the  right-hand  man,  glowering  on  Lenny  malig- 
nantly, "  you  are  the  pattern  boy  of  the  village,  are  you?  Very 
well,  sir — then  I  put  these  here  stocks  under  your  care— and 
you'll  keep  off  the  other  boys  from  sitting  on  'em,  and  picking 


5O  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

off  the  paint,  and  playing  three-holes  and  chuck-farthing,  as  I 
declare  they've  been  a-doing,  just  in  front  of  the  elewation. 
Now,  you  knows  your  'sponsibilities,  little  boy — and  a  great 
honor  they  are  too,  for  the  like  o'  you.  If  any  damage  be  done, 
it  is  to  you  I  shall  look  ;  d'ye  understand  ? — and  that's  what  the 
Squire  says  to  me.  So  you  see  what  it  is  to  be  a  pattern  boy, 
Master  Lenny  !  " 

With  that  Mr.  Stirn  ;gave  a  loud  crack  of  the  cart-whip,  by 
way  of  military  honors,  over  the  head'of  the  vicegerent  he  had 
thus  created,  and  strode  off  to  pay  a  visit  to  two  young  unsus- 
pecting pups,  whose  ears  and  tails  he  had  graciously  promised 
their  proprietor  to  crop  that  evening.  Nor,  albeit  few  charges 
could  be  more  obnoxious  than  that  of  deputy-governor,  or 
charge"  d'affaires  extraordinaire*  to  the  Parish  Stocks,  nor  one 
more  likely  to  render  Lenny  Fairfield  odious  to  his  'contem- 
poraries; ought  he  to  have  been  insensible 'to  the  signal  advan- 
tage of  .his  condition  over  that  of  the  two  sufferers,  against 
whose  ears  and  tails  Mr.  Stirn  had  no  special  motives  of  resent- 
ment. To  every  bad  there  is  a  worse — and  fortunately  for  little 
boys,  and  even  for  grown  men,  whom  the  Stirns  of  the  world 
regard  malignly,  the  majesty  of  law  protects  their  ears,  and  the 
merciful  forethought  of  nature  deprived  their  remote  ancestors 
of  the  privilege  of  entailing  tails  upon  them.  Had  it  been  other- 
wise— considering  what  handles  tails  would  have  given  to  the 
oppressor,  how  many  traps  envy  would  have  laid  for  them,  how 
often  they  must  have  been  scratched  and  mutilated  by  the 
briars  of  life,  how  many  good  excuses  would  have  been  found 
for  lopping,  docking,  and  trimming  thenv — I  fear  that  only  the 
lap-dogs  of  Fortune  would  have  gone  to  the  grave  tail-whole. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  card-table  was  set  out  in  the  drawing-room  at  Hazel^ 
dean  Hall  ;  though  the  little  party  were  still  lingering  in  the 
deep  recess  of  the  large  bay-window — which  (in  itself  of  dimen- 
sions that  would  have  swallowed  up  a  moderate-sized  London 
parlor)  held  the  great  round  tea-table,  with  all  appliances  and 
means  to  boot — for  the  beautiful  summer  moon  shed  on  the 
sward  so  silvery  a  luster,  and  the  trees  cast  so  quiet  a  shadow, 
and  the  flowers  and  new-mown  hay  sent  up  so  grateful  a  per- 
fume, that,  to  close  the  windows,  draw  the  curtains;  arid  call  for 
other  lights  than  those  of  heaven,  would  have  been  an  abuse  of 
the  prose  of  life  which  even  Captain  Barnabas,who  regarded  whist 
as  the  business  of  town  and  the  holiday  of  the  country,  shrank 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  51 

from  suggesting.  Without,  the  scene,  beheld  by  the  clear  moon- 
light, had  the  beauty  peculiar  to  the  garden-ground  round  those 
old-fashioned  country  residences  which,  though  a  little  modern- 
ized, still  preserve  their  original  character  ;  the  velvet  lawn, 
studded  with  large  plots  of  flowers,  shaded  and  scented— here, 
to  the  left,  by  lilacs,  laburnums,  and  rich  seringas — there,  to  the 
right,  giving  glimpses,  over  low-clipped  yews,  of  a  green  bowling- 
alley,  with  the  white  colums  of  a  summer-house  built  after  the 
Dutch  taste,  in  the  reign  of  William  III.;  and  in  front — steal- 
ing away  under  covert  of  those  still  cedars,  into  the  wilder  land- 
scape of  the  well-wooded  undulating  park.  Within,  viewed  by 
the  placid  glimmer  of  the  moon,  the  scene  was  no  less  character- 
istic of  the  abodes  of  that  race  which  has  no  parallel  in  other 
lands,  and  which,  alas  !  is  somewhat  losing  its  native  idiosyn- 
cracies  in  this — the  stout  country  gentleman,  not  the  fine  gentle- 
man of  the  country — the  country  gentleman  somewhat  softened 
and  civilized  from  the  mere  sportsman  or  farmer,  but  still  plain 
and  homely,  relinquishing  the  old  hall  for  the  drawing-room, 
and  with  books  not  three  months  old  on  his  table,  instead  of 
Frfx's  Martyrs  and  Baker's  Chronicle — yet  still  retaining  many  a 
sacred  old  prejudice,  that,  like  the  knots  in  his  native  oak,  rather 
adds  to  the  ornament  of  the  grain  than  takes  from  the  strength 
of  the  tree.  Opposite  to  the  window,  the  high  chimney-piece 
rose  to  the  heavy  cornice  of  the  ceiling,  with  dark  panels  glisten- 
ing against  the  moonlight.  The  broad  and  rather  clumsy  chintz 
sofas  and  settees  of  the  reign  of  George  III.,  contrasted  at  in- 
tervals with  the  tall-backed  chairs  of  a  far  more  distant  genera- 
tion, when  ladies  in  fardingales  and  gentlemen  in  trunk  hose 
seem  never  to  have  indulged  in  horizontal  positions.  The  walls, 
of  shining  wainscot,  were  thickly  covered,  chiefly  with  family 
pictures  ;  though  now  and  then  some  Dutch  fair,  or  battle- 
piece,  showed  that  a  former  proprietor  had  been  less  exclusive 
in  his  taste  for  the  arts.  The  pianoforte  stood  open  near  the 
fire-place  ;  a  long  dwarf  bookcase  at  the  far  end  added  its  sober 
smile  to  the  room.  That  bookcase  contained  what  was  called 
"The  Lady's  Library,"  a  collection  commenced  by  the  Squire's 
grandmother,  of  pious  memory,  and  completed  by  his  m6ther, 
who  had  more  taste  for  the  lighter  letters,  with  but  little  addition 
from  the  bibliomaniac  tendencies  of  the  present  Mrs.  Hazeldean, 
who,  being  ho  great  reader,contented  herself  with  subscribing  to 
the  Book  Club.  In  this  feminine  Bodleian,  the  sermons  collected 
by  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  the  grandmother,  stood  cheek-by-jowl  be- 
side the  novels  purchased  by  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  the  mother. 
"  Mixtaqiie  ridenti  colocasia  fundet  acantho  !  " 


52  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

But,  to  be  sure,  the  novels,  in  spite  of  very  inflammatory  titles, 
such  as  "  Fatal  Sensibility,"  "  Errors  of  the  Heart/'  etc.,  were 
so  harmless,  that  I  doubt  if  the  sermons  could  have  had  much 
to  say  against  their  next-door  neighbors— and  that  is  all  that 
can  be  expected  by  the  best  of  us. 

A  parrot  dozing  on  his  perch — some  gold-fish  fast  asleep  in 
their  glass  bowl — -two  or  three  dogs,  on  the  rug,  and  Flimsey, 
Miss  Jemima's  spaniel,  curled  into  a  ball  on  the  softest  sofa — : 
Mrs.  Hazeldean's  work-table  rather  in  disorder,  as  if  it  had  been 
lately  used — the  St.  James's  Chronicle  dangling  down  from  a 
little  tripod  near  the  Squire's  arm-chair — a  high  screen  of  gilt 
and  stamped  leather  fencing  off  the  card-table;  all  these,  dis- 
persed about  a  room  large  enough  to  hold  them  all  and  not 
seem  crowded,  offered  many  a  pleasant  resting-place  for  the  eye, 
when  it  turned  from  the  world  of  nature  to  the  home  of  man. 

But  see,  Captain  Barnabas,  fortified  by  his  fourth  cup  of  tea, 
has  at  length  summoned  courage  to  whisper  to  Mrs.  Hazeldean, 
"  Don't  you  think  the  Parson  will  be  impatient  for  his  rubber  ? " 
Mrs.  Hazeldean  glanced  at  the  Parson,  and  smiled  ;  but  she  gave 
the  signal  to  the  Captain,  and  the  bell  was  rung,  lights  were 
brought  in,  the  curtains  let  down  ;  in  a  few  moments  more,  the 
group ;had  collected  round  the  card-table.  The  best  of  us  are 
but  human — that  is  not  a  new  truth,  I  confess,  but  yet  people 
forget  it  every  day  of  their  lives— and  I  dare  say  there  are  many 
who  are  charitably  thinking  at  this  very  moment,  that  my  Parson 
ought  not  to  be  playing  at  whist.  All  I  can  say  to  those  rigid 
disciplinarians  is,  "  Everyman  has  his  favorite  sin  :  whist  was 
Parson  Dale's  ! — ladies  and  gentleman,  what  is  yours  ? "  In 
truth,  I  must  not  set  up  my  poor  parson  now-a-days,  as  a  pattern 
parson — it  is  enough  to  have  one  pattern  in  a  village  no  bigger 
than  Hazeldean,  and  we  all  know  that  Lenny  Fairfield  has  be- 
spoken that  place,  and  got  the  patronage  of  the  stocks  for  his 
emoluments !  Parson  Dale  was  ordained,  not  indeed  so  very  long 
ago,  but'rstill  at  a  time  when  churchmen  took  it  a  great  deal  more 
easily  than  they  do  now.  The  elderly  parson  of  that  day  played 
his  rubber  as  a  matter  of  course,  the  middle-aged  parson  was 
sometimes  seen  riding  to  cover  (I  knew  a  schoolmaster,  a  doctor 
of  divinity,  and  an  excellent  man,  whose  pupils  were  chiefly  taken 
from  the  highest  families  in  England,  who  hunted  regularly  three 
times  aweek  during  the  season), and  the  young  parson  would  often 
sing  a  capital  song — not  composed  by  David — and  join  in  those 
rotatory  dances,  wJiichcertainlyDavidneverdancedbeforetheark. 

Does  it  need  so  long  an  exordium  to  excuse  thee,  poor  Parson 
Dale,  for  turning  up  that  ace  of  spades  with  so  triumphant  a 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  53 

smile  at  thy  partner  ?  I  must  own  that  nothing  which  could 
well  add  to  the  Parson's  offence  was  wanting.  In  the  first  place, 
he  did  not  play  charitably,  and  merely  to  oblige  other  people. 
He  delighted  in  the  game — he  rejoiced  in  the  game — his  whole 
heart  was  in  the  game — neither  was  he  indifferent  to  the  mam- 
mon of  the  thing,  as  a  Christian  pastor  ought  to  have  been. 
He  looked  very  sad  when  he  took  his  shillings  out  of  his  purse, 
and  exceedingly  pleased  when  he  put  the  shillings  that  had  just 
before  belonged  to  other  people  into  it.  Finally,  by  one  of  those 
arrangements  common  with  married  people,  who  play  at  the 
same  table,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hazeldean  were  invariably  partners, 
and  no  two  people  could  play  worse  ;  while  Captain  Barnabas, 
who  had  played  at  Graham's  with  honor  and  profit,  necessarily 
became  partner  to  Parson  Dale,  who  himself  played  a  good 
steady  parsonic  game.  So  that,  in  strict  truth,  it  was  hardly 
fair  play — it  was  almost  swindling— the  combination  of  these 
two  great  dons  against  that  innocent  married  couple  !  Mr. 
Dale,  it  is  true,  was  aware  of  this  disproportion  of  force,  and 
had  often  proposed  either  to  change  partners  or  to  give  odds — 
propositions  always  scornfully  scouted  by  the  Squire  and  his 
lady,  so  that  the  Parson  was  obliged  to  pocket  his  conscience,  to- 
gether with  the  ten  points  which  made  his  average  winnings. 

The  strangest  thing  in  the  world  is  the  different  way  in  which 
whist  affects  the  temper.  It  is  no  test  of  temper,  as  some  pre- 
tend— not  at  all  !  The  best-tempered  people  in  the  world  grow 
snappish  dt  whist  ;  and  I  have  seen  the  most  testy  and  peevish 
in  the  ordinary  affairs  of  life  bear  their  losses  with  the  stoicism 
of  Epictetus.  This  was  notably  manifested  in  the  contrast  be- 
tween the  present  adversaries  of  the  Hall  and  Rectory.  The 
Squire,  who  was  esteemed  as  choleric  a  gentleman  as  most  in 
the  country,  was  the  best-humored  fellow  you  could  imagine 
when  you  set  him  down  to  whist  opposite  the  sunny  face  of  his 
wife.  You  never  heard  one  of  those  incorrigible  blunderers 
scold  each  other  ;  on  the  contrary,  they  only  laughed  when  they 
threw  away  the  game,  with  four  by  honors  in  their  hand.  The 
utmost  that  was  ever  said  was  a  "  Well,  Harry,  that  was  the  oddest 
trump  of  yours  !  Ho — ho — ho  !  "  or  "  Bless  me,  Hazeldean — 
why,  they  made  three  tricks  in  clubs,  and  you  had  the  ace  in 
your  hand  all  the  time  !  Ha — ha — ha  !  " 

Upon  which  occasions  Captain  Barnabas,  with  great  good- 
humor,  always  echoed  both  the  Squire's  Ho — ho — ho  !  and  Mrs. 
Hazeldean's  Ha — ha — ha  !  v 

Not  so  the  Parson.  He  had  so  keen  and  sportsmanlike  an 
interest  in  the  game,  that  even  his  adversaries'  mistakes  ruffled 


54  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

him.  And  you  would  hear  him,  with  elevated  voice  and  agi- 
tated gesture,  laying  down  the  law,  quoting  Hoyle,  appealing 
to  all  the  powers  of  memory  and  common  sense  against  the  very 
delinquencies  by  which  he  was  enriched — a  waste  of  eloquence 
that  always  heightened  the  hilarity  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hazeldean. 
While  these  four  were  thus  engaged,  Mrs.  Dale,  who  had  come 
with  her  husband  despite  her  headache,  sat  on  the  sofa  beside 
Miss  Jemima,or  rather  beside  Miss  Jemima's  Flimsey,  which  had 
already  secured  the  center  of  the  sofa,  and  snarled  at  the  very 
idea  of  being  disturbed. 

Master  Frank — at  a  table  by  himself-^-was  employed  some- 
times in  looking  at  his  pumps,  and  sometimes  at  Gilray's  Cari- 
catures, which  his  mother  had  provided  for  his  intellectual  re- 
quirements. Mrs.  Dale  in  her  heart  liked  Miss  Jemima  better 
than  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  of  whom  she  was  rather  in  awe,  notwith- 
standing they  had  been  little  -girls  together,  and  occasionally 
still  called  each  other  Harry  and  Carry.  But  those  tender 
diminutives  belonged  to  the  "Dear"  genus,  and  were  rarely  em- 
ployed by  the  ladies,  except  at  times  when— had  they  been  little 
girls  still,  and  the  governess  out  of  the  way,  they  would  have 
slapped  and  pinched  each  other.  Mrs.  Dale  was  still  a  very 
pretty  woman,  as  Mrs.  Hazeldean  was  still  a  very  fine  woman. 
Mrs,  Dale  painted  in  water  colors,  and  sang,  and  made  card- 
racks  and  pen-holders, and  was  called  an  "  elegant,  accomplished 
woman."  Mrs.  Hazeldean  cast  up  the  Squire's  accounts,  wrote 
the  best  part  of  his  letters,  kept  a  large  establishnient  in  excel- 
lent order,  and  was  called  "  a  clever,  sensible  woman."  Mrs. 
Dale  had  headaches  and  nerves,  Mrs.  Hazeldean  had  neither 
nerves  nor  headaches.  Mrs.  Dale  said  "  Harry  had  no  real  harm 
in  her,  but  was  certainly  very  masculine."  Mrs.  Hazeldean  said 
"  Carry  would  be  a  good  creature  but  for  her  airs  and  graces." 
Mrs.  D*le  said  Mrs  Hazeldean  was  "just  made  to  be  a  country 
squire's  lady."  Mrs.  Hazeldean  said  "  Mrs.  Dale  was  the  last 
person  in  the  world  who  ought  to  have  been  a  parson's  wife." 
Carry,  when  she  spoke  of  Harry  to  a  third  person,  said,  "  Dear 
Mrs.  Hazeldean."  Harry,  when  she  referred  incidentally  to 
Carry,  said  "  Poor  Mrs.  Dale."  And  now  the  reader  knows  why 
Mrs.  Hazeldean  called  Mrs.  Dale  "  poor,"  at  least  as  well  as  I 
do.  For,  after  all,  the  word  belonged  to  that  class  in  the  female 
vocabulary  which  may  be  called  "  obscure  significants,"  re- 
sembling the  Konx  Onvpax,  which  hath  so  puzzled  the  inquirers 
into  the  Elusinian  Mysteries  ;  the  application  is  rather  to  be 
illustrated  than  the  meaning  to  be  exactly  explained. 

"  That's  really  a  sweet  little  dog  of  yo.urs,  Jemima,"  said  Mrs, 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  55 

Dale,  who  was  embroidering  the  word  CAROLINE  on  the  border 
of  a  cambric  pocket-handkerchief,  but  edging  a  little  farther 
off,  as  she  added,  "  he'll  not  bite,  will  he  ? " — "  Dear  me,  no  !  " 
said  Miss  Jemima  ;  but  (she  added  in  a  confidential  whisper) 
"  don't  say  he— 'tis  a  lady  dog  !  "  "  Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Dale,  edg- 
ing off  still  farther,  as  if  that  confession  of  the  creature's  sex  did 
not  serve  to  allay  her  apprehensions — "  Oh,  then,  you  carry  your 
aversion  to  the  gentlemen  even  to  lap-dogs — that  is  being  con- 
sistent, indeed,  Jemima  !  " 

Miss  JEMIMA. — I  had  a  gentleman  dog  once; — a  pug  ! — pugs- 
are  getting  very  scarce  now. — I  thought  he  was  so  fond  erf  me — • 
he  snapped  at  every  one  else — the  battles  I  fought  for  him  ! 
Well,  will  you  believe — I  had  been  staying  with  my  friend,  Miss 
Smilecox,  at  Cheltenham.  Knowing  that  William  is  so  hasty, 
and  his  boots  are  so  thick,  I  trembled  to  think  what  a  kick  might 
do.  So  on  coming  here,  I  left  Buff — that  was  his  name — with 
Miss  Smilecox.  (A  pause.) 

MRS.  DALE  (looking  up  languidly).-^Well,  my  love  ? 

Miss  JEMIMA. — Will  you  believe  it,  I  say,  when  I  returned  to 
Cheltenham,  only  three  months  afterward,.  Miss:  Smilecox  had 
seduced  his  affections  from  me,  and  the  ungrateful  creature  did 
not  even  know  me  again.  A  pug,  too- — yet  people  Joy  pugs  are 
faithful  !  !  !  I  am  sure  they  ought  to  be,  nasty  things.  I  have 
never  had  a  gentleman  dog  since — they  are  all  alike,  believe  me, 
heartless,  selfish  creatures. 

MRS.  DALE. — Pugs  ?     I  dare  say  they  are  ! 

Miss  JEMIMA  (with  spirit). — MEN  ! — 1  told  you  it  was  a  gentle- 
man dog  ! 

MRS.  DALE  (apologetically). — True,  my  love,  but  the  whole 
thing  was  so  mixed  up  ! 

Miss  JEMIMA. — You  saw  that  cold-blooded  case  of  Breach  of 
Promise  of  Marriage  in  the  papers — an  old  wretch,  too,  of  sixty- 
four.  No  age  makes  them  a  bit  better.  And  when  one  thinks 
that  the  end  of  all  flesh  is  approaching,  and  that — 

MRS.  DALE  (quickly,  for  she  prefers  Miss  Jemima's  other 
hobby  to  that  black  one  upon  which  she  is  preparing  to  precede 
the  bier  of  the  universe). — Yes,  my  love,  we'll  avoid  that  subject, 
if  you  please.  Mr.  Dale  has  his  own  opinions,  and  it  becomes 
me,  you  know,  as  a  parson's  wife  (said  smilingly  ;  Mrs.  Dale  has 
as  pretty  a  dimple  as  any  of  Miss  Jemima's,  and  makes  more  of 
that  one  than  Miss  Jemima  of  three),  to  agree  with  him— rthat 
is  in  theology. 

Miss  JEMIMA  (earnestly). — But  the  thing  is  so  clear,  if  you 
will  but  look  into — 


56  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

MRS.  DALE  (putting  her  hand  on  Miss  Jemima's  lips  play- 
fully).— Not  a  word  more.  Pray,  what  do  you  think  of  the 
Squire's  tenant  at  the  Casino,  Signer  Riccabocca?  An  interest- 
ing creature,  is  not  he  ? 

Miss  JEMIMA. — Interesting  !  not  to  me.  Interesting  ?  Why 
is  he  interesting  ? 

Mrs.  Dale  is  silent,  and  turns  her  handkerchief  in  her  pretty 
little  white  hands,  appearing  to  contemplate  the  R  in  Caroline. 

Miss  JEMIMA  (half  pettishly,  half  coaxingly). — Why  is  he  in- 
teresting ?  I  scarcely  ever  looked  at_him  ;  they  say  he  smokes, 
and  never  eats.  Ugly,  too  ! 

MRS.  DALE. — Ugly — no.  A  fine  head — very  like  Dante's — 
but  what  is  beauty  ? 

Miss  JEMIMA. — Very  true  ;  what  is  it,  indeed  ?  Yes,  as  you 
say,  I  think  there  is  something  interesting  about  him  ;  he  looks 
melancholy,  but  that  may  be  because  he  is  poor. 

MRS.  DALE. — It  is  astonishing  how  little  one  feels  poverty 
when  one  loves.  Charles  and  I  were  very  poor  once — rbefore 
the  Squire — (Mrs.  Dale  paused,  looked  toward  the  Squire,  and 
murmured  a  blessing,  the  warmth  of  which  brought  tears  into 
her  eyes). — Yes  (she  added  after  a  pause),  we  were  very  poor, 
but  we  were  happy  even  then — more  thanks  to  Charles  than  to 
me  (and  tears  from  a  new  source  again  dimmed  those  quick, 
lively  eyes,  as  the  little  woman  gazed  fondly  on  her  husband, 
whose  brows  were  knit  into  a  black  frown  over  a  bad  hand.) 

Miss  JEMIMA.— It  is  only  those  horrid  men  who  think  of 
money  as  a  source  of  happiness.  I  should  be  the  last  person 
to  esteem  a  gentleman  less  because  he  was  poor. 

MRS.  DALE. — I  wonder  the  Squire  does  not  ask  Signor  Ricca- 
bocca here  more  often.  Such  an  acquisition  we  find  him  ! 

The  Squire's  voice  from  the  card-table. — "  Whom  ought  I  to 
ask  more  often,  Mrs.  Dale  ?  " 

Parson's  voice,  impatiently. — "  Come — come — come,  Squire; 
play  to  my  queen  of  diamonds — do  !  " 

SQUIRE. — There,  I  trump  it — pick  up  the  trick,  Mrs.  H. 

PARSON. — Stop  !  stop  !  trump  my  diamond  ? 

The  CAPTAIN  (solemnly). — Trick  turned  ;  play  on,  Squire. 

SQUIRE. — The  king  of  diamonds. 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN. — Lord  !  Hazeldean;  why  that's  the  most 
barefaced  revoke — ha — ha — ha  !  trump  the  queen  of  diamonds 
and  play  out  the  king?  well  I  never— ha — ha — ha  ! 

CAPTAIN  BARNABAS  (in  tenor). — Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

SQUIRE. — Ho — ho — ho  !  bless  my  soul  ;  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

CAPTAIN  BARNABAS  (in  base). — Ho — ho — ho  ! 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  57 

Parson's  voice  raised,  but  drowned  by  the  laughter  of  his  ad- 
versaries and  the  firm,  clear  tone  of  Captain  Barnabas — "  Three 
to  our  score  !— game  !  " 

SQUIRE  (wiping  his  eyes). — No  help  for  it,Harry — deal  for  me! 
Whom  ought  I  to  ask,  Mrs.  Dale?  (waxing  angry).  First  time 
I  ever  heard  the  hospitality  of  Hazeldean  called  in  question  ! 

MRS.  DALE. — My  dear  sir,  I  beg  a  thousand  pardons,  but 
listeners — you  know  the  proverb. 

SQUIRE  (growling  like  a  bear). — I  hear  nothing  but  proverbs 
ever  since  we  had  that  Mounseer  among  us.  Please  to  speak 
plainly,  ma'am. 

MRS.  DALE  (sliding  into  a  little  temper  at  being  thus  roughly 
accosted). — It  was  of  Mounseer,  as  you  call  him,  that  I  spoke, 
Mr.  Hazeldean. 

SQUIRE. — What  !  Rickeybockey.  ? 

MRS.  DALE  (attempting  the  pure  Italian  accentuation). — 
Signer  Riccabocca. 

PARSON  (slapping  his  cards  on  the  table  in  despair). — Are 
we  playing  at  whist,  or  are  we  not  ? 

The  Squire,  who  is  fourth  player,  drops  the  king  to  Captain 
Higginbotham's  lead  of  the  ace  of  hearts.  Now  the  Captain  has 
left  queen,  knave,  and  two  other  hearts — four  trumps  to  the 
queen  and  nothing  to  win  a  trick  with  in  the  two  other  suits. 
This  hand  is  therefore  precisely  one  of  those  in  which,  espe- 
cially after  the  fall  of  that  king  of  hearts  in  the  adversary's  hand, 
it  becomes  a  matter  of  reasonable  doubt  whether  to  lead  trumps 
or  not.  The  Captain  hesitates,  and  not  liking  to  play  out  his 
good  hearts  with  the  certainty  of  their  being  trumped  by  the 
Squire,  nor,  on  the  other  hand,  liking  to  open  the  other  suits,  in 
which  he  has  not  a  card  that  can  assist  his  partner,  resolves,  as 
becomes  a  military  man,  in  such  dilemma,  to  make  a  bold  push 
and  lead  out  trumps,  in  the  chance  of  finding^his  partner  strong, 
and  so  bringing  in  his  long  suit. 

SQUIRE"  (taking  advantage  of  the  much  meditating  pause  made 
by  the  Captain). — Mrs.  Dale,  it  is  not  my  fault.  I  have  asked 
Rickeybockey — time  out  of  mind.  But  I  suppose  I  am  not  fine 
enoughfor  those  foreignchaps.  He'll  notcome — that's  all  Iknow. 

PARSON  (aghast  at  seeing  theCaptain  play  out  trumps,of  which 
he,  Mr.  Dale,  has  only  two,  wherewith  he  expects  to  ruff  the  suit 
of  spades  of  which  he  has  onlyone — the  cards  all  falling  in  suits — 
while  he  has  not  a  single  other  chance  of  a  trick  in  his  hand). — 
Really,  Squire,  we  had  better  give  up  playing  if  you  put  out  my 
partner  in  this  extraordinary  way — jabber — jabber — jabber  ! 

SQUIRE. — Well,  we  must  be  good  children,  Harry.     Whai !— ' 


58  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR 

trumps,  Barney  ?  Thank  ye  for  that  !  And  the  Squire  might 
well  be  grateful,  for  the  unfortunate  adversary  has  led  up  to  ace 
king  knave — with  two  other  trumps.  Squire  takes  the  Parson's 
ten  with  his  knave,  and  plays  out  ace  king  ;  then,  having  cleared 
all  the  trumps  except  the  Captain's  queen  and  his  own  remain- 
ing two,  leads  off  tierce  major  in  that  very  suit  of  spades  of 
which  the  Parson  has  only  one — and  the  Captain,  indeed,  but  two 
— forces  out  the  Captain's  queen,  and  wins  the  game  in  a  canter. 

PARSON  (with  a  look  at  the  Captain  which  might  have  become 
the  awful  bfows'-of  Jove,  when  about  to  thunder).' — That,  I  sup- 
pose, is  the  new-fashioned  London  play  !  In  my  time  the  rule 
was,  "  First  save  the  game,  then  try  to  win  it." 

CAPTAIN.— Could  not  save  it,  sir. 

PARSON  (exploding). — Not  save  it  ! — two  ruffs  in  my  own 
hand — two  tricks  certain  till  you  took  them  out  !  Monstrous  ! 
The  rashest  trump-1— Seizes  the  cards— spreads  them  on  the 
table,  lip  quivering,  hands  trembling — tries  to  show  how  five 
tricks  could  have  been  gained — (N.B.  It  is  short  whist,  which 
Captain  Barnabas  had  introduced  at  the  Hall)  can't  make  out 
more  than  four — Captain  smiles  triumphantly — Parson  in  a  pas- 
sion, and  not  at  all  convinced,  mixes  all  the  cards  together 
again,  and  falling  back  in  his  chair,  groans,  with  tears  in  his 
voice — "  The  cruelest  trump  !  the  most  wanton  cruelty  !  " 

The  Hazeldeans  in  chorus: — "  Ho— ho — ho — -!  Ha — ha — ha!" 
.TherCaptain,  who  does  not  laugh  this  time,  and  whose  turn 
it'is  to  deal,  shuffles  the  cards  for  the  conquering  game  of  the 
rubber  with  as  much  caution  'and  prolixity  as  Fabius  might  have 
employed  in  posting  his  men.  The  Squire  gets  up  to  stretch 
his  legs,  and,  the  insinuation  against  his  hospitality  recurring 
to  his  thoughts,  calls  out  to  his  wife — "  Write  to  Rickeybockey 
to-morrow  yourself,  Harry,  and  ask  him  to  come  and  spend 
two  or  three  days  here.  There,  Mrs.  Dale,  you  hear  me  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Dale,  putting  her  hands  to  her  ears  in 
implied  rebuke  at  the  loudness  of  the  Squire's  tone.  "  My  dear 
sir,  do  remember  that  I'm  a  sad  nervous  creature," 

•  'Beg  pardon,"  muttered  Mr.  Hazeldean,  turning  to  his  son, 
who,  having  got  tired  of  the  caricatures,  had  fished  out  for  him- 
self the  great  folio  County  History,  which  was  the  only  book  in 
the  library  that  the  Squire  much  valued,  and  which  he  usually 
kept  under  lock  and  key,  in  his  study,  together  with  the  field- 
books  and  steward's  accounts,  but  which  he  had  reluctantly 
taken  into  the  drawing-room  that  day,  in  order  to  oblige  Cap- 
tain Higginbotham.  For  the  Higginbothams — an  old  Saxon 
family,  as  the  name  evidently  denotes — had  once  possessed 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  59 

lands  in  that  very  county.  And  the  Captain,  during  his  visits 
to  Hazeldean  Hall,  was  regularly  in  the  habit  of  asking  to  1'ook 
into  the  County  History,  for  the  purpose  of  refreshing  his  eyes, 
and  Renovating  his  sense  of  ancestral  dignity,  with  the  following 
paragraph  therein  : — "To  the  left  of  the  village  of  Dunder,  and 
pleasantly  situated  in  a  hollow,  lies  Botham  Hall,  the  residence 
of  the  ancient  family  of  Higginbotham,  as  it  is  now  commonly 
called.  Yet  it  appears  by  the  county  rolls,  and  sundry  old 
deeds,  that  the  family  formerly  styled  itself  Higges,  till  the 
Manor  House  lying  in  Botham,  they  gradually  assumed  the 
appellation  of  Higges-in-Botham,  and  in  process  of  time,  yield- 
ing to  the  corruptions  of  the  vulgar,  Higginbotham." 

"  What,  Frank  !  my  County  History  !"  :  cried  the  Squire. 
"Mrs.  H.,  he  has  got  my  County  History  !  " 

"  Well,  Hazeldean, it  is  time  lie  should  know  something  about 
the  County." 

"  Ay,  and  History  too,"  said  Mrs.  Dale  malevolently,  for  the 
little: temper  was  by  no  means  blown  over. 

FRANK. —  I'll  not  hurt  it,  I  assure  you,  sir.  But  I'm  very 
much  interested  just  at  present. 

The  Captain  (putting  down  the  cards  to  cut). — You've  got 
hold  of  that  passage  about  Botham  Hall,  page  706,  eh  ? 

FRANK. — No  ;  I  was  trying  to  make  out  how  far  it  is  to  Mr. 
Leslie's  place,  Rood  HalK  Do  you  know,  mother  ? 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN. — I  can't  say  I  do.  The  Leslies  don't  mix 
with  the  county  ;  and  Rood  lies  very  much  out  of  the  way. 

FRANK. — Why  don't  they  mix  with  the  county  ? 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN. — I  believe  they  are  poor,  and  therefore  I 
suppose  they  are  proud  ;  they  are  an  old  family. 

PARSON  (thrumming  on  the  table  with  great  impatience).— 
Old  Fiddiedee  !— taking  of  old  families  when  the  cards  have 
been  shuffled  this  half-hour  ! 

CAPTAIN  BARNABAS. — Will  you  cut  for  your  partner,  ma'am  ? 

SQ.UIRE  (who  has  been  listening  to  Frank's  inquiries  with  a 
musing  air).- — Why  do  you  want 'to  know  the  distance  to  Rood 
Hall? 

FRANK  (rather  hesitatingly). — Because  Randal  Leslie  is  there 
for  the  holidays,  sir. 

PARSON.— Your  wife  has  cut  for  you,  Mr.  Hazeldean  ;  I  don't 
think  it  was  quite  fair  ;  and  my  partner  has  turned  up  a  deuce — 
deuce  of  hearts.  Please  to  come  and  play,  if  you  mean  to  play. 

The  Squire  returns  to  the  table,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  game 
is,  decided  by  a  dexterous  finesse  of  the  Captain  against  the 
Haze/deans.  The  clock  strikes  ten;  the  servants  enter  with  a 


60  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

tray  ;  the  Squire  counts  up  his  own  and  his  wife's  losings  ;  and 
the  Captain  and  Parson  divide  sixteen  shillings  between  them. 

SQUIRE. — There,  Parson,  I  hope  now  you'll  be  in  a  better 
humor.  You  win  enough  out  of  us  to  set  up  a  coach-and-four. 

"  Tut !  "  muttered  the  Parson  ;  "  at  the  end  of  the  year,  I'm 
not  a  penny  the  richer  for  it  all." 

And  indeed, monstrous  as  that  assertion  seemed,  it  was  perfectly 
true,  for  the  Parson  portioned  out  his  gains  into  three  divisions. 
One-third  he  gave  to  Mrs.  Dale,  for  her  own  special  pocket- 
money  ;  what  became  of  the  second  third  he  never  owned  even 
to  his  better  half  ;  but  certain  it  was,  that  every  time  the  Parson 
won  seven-and-sixpence,  half-a-crown,  which  nobody  could 
account  for,  found  its  way  to  the  poor-box  ;  while  the  remaining 
third  the  Parson,  it  is  true,  openly  and  avowedly  retained  ;  but 
I  have  no  manner  of  doubt  that,  at  the  year's  end,  it  got  to  the 
poor  quite  as  safely  as  if  it  had  been  put  into  the  box. 

The  party  had  now  gathered  round  the  tray,  and  were  helping 
themselves  to  wine  and  water,  or  wine  without  water — except 
Frank,  who  still  remained  poring  over  the  map  in  the  County 
History,  with  his  head  leaning  on  his  hands,  and  his  ringers 
plunged  in  his  hair. 

"  Frank,"  said  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  "  I  never  saw  you  so  studious 
before." 

Frank  started  up  and  colored,  as  if  ashamed  of  being  accused 
of  too  much  study  in  anything. 

The  SQUIRE  (with  a  little  embarrassment  in  his  voice). — 
Pray,  Frank,  what  do  you  know  of  Randal  Leslie  ? 

"  Why,  sir,  he  is  at  Eton." 

"  What  sort  of  a  boy  is  he  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Hazeldean. 

Frank  hesitated,  as  if  reflecting,  and  then  answered, — "  They 
say  he  is  the  cleverest  boy  in  the  school.  But  then  he  saps." 

"  In  other  words,"  said  Mr.  Dale,  with  proper  parsonic  gravity, 
"  he  understands  that  he  was  sent  to  school  to  learn  his  lessons, 
and  he  learns  them.  You  call  that  sapping, — I  call  it  doing  his 
duty.  But,  pray,  who  and  what  is  this  Randal  Leslie,  that  you 
look  so  discomposed,  Squire  ?" 

"  Who  and  what  is  he  ? "  repeated  the  Squire,  in  a  low  growl. 
"  Why,  you  know,  Mr.  Audley  Egerton  married  Miss  Leslie,  the 
great  heiress  ;  and  this  boy  is  a  relation  of  hers.  -T  may  say," 
added  the  Squire,  "  that  he  is  a  near  relation  of  mine,  for  his 
grandmother  was  a  Hazeldean.  But  all  I  know  about  the  Leslies 
is,  that  Mr.  Egerton,  as  I  am  told,  having  no  children  of  his 
own,  took  up  young  Randal  (when  his  wife  died,  poor  woman), 
pays  for  his  schooling,  and  has,  I  suppose,  adopted  the  boy  as- 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  6l 

his  heir.  Quite  welcome.  Frank  and  I  want  nothing  from  Mr. 
A'udley  Egerton,  thank  Heaven  !  " 

"I  can  well  believe  in  your  brother's  generosity  to  his  wife's 
kindred,"  said  the  Parson  sturdily,  "  for  I  am  sure  Mr.  Egerton 
is  a  man  of  strong  feeling." 

"  What  the  deuce  do  you  know  about  Mr.  Egerton  ?  I  don't 
suppose  you  could  ever  have  even  spoken  to  him." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Parson,  coloring  up,  and  looking  confused, 
"  I  had  some  conversation  with  him  once  ";  and  observing  the 
Squire's  surprise,  he  added, — "  when  I  was  curate  at  Lansmere, 
and  about  a  painful  business  connected  with  the  family  of  one 
of  my  parishioners." 

"  Oh  !  one  of  your  parishioners  at  Lansmere, — one  of  the  con- 
stituents Mr.  Audley  Egerton  threw  over,  after  all  the  pains  I 
had  taken  to  get  him  his  seat.  Rather  odd  you  should  never 
have  mentioned  this  before,  Mr.  Dale  !  " 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  the  Parson,  sinking  his  voice,  and  in  a 
mild  tone  of  conciliatory  expostulation,  "  you  are  so  irritable 
whenever  Mr.  Egerton's  name  is  mentioned  at  all." 

"  Irritable  ?  "  exclaimed  the  Squire,  whose  wrath  had  long 
been  simmering,  and  now  fairly  boiled  over.  "  Irritable,  sir  ! — 
I  should  think  so  ;  a  man  for  whom  I  stood  godfather  at  the 
hustings,  Mr.  Dale  ! — a  man  for  whose  sake  I  was  called  a '  prize 
ox,'  Mr.  Dale  ! — a  man  for  whom  I  was  hissed  at  in  a  market- 
place, Mr.  Dale  ! — a  man  for  whom  I  was  shot  at,  in  cold  blood, 
by  an  officer  in  his  Majesty's  service,  who  lodged  a  ball  in  my 
right  shoulder,  Mr.  Dale  ! — a  man  who  had  the  ingratitude,  after 
all  this,  to  turn  his  back  on  the  landed  interest, — to  deny  that 
there  was  any  agricultural  distress  in  a  year  which  broke  three  of 
the  best  farmers  I  ever  had,  Mr.  Dale  ! — a  man,  sir,  who  made  a 
speech  on  the  Currency,  which  was  complimented  by  Ricardo, 
a  Jew  !  Good  Heavens  !  a  pretty  parson  you  are,  to  stand  up 
for  a  fellow  complimented  by  a  Jew  !  Nice  ideas  you  must 
have  of  Christianity.  Irritable,  sir  ? "  now  fairly  roared  the 
Squire,  adding  to  the  thunder  of  his  voice  the  cloud  of  a  brow 
which  evinced  a  menacing  ferocity  that  might  have  done  honor 
to  Bussy  d'Amboise  or  Fighting  Fitzgerald.  u  Sir,  if  that  man 
had  not  been  my  own  half-brother,  I'd  have  called  him  out. 
I  have  stood  my  ground  before  now.  I  have  had  a  ball  in  my 
right  shoulder.  Sir,  I'd  have  called  him  out." 

"Mr.  Hazeldean ! — ;Mr.  Hazeldean !  I'm  shocked  at  you,  •'  cried 
the  Parson,  and,  putting  his  lips  close  to  the  Squire's  ear,  he  went 
on  in  a  whisper, — "What  an  example  to  your  son!  You'll  have  him 
fighting  duels  oneof  thesedays,andnobody  toblamebutyourself." 


62  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

This  warning  cooled  Mr.  Hazeldean  ;  and  muttering,  "  Why 
the  deuce  did  you  set  me  off  ?  "  he  fell  back  into  his  chair,  and 
began  to  fan  himself  with  his  pocket-handkerchief. 

The  parson  skillfully  and  remorselessly  pursued  the  advan- 
tage he  had  gained.  "And  now,  that  you  may  have  it  in  your 
power  to  show  civility  and  kindness  to  the  boy  whom  Mr.  Eger- 
ton  has  taken  up.  out  of  respect  to  his  wife's  memory — a  kins- 
man, you  say,  of  your  own,— and  who  has  never  offended  you, — 
a  boy  whose  diligence  in  his  studjes  proves  him  to  be  an  ex- 
cellent companion  to  yopr  son — Frank  (here  the  parson  raised 
his  voice),  I  suppose  you  would  like  to  call  on  young  Leslie,  as 
you  were  studying  the  county  map  so  attentively  ?" 

."  Why,  yes,"  answered  Frank,  rather,  timidly,  "  if  my  father 
does  not  object  to  it.  Leslie  has  been  very  kind  to  me,  though 
he  is  in  the  sixth  form, and, indeed,-almost  the  head  of  the  school." 

"Ah  !  "  said  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  "one  studious  boy  has  a  fellow- 
feeling  for  another  ;  and  though  you  enjoy  your  holidays,  Frank, 
I  am  sure  you  read  hard  at  school." 

Mrs.  Dale  openedhereyes  very  wide,  and  stared  in  astonishment. 

Mrs.  Hazeldean  retorted  that  look  with  great  animation. 
"  Yes,  Carry,"  said  she,  tossing  her  head,  "  though  jwf  in  ay  not 
think  Frank  clever,  his  masters  find  him  so.  He  got  a  prize 
last  half.  That  beautiful-book,  Frank— hold  up  your  head,  my 
love,— ywhat  did  you  .get  it  for  ?." 

FRANK  (reluctantly). — Verses,  ma'am. ; 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN  (with  triumph). — Verses  ! — there,  Carry, 
verses  ! 

FRANK(in  a  hurried  tone). — Yes,but  Leslie  wrote  them  for  me. 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN  (recoiling). — Oh,  Frank  !  a  prize  for  what 
another  did  for  you — that  was  mean. 

FRANK  (ingenuously). — You  can't  be  more  ashamed,  mother, 
than  I  was  when  they  gave  me  the  prize. 

MRS.  DALE  (though  previously  provoked  at  being  snubbed 
by  Harry,  now  showing  the  triumph  of  generosity  over  temper). 
— I  beg  your  pardon,  Frank.  Your  mother  must  be  as  proud 
of  thatdiame  as  she  was  of  the  prize. 

Mrs.: Hazeldean  puts  her  arm  round  Frank's  neck,  smiles 
beamingly  on  Mrs.  Dale,  and  converses  with  her  son  in  a  low 
tone  about  Randal  Leslie.  Miss  Jemima  no,w  approached  Carry, 
and  said  in  an  "  aside,"- — "But  we  are  forgetting  poor  Mr.  Ricca- 
bocca.  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  though  the  dearest  creature  in  the 
world,  has  such  a  blunt  way  of  inviting  people— don't  you  think 
if  you  were  to  say  a  word  to  him,  Carry  ? " 

MRS.  DALE  (kindly,  as  she  wraps  her  shawl  round  her). — Sup- 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  63 

pose  you  write  the  note  yourself.  Meanwhile,  I  shall  see  him,  no 
doubt. 

PARSOH (putting  his  hand  on  the  Squire's  shoulder). — You  for- 
give my  impertinence,  my  kind  friend.  We  parsons,  you  know,  are 
apt  to  take  strange  liberties,  when  wehonorand  love  folks, as  I  do. 

"  Pish,"  said  the  Squire  ;  but  his  hearty  smile  came  to  his  lips 
in  spite  of  himself. — "  You  always  get  your  own  way,  and  I  sup- 
pose Frank  must  ride  over  and  see  this  pet  of  my — " 

"'jBroiner  s"  quoth  the  Parson, concluding  the  sentence  in  a  tone 
which  gave  tothesweetwordsosweetasoundthattheSquirewould 
not  correct  the  Parson,  as  he  had  been  about  to  correct  himself. 

Mr.  Dale  moved  on  ;  but  as  he  passed  Captain  Barnabas,  the 
benignant  character  of  his  countenance  changed  sadly. 

"  The  cruelest  trump,  Captain  Higginbotharn  !  ".  said'  he 
sternly,  and  stalked  by — majestic. 

The  night  was  so  fine  that  the  Parson  and  his  wife,  as  they 
walked  home,  made  a  little  detour  through  the  shrubbery. 

M  RS.  DALE. — I  think  I  have  done  a  good  piece  of  work  to-night. 

PARSON  (rousing  himself  from  a  reverie). — Have  you, 
Carry  ?— it  will  be  a  very  pretty  handkerchief.. 

MRS.  DALE. — Handkerchief  !— nonsense,  dear.  Don't  you 
think  it  would  be  a  very  happy  thing  for  both,  if  Jemima  and 
Signor  Riccabocca  could  be  brought  together  ! 

PARSON. — Brought  together.! 

MRS.  DALE. — You  do  snap  up  one  so,  my  dear — I  mean,  if  I 
could  make  a  match  of  it. 

PARSON. — I  think  P>iccabocca  is  a  match  already,  not  only 
for  Jemima,  but  yourself  into  the  bargain. 

MRS.  DALE  (smiling  loftily). — Well,  we  shall  see.  Was  not 
Jemima's  fortune  about  ^4000  ! 

PARSON  (dreamily,  for  he.  is  relapsing  fast  into  his  interrupted 
reverie).— Ay — ay-r- 1  dare  say.  . 

MRS.  DALE. — And  she  miist  have  saved  !  I  dare  say  it  is 
nearly  ^6000  by  this  time  ;— eh  !  Charles  dear,  you  really 
are  so— good  gracious,  what's  that ! 

As  Mrs.  Dale  made  this  exclamation,  they  had  just  emerged 
from  the  shrubbery  into  the  village  green. 

PARSON. — What's  what? 

MRS.  DALE  (pinching  her  husband's  arm  very  nippingly). — 
That  thing — there — there  ! 

PARSON. — Only  the  new  stocks,  Carry  ;  I  don't  wonder  they 
frighten  you,  for  you  are  a  very  sensible  woman.  I  only  wish 
they  would  frighten  the  Squire. 


64  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

SUPPOSED  TO  BE  A  LETTER  FROM  MRS.  HAZELDEAN  TO  A.  RICCA- 
BOCCA,  ESQ.,  THE  CASINO  ;  BUT  EDITED,  AND  INDEED  COM- 
POSED, BY  MISS  JEMIMA  HAZELDEAN. 

"  DEAR  SIR, — To  a  feeling  heart  it  must  always  be  painful  to 
give -pain  to  another,  and  (though  I  am  sure  unconsciously)  you 
have  given  the  greatest  pain  to  poor  Mr.  Hazeldean  and  myself, 
indeed  to  rt//our  little  circle,  in  so  cruelly  refusing  our  attempts  to 
become  better  acquainted  with  a  gentleman  we  so  highly  ESTEEM. 
Do,  pray,  dear  sir,  make  us  the  amende  honorable,  and  give  us  the 
pleasure  of  your  company  for  a  few  days  at  the  Hall !  May  we 
expect  you  Saturday  next  ? — our  dinner  hour  is  six  o'clock. 

"  With  the  best  compliments  of  Mr.  and  Miss  Jemima  Hazel- 
dean,  Believe  me,  my  dear  Sir,  yours  truly, 

"  Hazeldean  Hall.  H.  H." 

Miss  Jemima  having  carefully  sealed  this  note,  which  Mrs. 
Hazeldean  had  very  willingly  deputed  her  to  write,  tpok  it  her- 
self into  the  stable-yard,  in  order  to  give  the  groom  proper 
instructions  to  wait  for  an  answer.  But  while  she  was  speaking 
to  the  man,  Frank,  equipped  for  riding  with  more  than  his  usual 
dandyism,  came  into  the  yard,  calling  for  his  pony  in  a  loud  voice, 
and  singling  out  the  very  groom  whom  Miss  Jemima  was  address- 
ing— for,  indeed,  he  was  the  smartest  of  all  in  the  Squire's  stables 
— told  him  to  saddle  the  gray  pad,  and  accompany  the  pony. 

"No,  Frank,"  said  Miss  Jemima,  " you  can't  have  George  ; 
your  father  wants  him  to  go  on  a  message — you  can  take  Mat." 

"  Mat,  indeed  !"  said  Frank,  grumbling  with  some  reason  ; 
for  Mat  was  a  surly  old  fellow,  who  tied  a  most  indefensible 
neckcloth,  and  always  contrived  to  have  a  great  patch  in  his 
boots  ;— besides,  he  called  Frank  "  Master,"  and  obstinately 
refused  to  trot  down  hill  ; — "  Mat,  indeed  !— let  Mat  take  the 
message,  and  George  go  with  me." 

But  Miss  Jemima  had  also  her  reasons  for  rejecting  Mat.  Mat's 
foible  was  not  servility,  and  he  always  showed  true  English  in- 
dependence in  all  houses  where  he  was  not  invited  to  take  his 
ale  in  the  servant's  hall.  Mat  might  offend  Signor  Riccabocca, 
and  spoil  all.  An  animated  altercation  ensued,  in  the  midst  of 
which  the  Squire  and  hiswife  entered  the  yard,  with  the  intention 
of  driving  in  the  conjugal  gig  to  the  market-town.  The  matter 
was  referred  to  the  natural  umpire  by  both  the  contending  parties. 

The  Squire  looked  with  great  contempt  on  his  son.  "And 
what  did  you  want  a  groom  at  all  for  !  Are  you  afraid  of  tum- 
bling off  the  pony  ?  " 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  65 

FRANK. — No,  sir  ;  but  I  like  to  go  as  a  gentleman,  when  I 
pay  a  visit  to  a  gentleman  ? 

SQUIRE  (in  high  wrath). — You  precious  puppy  !  I  think  I'm 
as  good  a  gentleman  as  you  any  day,  and  I  should  like  to  know 
when  you  ever  saw  me  ride  to  call  on  a  neighbor  with  a  fellow 
jingling  at  ray  heels,  like  that  upstart  Ned  Spaokie,  whose  father 
kept  a  cotton-mill.  First  time  I  ever  h.eardvof  a  Hazeldean 
thinking  a  livery-coat  was  necessary  to  prove  his  gentility  ! 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN  (observing  Frank  coloring,  and  about  to 
reply). — Hush,  Frank,  never  answer  your  father — and  you  are 
going  to  call  on  Mr.  Leslie  ? 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  and  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  my  father  for 
letting  me,"  said  Frank,  taking  the  Squire's  hand. 

"Well,  but  Frank,"  continued  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  "I  think 
you  heard  that  the  Leslies  were  very  poor." 

FRANK. — Eh,  mother  ? 

MRS.H  AZELDEAN. — And  would  you  run  the  chance  of  wound- 
ing the  pride  of  a  gentleman,  as  well  born  as  yourself,  by  affect- 
ing any  show  of  being  richer  than  he  is  ? 

SQUIRE  (with  great  admiration). — Harry,  I'd  give  ten  pounds 
to  have  said  that  ! 

FRANK  (leaving  the  Squire's  hand  to  take  his  mother's). — 
You're  quite  right,  mother — nothing  could  be  more  snobbish  ! 

SQUIRE. — Give  us  your  fist,  top,  sir  ;  you'll  be  a  chip  of  the 
old  block,  after,  all. 

Frank  smiled,  and  walked  off  to  his  pony. 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN  (to  Miss  Jemima). — Is  that  the  note  you 
were  to  write  for  me  ? 

Miss  JEMIMA. — Yes  ;  I  supposed  you  did  not  care  about  see- 
ing it,  so  I  have  sealed  it,  and  given  it  to  George. 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN.— But  Fr,ank  will  pass  close  by  the  Casino 
on  his  way  to  the  Leslies'.  It  may  be  more  civil  if  he  leaves 
the  note  himself. 

Miss  JEMIMA  (hesitatingly). — Do  you  think  so  ? 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN.— Yes,  certainly.  Frank — Frank-— as  you 
pass  by  the  Casino,  call  on  Mr.  Riccabocca,  give  this  note  and 
say  we  shall  be  heartily  glad  if  he  will  come. 

Frank  nods. 

"  Stop  a  bit,"  cried  the  Squire.  "If  Rickeybockey's  at  home, 
'tis  ten  to  one  if  he  don't  ask  you  to  take  a  glass  of  wine  !  If  he 
does,  mind.,  'tis  worse  than  asking  you  to  take  a  turn  on  the  rack. 
Faugh!  you  remember,Harry  ?— I  thought  it  was  all  up  with  me." 

"  Yes,"  cried  Mrs.  Hazeldean  ;  "  for  Heaven's  sake,  not  a 
Wine,  indeed  !  " 


66  MY    NOVEL  •    ORj 

"  Don't  talk  of  it,"  cried  the  Squire,  making  a  wry  face. 

"I'll  take  care,  sir!"  said  Frank,  laughing  as  he  disappeared 
within  the  stable,  followed  by  Miss  Jemima,  who  now  coaxingly 
makes  it  up  with  him,  and  does  not  leave  off  her  admonitions 
to  be  extremely  pojite  to  the  poor  foreign  gentleman  till  Frank 
gets  his  foot  into  the  stirrup,  and  the  pony,  who  knows  whom 
he  has  got  to  deal  with,  gives  a  preparatory  plunge  or  two,  and 
then  darts  out  of  the  yard. 


BOOK  SECOND.— INITIAL  CHAPTER. 

INFORMING     THE    READER    HOW     THIS    WORK    GAME    TO.  HAVE 
INITIAL  CHAPTERS. 

"  THERE  can't  be  a  doubt,"  said  my  father,  "  that  to  each  of 
the  main  divisions  of  your  work — whether  you  call  them  Books 
or  Parts — you  should  prefix  an  Initial  or  Introductory  Chapter." 

PISISTRATUS. — Can't  be  a  doubt,  sir  !     Why  so  ? 

MR.  CAXTON. — Fielding  lays  it  down  as  an  indispensable 
rule,  which  he  supports  by  his  example  ;  and  Fielding  was  an 
artistical  writer,  and  knew  what  he  was  about. 

PISISTRATUS.— Do  you  remember  any  of  his  reasons,  sir  ? 

MR.  CAXTON. — Why,  indeed,  Fielding  says  very  justly,that  he 
is  not  bound  to  assign  any  reason  ;  but  he  does  assign  a  good 
many,  here  and  there — to  find  which,  I  refer  you  to  Tom  Jones. 
I  will  only  observe,  that  one  of  his  reasons,  which  is  unanswer- 
able, funs  to  the  effect  that  thus,  in  every  Part  or  Book,  the 
reader  has  the  advantage  of  beginning  at  the  fourth  or  fifth  page 
instead  of  the  first — "  a  matter  by  no  means  of  trivial  conse- 
quence," saith  Fielding,  "  to  persons  who  read  books  with  no 
other  view  than  to  say  they  have  read  them — a  more  general 
motive  to  reading  than  is  commonly  imagined;  and  from  which 
not  only  law  books  and  good  books,  but  the  pages  of  Homer 
and  Virgil,  of  Swift  and  Cervantes,  have  been  often  turned 
over."  There,  cried  my  father  triumphantly;  I  will  lay  a  shill- 
ing to  twopence  that  I  have  quoted  the  very  words.  : 

MRS.  CAXTON. — Dear  me!  that  only  means  skipping;  I  don't 
see  any  great  advantage  in  writing  a  chapter,  merely  for  people 
to  skip  it. 

PISISTRATUS. — Neither  do  I. 

MR.CAXTON(dogmatically). — It  is  the  repose  in  the  picture-^- 
Fielding  calls  it  "  contrast  " — (still  more  dogmatically)  I  say 
there  can't  be  a  doubt  about  it.  Besides  (added  my  father 
after  a  pause),  besides,  this  usage  gives  you  opportunities  to  ex- 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  67 

plain  what  has  gone  before,  or  to  prepare  for  what's  coming  ; 
or  since  Fielding  contends,  with  great  truth,  that  some  learning 
is  necessary  for  this  kind  of  historical  composition,  it  allows  you, 
naturally  and  easily,  the  introduction  of  light  and  pleasant  orna- 
ments of  that  nature.  At  each  flight  in  the  terrace,  you  may  give 
the  eye  the  relief  of  an  urn  or  a  statue.  Moreover,  when  so  in- 
clined,you  create  proper  pausing  places  for  reflection ;  and  com- 
plete by  a  separate,  yet  harmonious  ethical  department,  the  de- 
sign of  a  work,  which  is  but  a  mere  Mother  Goose's  tale  if  it  does 
notembraceageneralviewof  thethoughtsand  actionsof  mankind. 

PISISTRATUS. — But  then,  in  these  initial  chapters,  the  author 
thrusts  himself.forward  ;  and  just  when  you  want  to  get  on  with 
the  dramatis  persona,  you  find  yourself  face  to  face  with  the 
poet  himself. 

MR.  CAXTON. — Pooh  !  you  can  try  to  prevent  that  !  Imitate 
the  chorus  of  the  Greek  stage,  who  fill  up  the  intervals  between 
the  action  by  saying  what  the  author  would  otherwise  say  in 
his  own  person. 

PISISTRATUS  (slily).— That's  a  good  idea,  sir  ;  and  I  have  a 
chorus,  and  a  choregus  too,  already  in  my  eye. 

MR.  CAXTON  (unsuspectingly). — Aha  !  you  are  not  so  dull  a 
fellow  as  you  would  make  yourself  out  to  be  ;  and,  even  if  an 
author  did  thrust  himself  forward,  what  objection  is  there  to 
that  ?  It  is  a  mere  affectation  to  suppose  that  a  book  can  come 
into  the  world  without  an  author.  Every  child  has  a  father — 
one  father  at  least,  as  the  great  Conde  says  very  well  in  his  poem. 

PISISTRATUS. — The  great  Conde  a  poet ! — I  never  heard  that 
before. 

MR.  CAXTON. — I  don't  say  he  was  a  poet,  but  he  sent  a  poem 
to  Madame  de  Montansier.  Envious  critics  think  that  he  must 
have  paid  somebody  else  to  write  it ;  but  there  is  no  reason 
why  a  great  captain  should  not  write  a  poem  ;  I  don't  say  a  good 
poem,  but  a  poem.  I  wonder,  Roland,  if  the  Duke  ever  tried 
his  hand  at "  Stanzas  to  Mary,"  or  "  Lines  to  a  sleeping  babe." 

CAPTAIN  ROLAND. — Austin,  I'm  ashamed  of  you.     Of  course 
the  Duke  could  write  poetry  if  he  pleased — something,  I  dare 
say,  in  the  way  of  the  great  Conde"  ;  that  is  something  warlike 
and  heroic,  I'll  be  bound.     Let's  hear. 
MR.  CAXTON  (reciting). — 

"  Telle  est  du  Ciel  la  loi  severe 
Qu'il  faut  qu'un  enfant  ait  un  pere  ; 
On  dit  meme  quelquefois 
Tel  enfant  en  a  jusqu'i  trois."* 

*  Paraphrase: —        "  That  each  child  has  a  father  But  to  judge  by  a  rumor, 

Is  Nature's  decree  •  Some  children  have  thr«e.M 


68  M¥    No\nEL  ;    OR, 

CAPTAIN  ROLAND  (greatly  disgusted). — Conde  write  such 
stuff  ! — I  don't  believe  it. 

PISISTRATUS.— I  do,  and  accept   the  quotation;    you   and 
Roland  shall  be  joint  fathers  to  my  child  as  well  as  myself. 
t  "  Tel  enfant  en  a  jusqu'a  trois." 

MR. CAXTON (solemnly).— Irefusethe  proffered  paternity;  but 
sofarasadministeringa  little  wholesome  castigation,  now  and  then, 
I  have  no  objection  to  join  in  the  discharge  of  a  father's  duty: 

PISISTRATUS, — Agree'd.  Have  you  anything  to  say  against 
the  infant  hitherto  ? 

MR.  CAXTON. — He  is  in  long  clothes  at  present  ;  let  us  wait 
till  he  can  walk. 

'  BLANCHE. — -But  pray,  whom  do  you  mean  for  a  hero-* — and 
is  Miss  Jemima  your  heroine  ? 

CAPTAIN  ROLAND. — There  is  some  mystery  about  the — 

PISISTRATUS  (hastily).-— Hush, -uncle;  no  letting  the  cat  but 
of  the  bag  yet.  Listen  all  of  you  !  I  teft  Frank  Hazeldean  on 
his  way  to  the  Casino. 

rTTAPTFTJ    TT 
CHAI  1EKI1. 

"IT  is  a  sweet,  pretty  place,"  thought  Frank,  asJie  opened 
•the  gate  which  led' across  the  fields  to  the  Casino,  that  smiled 
down  upon  him  with  its  plaster  pilasters.  "  I  wonder,  though, 
that  my  father,  who  is  so  particular  in  general,  suffers  the 
carriage-road  to  be  so-full  of  holes  and  weeds.  Mounseer  does 
not  receive  many  visits,  I  take  it."  > 

But  when  Frank  .got  into  the  ground  immediately  ;before  the 
house,  he  saw  no  cause  of  complaint  as  to  want  of  order  and  re- 
pair. Nothing  could  be  kept  more  neatly,  f  Frank  was  ashamed 
of  the  dint  make  by  the  pony's  hoofs  in  the  smooth  gravel ;  he 
dismounted,  tied  the  animal  to  the  wicket,  and  .went  on  foot  to- 
ward the  glass-idoor  in  front. 

He  rang  the  bell  once,  twice^  but  nobody  came,  for  the  old 
woman-servant,  who  was'hard  o,f  hearing,  was  far  away  in  the 
yard,  searching  for  any  eggs,  which  the  hen  might  have  scan- 
dalously hidden  from  culinary  purposes  ;  and  Jackeymo  wias 
fishing  for  the  sticklebacks  and  minnows,  which  were,  when 
caught,  to  assist  the  eggs,  when  found,  in  keeping  together  the 
bodies  and  souls  of  himself  and  his  master.  The  old  woman  had 
been  lately  putupon  board-wages— -luckyold,  woman!  Frank  rang 
a  third  time,  and  with  the  impetuosity  of  his  .age.  A  face  peeped 
from  the  belvidere  on  the  terrace.  "  Diavolp!"  said  Dr.  Ricca- 
bocca  to  himself.  "Youngcoc'kscrowhard  on  theirown  dunghill; 
it. must  be  acock  of  a  high  race  to  crow  so  loud  at  another's." 


VARIETIES    iN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  69 

Therewith  he  shambled  out  of  the  summer-house,  and  appear- 
ed suddenly  before  Frank,  in  a  very  wizard-like  dressing-robe 
of  black  serge,  a  red  cap  on  his  head,  and  a  cloud  of  smoke 
coming  rapidly  from  his  lips,  as  a  final  consolatory  whiff,  before 
he  removed  the  pipefrom  them.  Frank  had  indeed  seen  the  doc- 
tor before,  but  never  in  so  scholastic  a  costume,  and  he  was  a 
little  startled  by  the  apparition  at  his  elbow,  as  he  turned  round. 

"  Signorino  "  (young  gentleman),  said  the  Italian,  taking  off 
his  cap  with  his  usual  urbanity,  "  pardon  the  negligence  of  my 
people^— I  am  too  happy  to  receive  your  commands  in  person." 

"  Dr.  Rickeybockey  ?  "  stammered  Frank,  much  confused  by 
this  polite  address,  and  the  low,yet  stately,  bow  with'which  it  was 
accompanied.  "  I — I  have  a  ftote  from  the  Hall.  Mamma — 
that  is,  my  mother — and  Aunt  Jemima  beg  their  best  compli- 
ments, and  hope  you  will  come,  sir." 

The  doctor  took  the  note  with  another  bow,  and,  opening  the 
glass  door, 'invited  Frank  to  enter.  -  ; 

The  young  gentleman,  with  schoolboy's  usual  bluntness,  was 
about  to  say  that  he  was  in  a  hurry,  and  had  rather  not  ;  but  Dr. 
Riccabocca's  grand  manner  awed  him,  while  a  glimpse  of  the 
hall  excited  his  curiosity — so  he  silently  obeyed  the  invitation. 

The  hall,  which  w*as  of  an  octagon  shape,  had  been  originally 
panelled  off  into  compartments,  and  in  these  the  Italian  had 
painted  landscapes,  rich  with  the  warm  sunny  light  of  his  native 
climate.  Frank  was  no  judge  of  the  art  displayed  ;  but  he  was 
greatly  struck  with  the  scenes  depicted  ;  they  were  all  views  of 
some  lake,  real  or  imaginary— in  all,  dark-blue  shining  waters 
reflected  dark-blue  placid  skies.  In  one,  a  flight  of  steps  de- 
scended to  the  lake,  and  a  gay  group  was  seen  feasting  on  the 
margin  ;  in  another,  sunset  threw  its  rose-hues  over  a  vast  villa 
or  palace,  backed  by  Alpine  hills,  and  flanked  by  long  arcades 
of  vines,  while  pleasure-boats  skimmed  over  the  waves  below.  In. 
short,  throughout  all  the  eight  compartments,  the  scene,  though 
it  differed  in  details,  preserved  the  same  general  character,  as 
if  illustrating  some  favorite  locality.  The  Italian  did  not,  how- 
ever, evince  any  desire  to  do  the  honors  of  his  own  art,  but,  pre- 
ceding Frank  across  the  hall,  opened  the  door  of  his  usual  sit- 
ting-room, and  requested  him  to  enter.  Frank  did  so,  rather 
reluctantly,  and  seated  himself  with  unwonted  bashfulness  on 
the  edge  of  a  chair.  But  here  new  specimens  of  the  Doctor's 
handicraft  soon  riveted  attention.  The  room  had  been  originally 
papered  ;  but  Riccabocca  had  stretched  canvas  over  the  walls, 
and  painted  thereon  sundry  satirical  devices,  eachseparated  from 
the  other  by  scroll-works  of  fantastic  arabesques.  Here  a  Cupid 


70  MY    NOVEL ;    OR 

was  trundling  a  wheelbarrow  full  of  hearts  which  he  appeared  to 
be  selling  to  an  ugly  old  fellow,  with  a  money-bag  in  his  hand — 
probably  Plutus.  There  Diogenes  might  be  seen  walking  through 
a  market-place, with  his  lanterninhishand,in  search  of  an  honest 
man,  whilst  thechildren  jeered  at  him, and  the  curs  snapped  at  his 
heels.  In  another  place,  a  lion  was  seen  half  dressed  in  a  fox's 
hide,  while  a  wolf  in  a  sheep's  mask  was  conversing  very  amicably 
with  a  young  lamb.  Here  again  might  be  seen  the  geese  stretch- 
ing out  their  necks  from  the  Roman  Capitol  in  full  cackle,  while 
the  stout  invaders  were  beheld  in  the  distance,  running  off  as  hard 
as  they  could.  In  short,  in  all  these  quaint  entablatures  some  pithy 
sarcasm  was  symbolically  conveyed;  only  over  the  mantelpiece 
was  the  design  graver  and  more  touching.  It  was  the  figure  of  a 
man  in  a  pilgrim's  garb,chained  to  the  earth  by  small  but  innu- 
merable ligaments,  whileaphantomlikenessof  himself,  his  shadow, 
was  seen  hastening  down  what  seemed  an  interminable  vista  ; 
and  underneath  were  written  the  pathetic  words  of  Horace — 
"  Patrise  quis  exul 
Se  quoque  fugit  ?  " 

("  What  exile  from  his  country  can  also  fly  from  himself  ? ")  The 
furniture  of  the  room  was  extremely  simple,  and  somewhat 
scanty  ;  yet  it  was  arranged  so  as  to  impart  an  air  of  taste  and 
elegance  to  the  room.  Even  a  few  plaster  busts  and  statues, 
though  bought  but  of  some  humble  itinerant,  had  their  classical 
effect,  glistening  from  out  stands  of  flowers  that  were  grouped 
around  them,  or  backed  by  graceful  screen-works  formed  from 
twisted  osiers,  which,  by  the  simple  contrivance  of  trays  at  the 
bottom  filled  with  earth,  served  for  living  parasitical  plants,with 
gay  flowers  contrasting  thick  ivy  leaves,  and  gave  to  the  whole 
room  the  aspect  of  a  bower. 

"  May  I  ask  your  permission  ?"  said  the  Italian,  with  his  fin- 
ger on  the  seal  of  the  letter. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Frank  with  naivcti. 

Riccabocca  broke  the  seal,  and  a  slight  smile  stole  over  his 
countenance.  Then  he  turned  a  little  aside  from  Frank,  shaded 
his  face  with  his  hand,  and  seemed  to  muse.  "  Mrs.  Hazel- 
dean,"  said  he  at  last,  "  does  me  very  great  honor.  I  hardly 
recognize  her  handwriting,  or  I  should  have  been  more  impa- 
tient to  open  the  letter."  The  dark  eyes  were  lifted  over  the 
spectacles,  and  went  right  into  Frank's  unprotected  and  undi- 
plomatic heart.  The  doctor  raised  the  note,  and  pointed  to  the 
characters  with  his  forefinger. 

"  Cousin  Jemima's  hand,"  said  Frank,  as  directly  as  if  the 
question  had  been  put  to  him. 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  ?I 

The  Italian  smiled.  "  Mr.  Hazeldean  has  company  staying 
with  him  ?" 

"  No  ;  that  is,  only  Barney — the  Captain.  There's  seldom 
much  company  before  the  shooting  season,"  added  Frank,  with 
a  slight  sigh  ;  "and  then,  you  know,  the  holidays  are  over.  For 
my  part,  I  think  we  ought  to  break  up  a  month  later." 

The  Doctor  seemed  re-assured  by  the  first  sentence  in  Frank's 
reply,  and,  seating  himself  at  the  table,  wrote  his  answer — not 
hastily,  as  we  English  write,  but  with  care  and  precision,  like 
one  accustomed  to  weigh  the  nature  of  words— in  that  stiff  Italian 
hand,  which  allows  the  writer  so  much  time  to  think  while  he 
forms  his  letters.  He  did  not,  therefore,  reply  at  once  to  Frank's 
remark  about  the  holidays,  but  was  silent  till  he  had  concluded 
his  note,  read  it  three  times  over,  sealed  it  by  the  taper  he  slowly 
lighted,  and  then,  giving  it  to  Frank,  he  said — 

"For  your  sake,  young  gentleman,  I  regret  that  your  holidays 
are  so  early;  for  mine,  I  must  rejoice,  since  I  accept  the  kind  invita- 
tion you  have  rendered  doubly  gratifying  by  bringing  it  yourself." 

"  Deuce  take  the  fellow  and  his  fine  speeches  !  One  don't 
know  which  way  to  look,"  thought  English  Frank. 

The  Italian  smiled  again,  as  if  this  time  he  had  read  the  boy's 
heart,  without  need  of  those  piercing  black  eyes,  and  said,  less 
ceremoniously  than  before,  "  You  don't  care  much  for  compli- 
ments, young  gentleman  ? " 

"  No,  I  don't  indeed,"  said  Frank  heartily. 

"  So  much  the  better  for  you,  since  your  way  in  the  world  is 
made  ;  it  would  be  so  much  the  worse,  if  you  had  to  make  it!" 

Frank  looked  puzzled  ;  the  thotight  was  too  deep  for  him — 
so  he  turned  to  the  pictures. 

"  Those  are  very  funny,"  said  he;  "  they  seem  capitally  done. 
Who  did  'em  ?  " 

"  Signorino  Hazeldean,  you  are  giving  me  what  you  refused 
yourself." 

"Eh  ?"  said  Frank  inquiringly. 

"  Compliments  !  " 

"  Oh — I — no  ;  but  they  are  well  done  ;  ar'n't  they,  sir?" 

"  Not  particularly  ;  you  speak  to  the  artist." 

"  What !  you  painted  them  ?  " 

"  Yes."    ' 

'*  And  the  pictures  in  the  hall  ? " 

"  Those  too." 
•tl  Taken  from  nature,  eh  ?  " 

"  Nature,"  said  the  Italian  sententiously,  perhaps  evasively, 
"lets  nothing  be  taken  from  her." 


7  2  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  Oh-!  "  said  Frank,  puzzled  again.  "  Well,  I  must  wish  you 
good  morning,  sir  ;  I  am  very  glad  you  are  coming." 

"  Without  compliment  ?  " 

"  Without  compliment." 

"A  rivedersi—r-good-by  for  the  present,  my  young  Signorino. 
This  way,"  observing  Frank  make  a  bolt  toward  the  wrong  door. 

"  Can  I  offer  you  a  glass  of  wine  ! — it  is  pure,  of  our  own 
making." 

"  No,  thank  you:,  indeed,  sir,"  cried  Frank,  suddenly  recollect- 
ing his  father's,  admonition.  "  Good-by,  don't  tro.uble  your- 
self, sir  ;  I  know  my  way  now." 

But  the  bland  Italian  followed  his  guest  to  the  wicket,  where 
Frank  had  left  the  pony.  The  young  gentleman,  afraid  lest  so 
courteous  a  host  should  hold  the  stirrup  for  him,  twitched  off 
the  bridle,  and  mounted  in  haste,  not  even  staying  to  ask  if  the 
Italian  could  put  him  in  the  way  to  Rood  Hall,  of  which  way 
he  was  profoundly  ignorant.  ,  The  Italian's  eye  followed  the 
boy  as  ae  rode  up  the  ascent  in  the  lane,  and  the  doctor  sighed 
heavily.  "'  The  wiser  we  grow,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  the  more 
we  regret  the  age  of  our  follies  ;  it  is  better  to  gallop  with  a 
light  heart  up  the  stony  hill  than  sit  in  the  summer-house  and 
cry  '  How  true  ! '  to  the  stormy*  truths  of  Machiavelli '!  " 

With  that  he  turned  back  into  the  belvidere>;  but  he  could 
not  resume  his  studies.  He  remained  some  minutes  gazing  on 
the  prospect,  till  the 'prospect  reminded  him  of  the  fields  which 
Jackeymo  was  bent  on  his  hiring,  and  the  fields  reminded  him 
of  Lenny  F  airfield.  He  returned  to  the  house,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments re-emerged  in  his  out,-of-door  trim,  with  cloak  and  um- 
brella, re-lighted  his  pipe, and  strolled  toward  Hazeldean  village. 
.  Meanwhile  Frank,  after  cantering  on  for  some  distance, 
stopped  at  a  cottage,  and  there  learned  that  there  was  a  short 
cut  across  the:  field  to  Rood  Hall,  by  which  he  could  save 
nearly  three  miles.  Frank,  however,  missed  the  short  cut,  and 
came  out  into  the  high  road;  a  turnpike  keeper,  after  first  taking 
his  toll,  put  him  back  again  into  the  short  cut  ;  and  finally,  he 
got  into  some  green  lanes,  where  a  dilapidated  finger-post  di- 
rected him  to  Rood.  Late  at  noon,  having  ridden  fifteen  miles 
in  the  desire  to  reduce  ten  to  seven,  he  came  suddenly  upon'  a 
wild  and  primitive  piece  of  ground,  that  seemed  half  chase,  half 
common,  with  crazy  tumble-down  cottages  of  villanous  aspect 
scattered  about  in  odd  nooks  and  corners  ;  idle,  dirty  children 
were  making  mud  pies  on  the  road  ;  slovenly-looking  women 
were  plaiting  straw  at  the  thresholds  ;  a  large  but  forlorn  and 
decayed  church,  that  seemed  to  say  that  the  generation  which 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  73 

saw  it  built  was  more  pio.us  than  tl?e  generation  which  now  re- 
sorted to  it,  stood  boldly  and  nakedly  out  by  the  roadside. 

"  Is;  this  the  village  of  Rood  ?  "  asked  Frank  of  a  stout  young 
man  breaking  siones  on  the  road — sad  sign  that  no  better  labor 
could  be  found  for  him. 

The  man  sullenly  nodded,  and  continued  his  work. 

"  And  where's  the  Hall— Mr.  Leslie's  ? " 

The  man  looked  up  in  stolid  surprise,  and  this  time  touched 
his  hat. 

"  Be  you  going,  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  if  1  can  find  out  where  it  is." 

"  I'll  show  your  honor,"  said  the  boor  alertly. 

Frank  reined  in  the  pony,  and  the  man  walked  by  his  side. 
3c  Frank. was  much  of  his  father's  son,  despite  the  difference  of 
age,  and  that  more  fastidious  change  of  manner  which  charac- 
terizes each  succeeding  grace  in  the  progress  of  civilization. 
Despite  all  his  Eton  finery,  he  was  familiar  with  peasants,  and 
had  the  quick  eye  of  one  country-born  as  to  country  matters. 

"  You  don't  seem  very  well  off  in  this  village,  my  man  ?  " 
said  he,  knowingly. 

"  Noa  ;  there  be  a  deal  of  distress  here  in  the  winter  time, 
and  summer  too,  for  that  matter  ;  and  the. parish  ben't  much 
help  to  a  single  man." 

"  But,surely,the  farmers  want  work  here  as  well  as  elsewhere?" 

"  'Deed,  and  there  ben't  much  farming  work  here — most  o' 
the  parish  be  all  wild  ground  loikei" 

"  The  poor  have  a  right  .of  common,  I  suppose,"  said  Frank, 
surveying  a  large  assortment  of  vagabond  birds  and  quadrupeds. 

"  Yes  ;  neighbor  Timnvons  keeps  his  geese  on  the  common, 
and  some  has  a  cow — and  them  be  neighbor  Jowlas's  pigs.  I 
don't  know  if  there's  a  right,  loike  ;  but  the  folks  at  the  Hall 
does  all  they  can  to  help  us,  and  that  ben't  much  ;  .they  ben't 
as  rich  as  some  folks  ;  but,"  added  the  peasant  proudly,  "  they 
be  as  good  blood  as  any  in  the  shire." 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you  like  them,  at  all  events." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  loikesthem  well  eno'  ;  mayhap  you  are  at  school 
with  the  young  gentleman  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Frank. 

"Ah  !  I  heard  the  clergyman  say  as  how  Master  Randal  was 
a  mighty  clever  lad,  and  would  get  rich  some  day.  I'se  sure 
I  wish  he  would,  for  a  poor  squire  makes  a  poor  parish.  There's 
the  Hall,  sir." 

..)      -        - 


74  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR. 

CHAPTER  III. 

FRANK  looked  right  ahead,  and  saw  a  square  house  that,  in 
spite  of  modern  sash-windows,  was  evidently  of  remote  antiq- 
uity ;  a  high  conical  roof  ;  a  stack  of  tall  quaint  chimney-pots 
of  red  baked  clay  (like  those  at  Sutton  Place,  in  Surrey)  dom- 
inating over  isolated  vulgar  smoke-conductors,  of  the  ignoble 
fashion  of  present  times  ;  a  dilapidated  groin-work,  encasing 
within  a  Tudor  arch  a  door  of  the  comfortable  date  of  George 
III.,  and  the  peculiarly  dingy  and  weather-stained  appearance 
of  the  small  finely  finished  bricks,  of  which  the  habitation  was 
built — all  showed  the  abode  of  former  generations  adapted  with 
tasteless  irreverence  to  the  habits  of  descendants  unenlightened 
by  Pugin,  or  indifferent  to  the  poetry  of  the  past.  The  house 
had  emerged  suddenly  upon  Frank  out  of  the  gloomy  waste  land, 
for  it  was  placed  in  a  hollow,  and  sheltered  from  sight  by  a  dis- 
orderly group  of  ragged,  dismal,  valetudinarian  fir-trees,  until 
an  abrupt  turn  of  the  road  cleared  that  screen,  and  left  the  deso- 
late abode  bare  to  the  discontented  eye.  Frank  dismounted  ; 
the  man  held  his  pony  ;  and  after  smoothing  his  cravat,  the 
smart  Etonian  sauntered  up  to  the  door,  and  startled  the  solitude 
of  the  place  with  a  loud  peal  from  the  modern  brass  knocker — a 
knock  which  instantly  brought  forth  an  astonished  starling  who 
had  built  under  the  eaves  of  the  gable  roof,  and  called  up  a  cloud 
of  sparrows,  tomtits, and  yellow-hammers,  who  had  been  regaling 
themselves  amongst  the  litter  of  a  slovenly  farm-yard  that  lay  in 
full  sight  to  the  right  of  the  house,  fenced  off  by  a  primitive, 
paintless  wooden  rail.  In  process  of  time  a  sow,  accompained 
by  a  thriving  and  inquisitive  family,  strolled  up  to  the  gate  of  the 
fence,  and  leaning  her  nose  on  the  lower  bar  of  the  gate,  con- 
templated the  visitor  with  much  curiosity  and  some  suspicion. 

While  Frank  is  still  without,  impatiently  swingeing  his 
white  trousers  with  his  whip,  we  will  steal  a  hurried  glance 
toward  the  respected  members  of  the  family  within.  Mr. 
Leslie,  the  pater-familias,  is  in  a  little  room  called  his  "  study," 
to  which  he  regularly  retires  every  morning  after  breakfast, 
rarely  reappearing  till  one  o'clock,  which  is  his  unfashion- 
able hour  for  dinner.  In  what  mysterious  occupations  Mr.  Les- 
lie passes  those  hours,  no  one  ever  formed  a  conjecture.  At 
the  present  moment  he  is  seated  before  a  little  rickety  bureau, 
one  leg  of  which  (being  shorter  than  the  other)  is  propped  up  by 
sundry  old  letters  and  scraps  of  newspapers  ;  and  the  bureau  is 
open,  and  reveals  a  great  number  of  pigeon-holes  and  divisions, 
filled  with  various  odds  and  ends,  the  collection  of  many  years. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  75 

Tn  one  of  these  compartments  are  bundles  of  letters,very  yellow, 
and  tied  in  packets  with  faded  tape  ;  in  another,  all  by  itself, 
is  a  fragment  of  plum-pudding  stone,which  Mr.Leslie  has  picked 
up  in  his  walks,  and  considered  a  rare  mineral,  It  is  neatly  la- 
belled, "  Found  in  Hollow  Lane,  May  2ist,  1804,  by  Maunder 
Slugge  Leslie,Esq."  The  next  division  holds  several  bits  of  iron 
in  the  shape  of  nails,  fragments  of  horse-shoes,  etc.,  which  Mr. 
Leslie  has  met  with  in  his  rambles,  and  according  to  a  harmless 
popular  superstition,  deemed  it  highly  unlucky  not  to  pick  up, 
and,  once  picked  up,  no  less  unlucky  to  throw  away.  Item,  in 
the  adjoining  pigeon-hole,  a  goodly  collection  of  pebbles  with 
holes  in  them,  preserved  for  the  same  reason.  In  company 
with  a  crooked  sixpence  ;  item,  neatly  arranged  in  fanciful  mo- 
saics, several  periwinkles,  Blackmoor's  teeth  (I  mean  the  shell  so 
called),  and  other  specimens  of  the  conchiferous  ingenuity  of 
Nature,  partly  inherited  from  some  ancestral  spinster,  partly 
amassed  by  Mr.  Leslie  himself  in  a  youthful  excursion  to  the  sea- 
side. There  were  the  farm-bailiff's  accounts,several  files  of  bills, 
an  old  stirrup,  three  sets  of  knee  and  shoe  buckles,  which  had 
belonged  to  Mr.  Leslie's  father,  a  few  seals  tied  together  by  a 
shoe-string,  a  shagreen  toothpick  case,  a  tortoise-shell  magnify- 
ing-glass  to  read  with,  his  eldest  son's  first  copy-books,  his  sec- 
ond son's  ditto,  his  daughter's  ditto,  and  a  lock  of  his  wife's  hait 
arranged  in  a  true  lover's  knot,  framed  and  glazed.  There  were 
also  a  small  mouse-trap;  a  patent  corkscrew,too  good  to  be  used 
in  common;  fragments  of  a  silver  tea-spoon,  that  had,  by  natural 
decay,  arrived  at  a  dissolution  of  its  parts,  a  small  brown  Holland 
bag,containing  halfpence  of  various  dates,  as  far  back  as  Queen 
Anne,  accompanied  by  two  French  sous,  and  a  German  silber 
gros; — the  which  miscellany  Mr.  Lesliemagniloquently  called"  his 
coins"and  had  lef  tin  his  will  as  afamily  heirloom.  There  weremany 
other  curiosities  of  a  congenial  nature  and  equal  value — qua  nunc 
describere  longum  esf.  Mr.  Leslie  was  engaged  at  this  time  in  what 
is  termed  "  putting  things  to  rights  " — an  occupation  he  per- 
formed with  exemplary  care  once  a  week.  This  was  his  day ;  and 
he  had  just  counted  his  coins, and  was  slowly  tying  them  up  again 
in  the  brown  Holland  bag,  when  Frank's  knock  reached  his  ears. 

Mr.  Maunder  Slugge  Leslie  paused,  shook  his  head  as  if  in- 
credulously, and  was  about  to  resume  his  occupation,  when  he 
was  seized  with  a  fit  of  yawning  which  prevented  the  bag  being 
iied  for  full  two  minutes. 

While  such  the  employment  of  the  study,  let  us  turn  to  the 
recreations  in  the  drawing-room,  or  rather  parlor.  A  drawing- 
room  there  was  on  the  first  floor,with  a  charming  look-out,not  oa 


)6  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

the  dreary  fir-trees,  but  on  the  romantic  undulating  forest-land; 
but  the  drawing-room  had  not  been  used  since  the  death  of  the 
last  Mrs.  Leslie.  It  was  deemed  too  good  to  sit  in,  except  when 
there  was  company;  there  never  being  compariy,it  was  never  sate 
in.  Indeed, now  the  paper  was  falling  off  the  walls  with  the  damp, 
and  the  rats,  mice  and  moths — those  "  edaces  rerum" — had 
eaten,  between  them,  most  of  the  chair-bottoms  and  a  consid- 
erable part  of  the  floor.  Therefore,  the  parlor  was  the  sole  gen- 
eral sitting-room  ;  and  being  breakfasted  in,  dined  and  supped 
in.  and,  after  supper,  smoked  in  by  Mr.  Leslie  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  rum-and-water,  it  is-  impossible  to  deny  that  it  had^vhat 
is  called  "  a  smell  " — a  comfortable,  wholesome  family  smell— 
speaking  of  numbers,  meals, and  miscellaneous  social  habitation. 
There  were  two  windows:  one  looked  fullon  the  fir-tre«s  ;  the 
other  on  the  farm-yard,  with  the  pig-sty  closing  the  view.  Near 
the  fir-tree  window  sate  Mrs.  Leslie;  before  her,' on  a  high  stool, 
was  a  basket  of  the  children's  clothes  that  wanted  mending.  A 
work-table  of  rosewood  inlaid  with  brass,  which  had  beeii  a  wed- 
ding-present, and  was  a  costly  thing  originally,  but  in  that  par- 
ticular taste  which  is  vulgarly  called"Brumagen,"  stood  at  hand; 
the  brass  had  started  in  several  places,  and  occasionally  made 
great  havoc  in  the  children's  fingers  arid  in  Mr-s.  Leslie's  gown; 
in  fact,  it  was  the  liveliest  piece  of  furniture -in  the  house,  thanks 
to  that  petulant  brass-work,  and  could  not  have  been  more  mis- 
chievous if  it  had  been  a  monkey.  Upon  the  work-table  lay  a 
housewife  and  a  thimble,  and  scissors,  and  skeins  6f  worsted  and 
thread,  and  little  scraps  of  linen  and  cloth  for  patches.  But 
Mrs.Leslie  was  not  actually  working — she  was  preparing  to  work; 
she  had  been  preparing  to  work  for  the  last  hour  and  a  half. 
Upon  her  lap  she  supported  a  novel,  by  a  lady  who  wrote  much 
for  a  former  generation,  under  the  name  of  "  Mrs.  Bridget  Blue 
Mantle."  She  had  a  small  needle  in  her  left  hand,  and  a  very 
thick  piece  of  thread  in  Her  right  ;  occasionally  she  applied  the 
end  of  the  said  thread  to  her  lips,  and  then — her  eyes  fixed  on 
the  novel— made  a  blind,  vacillating  attack  at  the  eye  of  the 
needle.  But  a  camel  would  have  gone  through  it  with  quite  as 
much  ease.  Nor  did  the  novel  alone  engage  •  Mrs.  Leslie's 
attention,  for  ever  and  anon  she  interrupted  herself  to  scold  the 
children,  to  inquire  "what  o'clock  it  was";  to  observe  that 
"  Sarah  would  never  suit  ";  and  to  wonder  "why  Mr.  Leslie 
would  not  see  that  the  work-table  was  mended."  'Mrs.  Leslie 
has  been  rather  a  pretty  woman.  In  spite  of  a  dress  at  once 
slatternly  and  economical,  she  has  still  the  air  of  a  lady — rather 
too  much  so,  the  hard  duties  of  her  situation  considered.  She 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  77 

is  proud  of  the  antiquity  of  her  family  on  both  sides;  her  mother 
was  of  the  venerable  stock  of  the  Dandles  of  Daudle  Place,  a 
race  that  existed  before  the  Conquest.  Indeed,  one  has  only 
to  read  our  earliest  chronicles,  and  to  glance  over  some  of  those 
long-winded  moralizing  poems  which  delighted  the  thanes  and 
ealdermen  of  old,  in  order  to  see  that  the  Dandles  must  have 
been  a  very  influential  family  before  William  the  First  turned 
the  country  topsy-turvy.  While  the  mother's  race  was  thus  in- 
dubitably Saxon,  the  father's  had  not  only  the  name  but  the 
peculiar  idiosyncrasy  of  the  Normans,  and  went  far  to  establish 
that  crotchet  of  the  brilliant  author  of  Sibyl,  or  the  Two  Nations, 
as  to  the  continued  distinction  between  the  conquering  and  con- 
quered populations.  Mrs.  Leslie's  father  boasted  the  name  of 
Montfydget ;  doubtless  of  the  same  kith  and  kin  as  those  great 
barons  Montfichet,  who  once  owned  such  broad  lands  and  such 
turbulent  castles.  A  high-nosed,  thin,  nervous,  excitable  prog- 
eny, those  same  Montfydgets,  as  the  most  troublesome  Norman 
could  pretend  to  be.  This  fusion  of  race  was  notable  to  the 
most  ordinary  physiognomist  in  \.\\e  physique  and  in  the  morale  oi 
Mrs.  Leslie.  She  had  the  speculative  blue  eye  of  the  Saxon, 
and  the  passionate  high  no.se  of  the  Norman  ;  she  had  the  mus- 
ing do-notliihgness  of  the  Dandles,  arid  the  reckless  ha-ve-at- 
every-thjngnessof  the  Montfydgets.  At  Mrs.  Leslie's  feet,  a  little 
girl  with  'her  hair  about  her  ears  (and  beautiful  hair  it  was  too) 
was  amusing  herself  with  a  broken-nosed  doll.  At  the  far  end 
of  the  room,  before  a  high  desk,  sate  Frank's  Eton  school-fellow, 
the  eldest  son.  A  minute  or  two  before  Frank's  alarum  had  dis- 
turbed the  tranquillity  of  the  household,  he  had  raised  his  eyes 
from  the  books  on  the  desk  to  glance  at  a  very  tattered  copy 
of  the  Greek  Testament,  in  which  his  brother  Oliver  had  found 
a'drfficulty  that  he 'came  to  Randal  to  solve.  As  the  young 
Etonian's  face  was  turned  to  the  light,  your  first  impression,  on 
seeing  it,  would  have  been  melancholy,  but  respectful,  interest — 
for  the  face  had  already  lost  the  joyous  character  of  youth — :there 
was  a  wrinkle  between  the  brows  ;  and  the  lines  that  speak  of 
fatigue  were  already  visible  under  the  eyes  and  about  the  mouth; 
the  complexion  was 'sallow,  the  lips  were  pale.  Years  of  study 
had  already  sown  in  the  delicate  organization  the  seeds  of  many 
an  infirmity  and  many  a  pain  ;  but  if  your  look  had  rested  long 
on  that  countenance,  gradually  your  compassion  might  have 
given  place  to  some  feeling  uneasy  and  sinister— ^a  feeling  akin 
to  fear.  There  was  in  the  whole  expression  so  much  of  cold, 
calm  force,  that  it  belied  the  debility  of  the  frame.  You  saw 
there  the  evidence  of  a  mind  that  wascultivated,and  you  felt  that 


78  MY    NOVEL  ;   OR, 

in  that  cultivation  there  was  something  formidable.  A  notable 
contrast  to  this  countenance,  prematurely  worn,  and  eminently 
intelligent,  was  the  round  healthy  face  of  Oliver,  with  slow  blue 
eyes  fixed  hard  on  the  penetrating  orbs  of  his  brother,  as 
if  trying  with  might  and  main  to  catch  from  them  a  gleam 
of  that  knowledge  with  which  they  shone  clear  and  frigid  as 
a  star. 

At  Frank's  knock,  Oliver's  slow  blue  eyes  sparkled  into  ani- 
mation, and  he  sprang  from  his  brother's  side.  The  little  girl 
flung  back  the  hair  from  her  face,  and  stared  at  her  mother  with 
a  look  which  spoke  wonder  and  affright. 

The  young  student  knit  his  brows,  and  then  turned  wearily 
back  to  the  books  on  his  desk. 

"  Dear  me,"  cried  Mrs.  Leslie,  "  who  can  that  possibly  be  ? 
Oliver,come  from  the  window,  sir,this  instant ;  you  will  be  seen  \ 
Julia,run— ring  the  bell — no,go  to  the  head  of  the  kitchen  stairs, 
and  call  out  to  Jenny,  '  Not  at  home.'  Not  at  home  on  any 
account,"  repeated  Mrs.  Leslie,  nervously,  for  the  Montfydget 
blood  was  now  in  full  flow.  In  another  minute  or  so,  Frank's 
loud,  boyish  voice  was  distinctly  heard  at  the  outer  door. 

Randal  slightly  started.  - 

"Frank  Hazeldean's  voice,"  said  he  ;  "I  should  like  to  see 
him,  mother." 

"  See  him,"  repeated  Mrs.  Leslie,  in  amaze  ;  "  see  him  !  and 
the  room  in  this  state  !  " 

Randal  might  have  replied  that  the  room  was  in  no  worse 
state  than  usual;  but  he  said  nothing.  A  slight  flush  came  and 
went  over  his  pale  face;  and  then  he  leaned  his  cheek  on  his 
hand,  and  compressed  his  lips  firmly. 

The  outer  door  closed  with  a  sullen,  inhospitable  jar,  and  a 
slip-shod  female  servant  entered  with  a  car.d  between  her  finger 
and  thumb. 

"  Who  is  that  for  ? — give  it  to  me,  Jenny,"  cried  Mrs.  Leslie. 

But  Jenny  shook  her  head,  laid  the  card  on  the  desk  beside 
Randal,  and  vanished  without  saying  a  word. 

"Oh  look,  Randal,  look  up,"  cried  Oliver,  who  had  again 
rushed  to  the  window;  "  such  a  pretty  gray  pony!  " 

Randal  did  look  up;  nay,  he  went  deliberately  to  the  window, 
and  gazed  a  moment  on  the  high-mettled  pony,  and  the  well- 
dressed,  spirited  rider.  In  that  moment  changes  passed  over 
Randal's  countenance  more  rapidly  than  clouds  over  the  sky  in 
a  gusty  day.  Now  envy  and  discontent,  with  the  curled  lip  and 
the  gloomy  scowl;  now  hope  and  proud  self-esteem,  with  the 
clearing  brow  and  the  lofty  smile;  and  then  again  all  became 


VARIETIES:  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  79 

cold,  firm,  and  close,  as  he  walked  back  to  his  books,  seated  him- 
self resolutely,  and  said,  half  aloud — 

"Well,  KNOWLEDGE  IS  POWER." 

CHAPTER  IV. 

MRS.  LESLIE  came  up  in  fidget  and  in  fuss;  she  leaned  over 
Randal's  shoulder  and  read  the  card.  Written  in  pen  and  ink, 
with  an  attempt  at  imitation  of  printed  Roman  character,  there 
appeared  first  "  MR.  FRANK  HAZELDEAN  ";  but  just  over  these 
letters,  and  scribbled  hastily  and  less  legibly  in  pencil,  was — 

"  Dear  Leslie — sorry  you  were  out — come  and  see  us — Do  /" 

"  You  will  go,  Randal  ? "  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  after  a  pause. 

"  I'm  not  sure." 

"  Yes, you  can  go;  you  have  clothes  like  a  gentleman; you  can 
go  anywhere,  not  like  those  children";  and  Mrs.  Leslie  glanced 
almost  spitefully  at  poor  Oliver's  coarse  threadbare  jacket,  and 
little  Juliet's  torn  frock. 

"  What  I  have  I  owe  at  present  to  Mr.  Egerton,  and  I  should 
consult  his  wishes;  he  is  not  on  good  terms  with  these  Hazel- 
deans."  Then  turning  toward  his  brother,  who  looked  morti- 
fied, he  added,  with  a  strange  sort  Of  haughty  kindness,  "What 
I  may  have  hereafter,  Oliver,  I  shall  owe  to  myself;  and  then 
if  I  rise,  I  will  raise  my  family." 

"  Dear  Randal,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  fondly  kissing  him  on  the 
forehead,  "  what  a  good  heart  you  have  !  " 

"  No,  mother;  my  books  don't  tell  me  that  it  is  a  good  heart 
that  gets  on  in  the  world;  it  is  the  hard  head,"  replied  Randal, 
With  a  rude  and  scornful  candor.  "  But  I  can  read  no  more 
just  now;  come  out,  Oliver." 

So  saying,  he  slid  from  his  mother's  hand,  and  left  the  room. 

When  Oliver  joined  him,  Randal  was  already  on  the  common; 
and,  without  seeming  .to  notice  his  brother,  he  continued  to 
walk  quickly,  and  with  long  strides,  in  profound  silence.  At 
length  he  paused  under  the  shade  of  an  old  oak,  that,  too  old 
to.  be  of  value  save  for  firewood,  had  escaped  the  axe.  The 
tree  stood  on  a  knoll,  and  the  spot  commanded  a  view  of  the 
decayed  house — the:  dilapidated  church — the  dreary  village. 

"  Oliver,"  said  Randal,  between  his  teeth,  so  that  his  voice 
had  the  sound  of  a  hiss,  "it  was  under  this  tree  that  I  first  re- 
solved to — " 

He  paused. 

]| What,  Randal?" 

"  Read  hard:  knowledge  is  power  ! " 

"  But  you  are  so  fond  of  reading." 


8O  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR 

.  "  1 1  "  cried  Randal.  "Do  you  think,  when  Wolsey  and 
Thomas-a-Becket  became  priests,  they  were  fond  of  telling  their 
beads  and  pattering  aves?  I  fond  of  reading  !  " 

Oliver  stared;  the  historical  allusions  were  beyond  his  com- 
prehension. 

"You  know,"  continued  Randal,  "that  we  Leslies  were  not 
always  the  beggarly  poor  gentlemen  we  are  now.  You  know 
that  there  is  a  man  who  lives  in  Grosvenor  Square,  and  is  very 
rich— very.  : His  riches  come  to  him  from  a  Leslie:  .that  man 
is  my  patron,  Oliver,  and  he — is  very  good  to  me." 

•  Randal's  smile  was  withering  as  he  spoke.  "Come  on,"  he 
said,  afjter  a  pause — "(ome'.on."  Again  the  walk  was  quick, 
and  the  brothers  were  silent. 

They  came  at  length  to  a.  little  shallow  brook,  across  which 
some  large  stones  had  been  .placed  at  short  intervals,  so  that  the 
boys  walked  over  the  ford  dry-shod.  "  Will  you  pull  down  that 
bough,  Oliver  ? "  said  Randal,  abruptly,  pointing  to  a  tree. 
Oliver  obeyed  mechanically;  and  Randal,  stripping  the  leaves, 
and  snapping  off  ,the  twigs,  left  a  fork  at  the  end;  with  this  he 
began  to  rernove  the  stepping-stones. 

"  What  are  you  about,  Randal  ?  "  asked  Oliver,  wonderingly. 

".We  are  on  the  other  side  of  the  brook  now,  and  we  shall 
not  come  back  this  way.  We  don't  want  the  stepping-stones 
any  more  ! — away  with  them  !  " 

•     JlC'jd  : 

CHAPTER  V. 

THE  morning  after  this"  visit  of  Ffank  Hazeldean's  to  Rood 
Hall,  the  Right  Honorable  Audley  Egerton,  member  of  Parlia- 
ment, privy  councillor,  and  minister  of  a  high  department  in  the 
state — just  below  the  rank  of  the  cabinet— was  seated  in  his 
library,  awaiting  the. delivery  of  the  post,  before  he  walked  down 
to  his  office.  In  the  meanwhile,  he  sipped  his  tea,  and  glanced 
over  the  newspapers  with  that  quick  and- half-disdainful  eye 
with  which  your  practical  man  in  public  life  is  wont  to  regard 
the  abuse  or  the  eulogium  of  the  Fourth  Estate. 

There  is  very  little  likeness  between  Mr.  Egerton  and  his  half- 
brother  ;  none,  indeed,  except  that  they  are  both  of  tall ''stature, 
and  strong,  sinewy,  English  build.  But  even  in  this  last 
they  do  not  resemble  each  other  ;  for  the  Squire's  athletic  shape 
is  already  beginning  to  expand  into  that  portly  embonpoint  which 
seems  the  natural  development  of  contented  men  as  they  ap- 
proach middle  life. — Audley,  on  the  contrary,  is  inclined  to  be 
spare  ;  and  his  figure,  though  the  muscles  are  as  firm  as  iron, 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH   LIFE.  8l 

has  enough  of  the  slender  to  satisfy  metropolitan  ideas  of  ele- 
gance. His  dress,  his  look — his  tout  ensemble— are  those  of  the 
London  man.  In  the  first,  there  is  more  attention  to  fashion  than 
is  usual  amongst  the  busy  members  of  the  House  of  Commons; 
but  then  Audley  Egerton  has  always  been  something  more  than 
a  mere  busy  member  of  the  House  of  Commons.  He  has  always 
been  a  person  of  mark  in  the  best  society  ;  and  one  secret  of  his 
success  in  life  has  been  his  high  reputation  as  "a  gentleman." 
As  he  now  bends  over  the  journals,  there  is  an  air  of  distinc- 
tion in  the  turn  of  the  well-shaped  head,  with  the  dark  brown 
hair — dark  in  spite  of  a  reddish  tinge — cut  close  behind,  and 
worn  away  a  little  toward  the  crown,  so  as  to 'give  additional 
height  to  a  commanding  forehead.  His  profile  is  very  hand- 
some, and  of  that  kind  of  beauty  which  imposes  on  men  if  it 
•pleases  women  ;  and  is,  therefore,  unlike  that  of  your  mere  pretty 
fellows;  a  positive  advantage  in  public  life.  It  is  a  profile  with 
large  features  clearly  cut,  masculine,  and  somewhat  severe. 
The  expression  of  his  face  is  not  open,  like  the  Squire?s  ;  nor  has 
it  the  cold  closeness  which  accompanies  the  intellectual  charac- 
ter of  young  Leslie's  ;  but  it  is  reserved  and  dignified,  and  sig- 
nificant of  self-control,  as  should  be  the  physiognomy  of  a  man 
accustomed  to  think  before  he  speaks.  When  you  look  at  him, 
you  are  not  surprised  to  learn  that  he  is  not  a  florid  orator  nor  a 
smart  debater — he  is  a  "  weighty  speaker."  He  is  fairly  read, 
but  without  any  great  range  either  of  ornamental  scholarship  or 
constitutional  lore.  -  He  has  not  milch  humor  ;  but  he  has  that 
kind  of  wit  which  is  essential  to  grave  and  serious  irony.  He 
has  not  much  imagination,  nor  remarkable  subtlety  in  reasoning; 
but  if  he  does  not  dazzle,  he  does  not  bore :  he  is  too  much  of 
the  man  of  the  world  for  that.  He  is  considered  to  have  Sound 
serise  and  accurate  judgment.  Withal,  as  he  now  lays  aside  the 
journals,  and  his  face  relaxes  its  austerer  lines,  you  will  not  be 
astonished  to  hear  that  he  is  a  man  who  is  said  to  have  been 
greatly  beloved  by  women,  and  still  to  exercise  much  influence 
in  drawing-rooms  and  boudoirs.  At  least,  no  one  was  surprised 
when  the  great  heiress,  Clementina  Leslie,  kinswoman  and  ward 
to  Lord  Lansmere— a  young  lady  who  had'  refused  three  earls 
and  the  heir-apparent  to  a  dukedom — was  declared  by  her  dear- 
est friends  to  be  dying  of  love  for  Audley  Egerton.  It  had  been 
the  natural  wish  of  the  Lansmeres  that  this  lady  should  marry 
their  son,  Lord  L'Estrange.  But  that  young  gentleman,  whose 
opinions  oamatrimony  partook  of  the  eccentricity  of  his  general 
character,  could  never  be  induced  to  propose/ and  had,  accord- 
ing to  the  tf«-/#/j  of  town,  been  the  principal  party  to  make  up 


82  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

the  match  between  Clementina  and  his  friend  Audley  ;  for  the 
match  required  making-up,despite  the  predilections  of  the  young 
heiress.  Mr.  Egerton  had  had  scruples  of  delicacy.  He  avowed, 
for  the  first  time,  that  his  fortune  was  much  less  than  had  been 
generally  supposed,  and  he  did  not  like  the  idea  of  owing  all  to 
a  wife,  however  highly  he  might  esteem  and  admire  her.  Now, 
Lord  L'Estrange  (not  long  after  the  election  at  Lansmere,  which 
had  given  to  Audley  his  first  seat  in  Parliament)  had  suddenly 
exchanged  from  the  battalion  of  the  Guards  to  which  he  be- 
longed, and  which  was  detained  at  home,  into  a  cavalry  regi- 
ment on  .active  service  in  the  Peninsula.  Nevertheless,  even 
abroad,  and  amidst  the  distractions  of  war,  his  interest  in  all  that 
could  forward  Egerton's  career  was  unabated  ;  and,  by  letters 
to  his  father,  and  to  his  cousin  Clementina,  he  assisted  in  the 
negotiations  for  the  marriage  between  Miss  Leslie  and  his  friend; 
and,  before  the  year  in  which  Audley  was  returned  for  Lansmere 
had  expired,  the  young  senator  received  the  hand  of  the  great 
.heiress.  The  settlement  of  her  fortune,  which  was  chiefly  in  the 
funds,  had  been  unusually  advantageous  to  the  husband  ;  for 
though  the  capital  was  tied  up  so  long  as  both  survived — for  the 
benefit  of  any  children  they  might  have — yet,  in  the  event  of  one 
of  the  parties  dying  without  issue  by  the  marriage,  the  whole 
passed  without  limitation  to  the  survivor.  Miss  Leslie,  in  spite 
of  all  remonstrance  from  her  own  legal  adviser,  had  settled  this 
clause  with  Egerton's  confidential  solicitor,  one  Mr.  Levy,  of 
whom  we  shall  see  more  hereafter  ;  and  Egerton  was  to  be  kept 
in  ignorance  of  it  till  after  the  marriage.  If  in  this  Miss  Leslie 
showed  a  generous  trust  in  Mr.  Egerton,  she  still  inflicted  no 
positive  wrong  on  her  relations,  for  she  had  none  sufficiently 
near  to  her  to  warrant  their  claim  to  the  succession.  Her  near- 
est kinsman,  and  therefore  her  natural  heir,  was  Harley  L'Es- 
trange; and  if  he  was  contented,  no  one  had  a  right  to  com- 
plain. The  tie  of  blood  between  herself  and  the  Leslies  of  Rood 
Hall  was,  as  we  shall  see  presently,  extremely  distant. 

It  was  not  till  after  his  marriage  that  Mr. -Egerton  took  an 
active  part  in  the  business  of  the  House  of  Commons.  He  was 
then  at  the  most  advantageous  starting-point  for  the  career  of 
ambition.  His  words  on  the  state  of  the  country  took  importance 
from  his  stake  in  it.  His  talents  from  accessories  in  the  opu- 
lence of  Grosvenor  Square,  the  dignity  of  a  princely  establish- 
ment, the  respectability  of  one  firmly  settled  in  life,  the  reputa- 
tion of  a  fortune  in  reality  very  large,  and  which  was  magnified 
by  popular  report  into  the  revenues  of  a  Croesus.  Audley  Eger- 
ton succeeded  in  Parliament  beyond  the  early  expectations 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH   LIFE.  8} 

formed  of  him.  He  took,  from  the  first,  that  station  in  the 
House  which  it  requires  tact  to  establish,  and  great  knowledge  of 
the  world  to  free  from  the  charge  of  impracticability  and  crotch- 
et, but  which,  once  established,  is  peculiarly  imposing  from  the 
rarity  of  its  independence;  that  is  to  say, the  station  of  the  mode- 
rate man,  who  belongs  sufficiently  to  a  party  to  obtain  its  support, 
but  is  yet  sufficiently  disengaged  from  a  party  to  make  his  vote 
and  word, on  certain  questions,matter  of  anxiety  and  speculation. 

Professing  Toryism  (the  word  Conservative,  which  would 
have  suited  him  better,  was  not  then  known),  he  separated  him- 
self from  the  country  party,  and  always  avowed  great  respect 
for  the  opinions  of  the  large  towns.  The  epithet  given  to  the 
views  of  Audley  Egerton  was  "  enlightened."  Never  too  much 
in  advance  of  the  passion  of  the  day,  yet  never  behind  its  move- 
ment, he  had  that  shrewd  calculation  of  odds  which  a  consum- 
mate mastery  of  the  world*soinetimes  bestows  on  politicians, — 
perceived  the  chances  for  and  against  a  certain  question  being 
carried  within  a  certain  time,  and  nicked  the  question. between 
wind  and  water.  He  was  so  good  a  barometer  of  that  change- 
ful weather  called  Public  Opinion,  that  he  might  have  had  a 
hand  in  the  Times  newspaper.  He  soon  quarrelled,  and  purpose- 
ly, with  his  Lansmere  constituents  ;  nor  had  he  ever  revisited 
that  borough, — perhaps  because  it  was  associated  with  unpleas- 
ant reminiscences  in  the  shape  of  the  Squire's  epistolary  trim- 
mer, and  in  that  of  his  own  effigies  which  his  agricultural  con- 
stituents had  burned  in  the  corn-market.  But  the  speeches  that 
produced  such  indignation  at  Lansmere  had  delighted  one  of  the 
greatest  of  our  commercial  towns,  which  at  fhe  next  general  elec- 
tion honored  him  with  its  representation.  In  those  days,  before 
the  Reform  Bill, great  commercial  towns  chose  men  of  high  mark 
for  their  members;  and  a  proudstation  it  was  for  himwhowasdel- 
egated  to  speak  the  voice  of  the  princely  merchants  of  England. 

Mrs.  Egerton  survived  her  marriage  but  a  few  years;  she  left 
no  children  ;  two  had  been  born,  but  died  in  their  first  infancy. 
The  property  of  the  wife,  therefore,  passed  without  control  or 
limit  to  the  husband. 

Whatever  might  have  been  the  grief  of  the  widower,  he  dis- 
dained to  betray  it  to  the  world.  Indeed,  Audley  Egerton  was  a 
man  who  had  early  taught  himself  to  conceal  emotion.  He  buried 
himself  in  the  country,  none  knew  where,  for  some  months. 
When  he  returned,  there  was  a  deep  wrinkle  on  his  brow ;  but  no 
change  in  his  habits  and  avocations,  except  that  shortly  after- 
ward he  accepted  office,  and  thus  became  more  busy  than  ever. 

Mr.  Egerton  had  always  been  lavish  and  magnificent  in  money 


84  MY   NOVEL;   OR, 

matters.  A  rich  man  in  public  life  has  many  claims  on  his  for- 
tune, and  no  one  yielded  to  those  claims  with  an  air  so  regal  as 
Audley  Egerton.  But  amongst  his  many  liberal  actions  there 
was  none  which  seemed  more  worthy  of  panegyric  than  the  gen- 
erous favor  he  extended  to  the  son  of  his  wife's  poor  and  distant 
kinsfolk,  the  Leslies  of  Rood  Hall. 

Some  four  generations  back,  there  had  lived  a  certain  Squire 
Leslie,  a  man  of  large  acres  and  active  mind.  He  had  cause  to 
be  displeased  with  his  eldest  son,  and  though  he  did  not  disin- 
herit him,  he  left  half  his  property  to  a  younger. 

The  younger  had  capacity  and  spirit,  which  justified  the  pa- 
rental provision.  He  increased  his  fortune,  lifted  himself  into 
notice  and  consideration  by  public  services  and  a  noble  alliance. 
His  desc'endants  followed  his.  example,  and  took  rank  among  the 
first  commoners  in  England,  till  the  last  mate,  dying,  left  his  sole 
heiress  and  representative  in  one'  daughter,  Clementina,  after- 
ward married  to  Mr.  Egerton.  - 

Meanwhile  the  elder  son  of  the  foremeritioned  squire  had  mud- 
dled and  'sotted  away  much  of  his  share  in  the  Leslie  property, 
and  by  low  habits  and  mean  society,  lowered  in  repute  his  rep- 
resentation of  the  name. 

His  successors  imitated  him,  till  nothing  was  left  to  Randal's 
father,  Mr.  Maunder  Slugge  Leslie,  but  the  decayed  house,  which 
was  what  the  Germans  call -the  stamm  schloss  or  "stem  hall  "  of 
the  race,  and  the  wretched  lands  immediately  around  it. 

Still,  though  all  intercourse  between  the  two  branches  of  the 
family  had  ceased,  the  younger  had  always  felt  a  respect  for  the 
elder,  as  the  head  of  the  house.  And  it  \yas  supposed  that,  on 
her  death-bed,  Mrs.  Egerton  had  recommended  her  impoverished 
namesakes  and  kindred  to  the  care  of  her  husband  ;  for,  when 
he  returned  to  town,  after  Mrs.  Egerton's  death,  Audley  had 
sent  to  Mr.  Maunder  Slugge  Leslie  the  sum  of  ,£5000,  which  he 
said  his  wife,  leaving  no  written  will,  had  orally  bequeathed  as 
a  legacy  to  that  gentleman;  and  he  requested  permission  to 
charge  himself  with  the  education  of  the  eldest  son. 

Mr.  Maunder  Slugge  Leslie  might  have  done  great  things  for 
his  little  property  with  those  ^5006,  or  even  (kept  in  the  Three 
per  Gents)  the  interest  would  have  afforded  a  material  addition 
to  his  comforts.  But  a  neighboring  solicitor,  havfng  caught 
scent  of  the  legacy,  hunted  it  down  into  his  own  hands,  on  pre- 
tence of  having  found  a  capital  in  vestment  in  a  canal.  And  when 
the  Solicitor  had  got  possession  of  the:^566o,  he  went  off  with 
them  to  America. 

Meanwhile   Randal,  placed  by   Mr.  Egerton  at  an  excellent 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  85 

preparatory  school,  at  first  gave  no  signs  of  industry  or  talent : 
but  just  before  he  left  it,  there  came  to  the  school,  as  classical 
tutor,  an  ambitious  young  Oxford  man;  and  his  zeal — for  he 
was  a  capital  teacher — produced  a  great  effect  generally  on  the 
pupils,  and  especially  on  Randal  Leslie,  lie  talked  to  them 
much  in  private  on  the  advantages  of  learning,  and  shortly  after- 
ward he  exhibited  those  advantages  in  his  own  person  ;  for,  hav- 
ing edited  a  Greek  play  with  much  subtle  scholarship,  his  col- 
lege, which  some  slight  irregularities  of  his  had  displeased,  re- 
called him  to  its  venerable  bosom  by  the  presentation  of  a  fel- 
lowship. After  jthis  he.  took  orders,  became  a  college  tutor,  dis- 
tinguished himself  yet  more  by  a  treatise  on  the  Greek  accent, 
got  a  capital  living,  and  was  considered  on  the  high  road  to  a 
bishopric.  This  young  man,  then,  communicated  to  Randal  the 
thirst  for  knowledge  ;  and  when  the  boy  went;  afterwardito  Eton, 
he  applied  with  such  earnestness:  and  resolve,  that- his  fame  soon 
reached  the  ears  of  Audley;  and  that  person,  who  had  the  sympa- 
thy for  talentjand  yet  moare  forpurpoSe^which  often  characterizes 
ambitious  men,  went  to  Eton  to  see  him.  From  that  time  Audley 
evinced  great  and  almost  fatherly  interestin  thebriHiant  Etonian ; 
and  Randal  always  spent  with  him  some  days  in  each  vacation. 
I  have  said  that  Egerton's  conduct  with  respect  to  this  boy 
was  more  praiseworthy  than  most  of  those  generous  actions  for 
which  he  was  renowned,  since  to  this  the  world  gave  no  applause. 
What  a  man  does  within  the  range  of  his  family  connections 
does  not  darry  with  it.that  falat  which  invests  a  munificence  ex- 
hibited on  public  occasions.  Either  people  care  nothing  about 
it,  or  tacitly  suppose  it  to  be  but  his  duty.  It  was  true,  too,  as 
the  Squire  had  observed,  that  Randal  Leslie  was  even  less  dis- 
tantly related  to  the  Hazeldeans  than  to  Mrs.  Egerton,  since 
Randal's  grandfather  had  actually  married  a  Miss  Hazeldean 
(the  highest  worldly  connection  that  branch  of.  the  family  had 
formed  since  the  great  split  I  have  commemorated).  But  Aud- 
ley Egerton  never  appeared  aware  of  that  fact.  As  he  was  not 
himself  descended  from  the  Hazeldeans,  he  did  not  trouble  him- 
self about  their  genealogy  ;  and  he  took  care  to  impress  it  upon 
the  Leslies  that  his  generosity  on  their  behalf  was  solely  to  be 
ascribed  to  his  respect  for  his  wife's  memory  and  kindred.  Still 
the  Squire  had  felt  as  if  his  "  distant  brother  "  implied  a  rebuke 
on  his  own  neglect  of  these  poor  Leslies,  by  the  liberality  Aud- 
ley evinced  toward  them  :  and  this  had  made  him  doubly  sore 
when  the  name  of  Randal  Leslie  was  mentioned.  But  the  fact 
really  was,  that  the  Leslies  of  Rood  had  so  shrunk  out  of  all  no>- 
tice  that  the  Squire  had  actually  forgotten  their  existence,  until 


86  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Randal  became  thus  indebted  to  his  brother  ;  and  then  he  felt  a 
pang  of  remorse  that  any  one  save  himself,  the  head  of  the  Hazel- 
deans,  should  lend  a  helping  hand  to  the  grandson  of  aHazeldean. 
But  having  thus,  somewhat  too  tediously,  explained  the  po- 
sition of  Audley  Egerton,  whether  in  the  world  or  in  relation 
to  his  young  protfg^\  may  now  permit  him  to  receive  and  to 
read  his  letters. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

MR.  EGERTON  glanced  over  the  pile  of  letters  placed  beside 
him,  and  first  he  tore  up  some,  scarcely  read,  and  threw  them  into 
the  waste-basket.  Public  men  have  such  odd,  out-of-the-way 
letters,  that  their  waste-baskets  are  never  empty  :  letters  from 
amateur  financiers  proposing  new  ways  to  pay  off  the  National 
Debt  ;  letters  from  America  (never  free),  asking  for  auto- 
graphs ;  letters  from  fond  mothers  in  country  villages,  recom- 
mending some  miracle  of  a  son  for  a  place  in  the  King's  ser- 
vice ;  letters  from  freethinkers  in  reproof  of  bigotry  ;  letters 
from  bigots  in  reproof  of  freethinkers;  letters  signed  Brutus 
Redivivus,  containing  the  agreeable  information  that  the  writer 
has  a  dagger  for  tyrants,  if  the  Danish  claims  are  not  forthwith 
adjusted^  letters  signed  Matilda  or  Caroline,  stating  that  Caro- 
line or  Matilda  has  seen  the  public  man's  portrait  at  the  Exhi- 
bition, and  that  a  heart  sensible  to  its  attractions  may  be  found 
at  No.  — ,  Piccadilly  ;  letters  from  beggars,  impostors,  mono- 
maniacs, speculators,  jobbers — all  food  for  the  waste-basket. 

From  the  correspondence  thus  winnowed,  Mr.  Egerton  first 
selected  those  on  business,  which  he  put  methodically  together 
in  one  division  of  his  pocket-book  :  and  secondly,  those  of  a 
private  nature,  which  he  as  carefully  put  into  another.  Of 
these  last  there  were  but  three — one  from  his  steward,  one  from 
Harvey  L'Estrange,  one  from  Randal  Leslie.  It  was  his  cus- 
tom to  answer  his  correspondence  at  his  office  ;  and  to  his 
office,  a  few  minutes  afterward,  he  slowly  took  his  way.  Many 
a  passenger  turned  back  to  look  again  at  the  firm  figure,  which, 
despite  the  hot  summer  day,  was  buttoned  up  to  the  throat ; 
and  the  black  frock-coat  thus  worn  well  became  the  erect  air 
and  the  deep,  full  chest  of  the  handsome  senator.  When  he 
entered  Parliament  Street,  Audley  Egerton  was  joined  by  one 
of  his  colleagues,  also  on  his  way  to  the  cares  of  office. 

After  a  few  observations  on  the  last  debate,  this  gentleman  said : 

"  By  the  way,  can  you  dine  with  me  next  Saturday,  to  meet 
Lansmere  ?  He  comes  up  to  town  to  vote  for  us  on  Monday." 

"  I  had  asked  some  people  to  dine  with  me,"  answered  Egerton, 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  87 

"  but  I  will  put  them  off.  I  see  Lord  Lansmere  too  seldom  to 
miss  any  occasion  to  meet  a  man  whom  I  respect  so  much." 

"  So  seldom  !  True,  he  is  very  little  in  town  ;  but  why  don't 
you  go  and  see  him  in  the  country  ?  Good  shooting — pleasant, 
old-fashioned  house." 

"  My  dear  Westbourne,  his  house  is  '  nimium  vicina  Cremona,' 
close  to  a  borough  in  which  I  have  been  burned  in  effigy." 

"  Ha — ha — yes — I  remember  you  first  came  in  Parliament 
for  that  snug  little  place  ;  but  Lansmere  himself  never  found 
fault  with  your  votes,  did  he  ? " 

"  He  behaved  very  handsomely,  and  said  he  had  not  pre- 
sumed to  consider  me  his  mouth-piece  ;  and  then,  too,  I  am 
so  intimate  with  L'Estrange." 

"Is  that  queer  fellow  ever  coming  back  to  England  ?" 

"  He  comes,  generally,  every  year,  for  a  few  days,  just  to  see 
his  father  and  motherland  then  returns  to  the  Continent." 

"  I  never  met  him." 

"  He  comes  in  September,  or  October,  when  you,  of  course, 
are  not  in  town,  and  it  is  in  town  that  the  Lansmeres  meet  him." 

"  Why  does  he  not  go  to  them  ?  " 

"  A  man  in  England  but  once  a  year,  and  for  a  few  days,  has 
so  much  to  do  in  London,  I  suppose  ? " 

"  Is  he  as  amusing  as  ever  ?  " 

Edgerton  nodded. 

"  So  distinguished  as  he  might  be  !  "  remarked  Lord  West- 
bourne. 

"  So  distinguished  as  he  is  !  "  said  Egerton  formally  ;  "  an 
officer  selected  for  praise,  even  in  such  fields  as  Quatre  Bras 
and  Waterloo  ;  a  scholar,  too,  of  the  finest  taste  ;  and  as  an  ac- 
complished gentleman,  matchless  !  " 

"I  like  to  hear  one  man  praise  another  so  warmly  in  these 
ill-natured  days,"  answered  Lord  Westbourne.  "But  still, 
though  L'Estrange  is  doubtless  all  you  say,  don't  you  think  he 
rather  wastes  his  life- — living  abroad  ?  " 

"  And  trying  to  be  happy,  Westbourne  ?  Are  you  sure  it  is 
not  we  who  waste  our  lives  ?  but  I  can't  stay  to  hear  your  an- 
swer. Here  we  are  at  the  door  of  my  prison." 

"On  Saturday,  then  ?" 

"  On  Saturday.     Good-day." 

For  the  next  hour,  or  more,  Mr.  Egerton  was  engaged  on  the 
affairs  of  the  state.  He  then  snatched  an  interval  of  leisure 
(while  awaiting  a  report,  which  he  had  instructed  a  clerk  to 
make  him),  in  order  to  reply  to  his  letters.  Those  on  public 
business  were  soon  despatched  ;  and  throwing  his  replies  aside, 


88 

to  be  sealed  by  a  subordinate  hand,  he  drew  out  the  letters 
which  he  had  put  apart  as  private. 

He  attended  first  to  that  of  his  steward  ;  the  steward's  letter 
was  long,  the  reply  was  contained  in  three  lines.  Pitt  himself 
was  scarcely  more  negligent  of  his  private  interests  and  con- 
cerns than  Audley  Egerton — yet^  withal,  Audley  Egerton  was 
said  by  his  enemies  to  be  an  egotist. 

The  next  letter  he  wrote  was  to  Randal,  and  that,  though 
longer,  was  far  from  prolix  :  it  ran  thus — 

"  Dear  Mr.  Leslie, — I  appreciate  your  delicacy  in  consulting 
me  whether  you  should  accept  Frank  Hazeldean's  invitation  to 
call  at  the  Hall.  Since  you  are  asked,  I  can  see  no  objection  to  it. 
I  should  be  sorry  if  you  appeared  to  force  yourself  there;  and  for 
the  rest,  as  a  general  rule,  I  think  a  young  man  who  has  hisrown 
way  to  make  in  life  had  better  avoid  all  intimacy  with  those  of  his 
own  age  who  have  no  kindred  objects  nor  congenial  pursuits. 

"  As  soon  as  this  visit  is  paid,  I  wish  you  to  come  to  London. 
The  report  1  receive  of  your,  progress  at  Eton  renders  it  un- 
necessary, in  my  judgment,  that  you  should  return  there.  If 
your  father  has  no  objection,  I  propose  that  you  should  go  to 
Oxford  at  the  ensuing  term.  Meanwhile,  I  have  engaged  a 
gentleman,  who  is  a  fellow  of  Baliol,  to,  read  with  you.  He  is 
of  opinion,  judging  only  by  your  .high  repute  at  Eton,  that  you 
may  at  once  obtain  a  scholarship  in  that  college.  If  you  do  so, 
I  shall  look  upon  your  career  in  li|fe  as  assured. 

"  Your  affectionate  friend,  and  sincere  well-wisher, 

"  A.  E." 

The  reader  will  remark  that,  in  this  letter,  there  is  a  certain 
tone  of  formality.  Mr,  Egerton  does  not  call  \i\sprotfyt  "  Dear 
Randal,"  as  would  seem  natural,  but  coldly  and  stiffly,  "  Dear 
Mr.  Leslie.-"  He  hints,  also  that  the  boy  has  his  own  way  to 
make  in  life.  Is  this  meant  to  guard  against  too  sanguine 
notions  of  inheritance,  which  his  generosity  may  have  excited  ? 

The  letter  to  Lord  L'Estrange  was  of  a  very  different  kind 
from  the  others.  It  was  long,  and  full  of  such  little  scraps  of 
news  and  gossip  as  may  interest  friends  in  a  foreign  lapd  ;  it 
was  written  gayly,  and  as  with  a  wish  to  cheer  his  friend  ;  you 
could  see  that  it  was  a  reply  to  a  melancholy  letter  ;  and  in  the 
whole  tone  and  spirit  there  was  an  affection,  even  to  tenderness, 
of  which  those  who  most  liked  Audley  Egerton  would  have 
scarcely  supposed  him  capable.  Yet,  notwithstanding,  there 
was  a  kind  of  constraint  in  the  letter,  which  perhaps  only  the 
fine  tact  of  a  woman  would  detect.  It  had  not  the  abandon, 
that  hearty  self-outpouring,  which  you  might  expect  would  char- 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  89 

acterize  the  letters  of  two  such  friends,  who  had  been  boys  at 
school  together,  and  which  did  breathe  indeed  in  all  the  abrupt 
rambling  sentences  of  his  correspondent.  But  where  was  the 
evidence  of  the  constraint  ?  Egerton  is  off-hand  enough  where 
his  pen  runs  glibly  through  paragraphs  that'relate  to  others  ;  it 
is  simply  that  he  says  nothing  about  himself — that  he  avoids  all 
reference  to  the  inner  world  of  sentiment  and  feeling.  <  But  per- 
haps, after  all,  the  man  has  no  sentiment  and  feeling  !  How 
can  you  expect  that  a  steady  personage  in  practical  life,  whose 
mornings,  are' spent  in  Downing  Street, -and  whose  nights,  are 
consumed  in  watching  Government  bills  through  a  committee, 
can  write  in  the  same  style  as  an  idle  dreamer  amidst  the  pines 
of  Ravenna,  or  on  the  banks  of  Como  ? 

Audley  had  just  finished  this  epistle,  such  as  it  was,  when  the 
attendant  in  waiting  announced  the  arrival  of  a  deputation  from 
a  provincial  trading  town,  the  members  of  which  deputation  he 
had  appointed  to  meet  at  two  o'clock.  There  was  no  office  in' 
London  at  which  deputations  were  kept  waiting  less  than  at 
that  over  which  Mr.  Egerton  presided. 

The  deputation  entered — some  score  or  so  of  middle-aged, 
comfortable-looking  persons,  who,  nevertheless,  had  their  griev- 
ance— and  considered  their  own  interests,  and  those  of  thecoun  try, 
menaced  by  a  certain  clause  in  a  bill  brought  in  by  Mr.  Egerton. 

The  Mayor  of  the  town  was  the  chief  spokesman,  and  he  spoke1 
well— but  in  a  style  to  which  the  dignified  official  was  not  accus- 
tomed. It  was  a  slap-dash  style — unceremonious,  free,  and  easy— 
an-.American  style.  And,  indeed,  there  was  something  altogether 
in  the  appearance  and  bearing  of  the  Mayor  which  savored  of 
residence  in  the  Great  Republic.  He  was  a  very  handsome  man, 
but  with  a  look  sharp  and  domineering — the  look  of  a  man  who 
did  not  care  a  straw  for  president  or  monarch,  and  who  enjoyed 
the  liberty  to  speak  his  mind  and  "wallop  his  own  nigger  !  " 

His  fellow-burghers  evidently  regarded  him  with  great  re- 
spect ;  and  Mr.  Egerton  had  penetration  enough  to  perceive  that 
Mr.  Mayor  must  be  a  rich  man,  as  well  as  an  eloquent  one,  to 
have  overcome  those  impressions  of  soreness  or  jealousy  which 
his  tone  was  calculated  to  create  to  the  self  love  of  his  equals. 

Mr.  Egerton  was  far  too'Wise  to  be  easily  offended  by  mere 
manner  ;  and,  though  he  stared  somewhat  haughtily  when  he 
found  his  observations  actually  pooh-poohed,  he  was  not  above 
being  convinced.  There  was  much  sense  and  much  justice  in 
Mr.  Mayor's  arguments,' and  the  statesman  civilly  promised  to 
take  them  into  full  consideration. 

He  then  bowed  out  the  deputation  ;  but  scarcely  had  the  door 


QO  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

closed  before  it  opened  again,  and  Mr.  Mayor  presented  himself 
alone,  saying  aloud  to  his  companions  in  the  passage,  "  I  forgot 
something  I  had  to  say  to  Mr.  Egerton — wait  below  for  me." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Mayor,"  said  Audley,  pointing  to  a  seat,  "  what 
else  would  you  suggest  ?  " 

The  Mayor  looked  round  to  see  that  the  door  was  closed  ; 
and  then,  drawing  his  chair  close  to  Mr.  Egerton's,  laid  his 
forefinger  on  that  gentleman's  arm,  and  said,  "  I  think  I  speak 
to  a  man  of  the  world,  sir  ?  "  .  ; 

Mr.  Egerton  bowed,  and  made  no  reply  by  word,  but  he 
gently  removed  his  arm  from  the  touch  of  the  forefinger. 

MR.  MAYOR.— You  observe,  sir,  that  I  did  not  ask  the  members 
whom  we  return  to  Parliament  to  accompany  us.  Do  better  with- 
out 'em.  You  know  they  are  both  in  Opposition — out-and-outers. 

MR.  EGERTON. — It  is  a  misfortune  which  the  Government 
cannot  remember,  when  the  question  is  whether  the  trade  of 
the  town  itself  is  to  be  served  or  injured. 

MR.  MAYOR. — Well,  I  guess  you  speak  handsome,  sir.  But 
you'd  be  glad  to  have  two  members  to  support  Ministers  after 
the  next  election. 

MR.  EGERTON  (smiling).— Unquestionably,  Mr.  Mayor. 

MR.  MAYOR. — And  I  can  do  it,  Mr.  Egerton.  I  may  say  I 
have  the  town  in  my  pocket;  so  I  ought — I  spend  a  great  deal  of 
money  in  it.  Now,  you  see,  Mr.  Egerton,  I  have  passed  apart  of 
my  life  in  a  land  of  liberty — the  United  States — and  I  come  to  the 
point  when  I  speak  to  a  man  of  the  world.  I'm  a  man  of  the  world 
myself, sir.  And  so,  if  the  Government  will  do  something  for  me, 
why,  I'll  do  something  for  the  Government.  Two  votes  for  a 
free  and  independent  town  like  ours — that's  something,  isn't  it  ? 

MR.  EGERTON  (taken  by  surprise). — Really,  I 

MR.  MAYOR  (advancing  his  chair  still  nearer,  and  interrupt- 
ing the  official).— No  nonsense,  you  see,  on  one  side  or  the 
other.  The  fact  is,  that  I've  taken  it  into  my  head  that  I  should 
like  to  be  knighted.  You  may  well  look  surprised,  Mr.  Egerton — 
trumpery  thing  enough,  I  dare  say;  still,  every  man  has  his  weak- 
ness, and  I  should  like  to  be  Sir  Richard.  Well,  if  you  can  get  me 
made  Sir  Richard,  you  may  just  name  your  two  members  for  the 
next  election — that  is,  if  they  belong  to  your  own  set,  enlightened 
men,  up  to  the  times.  That's  speaking  fair  and  manful,  isn't  it? 

MR.  EGERTON  (drawing  himself  up). — I  am  at  a  loss  to  guess 
why  you  should  select  me,  sir,  for  this  very  extraordinary  propo- 
sition. 

MR.  MAYOR  (nodding  good-humoredly). — Why,  you  see,  I 
don't  go  along  with  theGovernment;  you're  the  best  of  the  bunch. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  9! 

And  maybe  you'd  like  to  strengthen  your  own  party.  This  is 
quite  between  you  and  me,  you  understand:  honor's  a  jewel ! 

MR.  EGEKTON  (with  great  gravity). — Sir,  I  am  obliged  by 
your  good  opinion  ;  but  I  agree  with  my  colleagues  in  all  the 
great  questions  that  affect  the  Government  of  the  country,and — 

MR.  MAYOR  (interrupting  him). — -Ah,  of  course,  you  must  say 
so;  very  right.  But  I  guess  things  would  go  differently  if  you 
were  Prime  Minister.  However,  I  have  another  reason  for  speak- 
ing to  you  about  my  little  job.  You  see  you  were  member  for 
Lansmere  once,  and  I  think  you  only  came  in  by  a  majority  of 
two,  eh  ? 

MR.  EGERTON. — I  know  nothing  of  the  particulars  of  that 
election;  I  was  not  present. 

MR.  MAYOR. — No  ;  but  luckily  for  you,  two  relations  of 
mine  were,  and  they  voted  for  you.  Two  votes,  and  you  came 
in  by  two.  Since  then,  you  have  got  into  very  snug  quarters 
here,  and  I  think  we  have  a  claim  on  you —  ' 

MR.  EGERTON. — Sir,l  acknowledge  no  such  claim;  I  was  and 
am  a  stranger  to  Lansmere;  and,  if  the  electors  did  me  the  honor 
to  return  me  to  Parliament,  it  was  in  compliment  rather  to — 

MR.  MAYOR  (again  interrupting  the  official). — Rather  to  Lord 
Lansmere,  you  were  going  to  say  ;  unconstitutional  doctrine 
that,  I  fancy.  Peer  of  the  realm.  But  never  mind,  I  know  the 
world  :  and  I'd  ask  Lord  Lansmere  to  do  my  affair  for  me,  only 
he  is  a  pompous  sort  of  man  ;  might  be  qualmish  :  antiquated 
notions.  Not  up  to  snuff  like  you  and  me. 

MR.  EGERTON  (in  great  disgust,  and  settling  his  papers  before 
him). — Sir,  it  is  not  in  my  department  to  recommend  to  his 
Majesty  candidates  for  the  honor  of  knighthood,  and  it  is  still 
less  in  my  department  to  make  bargains  for  seats  in  Parliament. 

MR.  MAYOR.— Oh,  if  that's  the  case  you'll  excuse  me  ;  I 
don't  know  much  of  the  etiquette  in  these  matters.  But  I 
thought  that,  if  I  put  two  seats  in  your  hands,  for  your  own 
friends,  you  might  contrive  to  take  the  affair  into  your  depart- 
ment, whatever  it  was.  But  since  you  say  you  agree  with  your 
colleagues,  perhaps  it  comes  to  the  same  thing.  Now,  you  must 
not  suppose  I  want  to  sell  the  town,  and  that  I  can  change  and 
chop  my  politics  for  my  own  purpose.  No  such  thing  !  I 
don't  like  the  sitting  members:  I'm  all  for  progressing,  but 
they  go  too  much  ahead  for  me  ;  and,  since  the  Government  is 
disposed  to  move  a  little,  why,  I'd  as  lief  support  them  as  not. 
But,  in  common  gratitude,  you  see  (added  the  Mayor  coaxingly), 
I  ought  to  be  knighted  !  I  can  keep  up  the  dignity,  and  do 
credit  to  his  Majesty. 


92  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

MR.  EGERTON  (without  looking  up  from  his  papers). — I  can 
only  refer  you,  sir,  to  the  proper  quarter. 

MR.  MAYOR  '(impatiently). — Proper  quarter  !  Well,  since 
there  is  so  much  humbug  in  this-old  country  of  ours,  that  one 
must  go  through  all  the  forms  and  get  at  the  job  regularly,  Just 
tell  me  whom  I  ought  to  go  to. 

MR.  EGERTON  (beginning  to  be  amused  as  well  as  indig- 
nant).— If  you  want  a  knighthood,  Mr.  Mayor,  you  must  ask 
the  Prime  Minister  ;  if  you  want  to  give  the  Government  in- 
formation relative  to  seats  in  Parliament,  you  must  introduce 
yourself  to  Mr. ,  the  Secretary  of  the  Treasury. 

MR.  MAYOR.— And  if  I  go  to  the  last  chap,  what  do  you 
think  he'll  say  ? 

MR.  EGERTON  (the  amusement  preponderating  over  the  in- 
dignation).— He  will  say,  I  suppose,  that  you  must  not  put  the 
thing  in  the  light  in  which  you  have  put  it 'to  me  •  that  the 
Government  will  be  very'prouol  to  Have  the  confidence  of  your- 
self and  your  brother  electors  ;  "and  that  a  gentleman  like  you, 
in  the  proud  position  of  Mayor,  may  well  hope  to  be  knighted 
on  some  fitting  occasion,  but  that  you  must  not  talk  about  the 
knighthood  just  at  present,  and  must  confine  yourself  to  con- 
verting the  unfortunate  political  opinions  of  the  town. 

MR.  MAYOR. — Well,  I  guess  that  chap  there  would  want  to 
dome*  Not  quite  so  green,  Mr.  Egerton.  Perhaps  I  had 
better  go  at  Onee  to  the  fountain-head.  How  do  you  think 
the  Premier  would  take  it? 

MR.  •  EGERTON  (the  indignation  preponderating  over  the 
amusement).' — Probably  just  aslam  al>oiit  to  do. 

Mr.  Egerton  rang  the  bell  ;  the'  attendant  appeared. 

"  Show  Mr.  Mayor  the  way  out,"  said  the  Minister. 

The  Mayor  turned  round  sharply,  and  his  face  was  purple. 
He  walked  straight  to  the  door  ;  but  suffering  the  attendant  to 
precede  him  along  the  •corridor, -he  came  back  with  a  rapid 
stride,  and  clenching  his  hands,  and  with  a  voice  thick  with 
passion,  cried,  "  Some  day  or  other  I  will  make  you  smart  for 
this,  as  sure  as  my  name's  Dick  Avenel." 

"  Avenel  !  "  repeated  Egerton,  recoiling — "  Avenel  !  " 

But  the  Mayor  was  gone. : 

Audley  fell  into  a  deep  and  musing  reverie,  which  seemed 
gloomy,  and  lasted  till  the  attendant  announced  that  the  horses 
were  at  the  door. 

He  then  looked  up,  still  abstractedly,  and  saw  his  letter  to 
Harley  L'Estrange  open  on  the  table.  He  drew  it  toward  him, 
and  wrote,  4<  A  man  has  just  left  me,  who  calls  himself  Aven — " 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  93 

In  the  middle  of  the  name  his  pen  stopped.  "  No,  no,"  mut- 
tered the  writer,  "  what  folly  tore-open  the  old  wounds  there" 
and  he  carefully  erased  the  words. 

•Audley  Egerton  did  not  ride  in  the  Park  that  day,  as  was  his 
wont,  but  dismissed  his  groom  ;  and,  turning  his  horse's  head 
toward  Westminster  Bridge,  took  his  solitary  way  into  the  coun- 
try. He  rode  ajt  first  slowly,  as  if  in  thought  ;  then  fast,  as  if 
trying  to  escape  from  thought.  He  wa"s  later  than  usual  at  the 
House  that  evening,  and  he  looked  pale  and  fatigued.  But  he 
had  to  speak,  and  he  spoke  well. 


IN  spite  of  all  his  Machiavellian  wisdom,  Dr.  Riccabocca  had 
been  foiled  in  his  attempt  to  seduce  Leonard  Fairfield  into  his 
service,  even  though  he  succeeded  in  partially  winning  over  the 
widow  to  his  views,  .  For  to  her  he  represented  the  worldly  ad- 
vantages of  the  thing.  Lenny  would  beam  to  be  fit  for  more  than 
a  day-laborer  ;  he  would  learn  gardening  in  all  its  branches  — 
rise  some  day  to  be  a  head  gardener.  "  And,"  said  Riccabocca, 
"  I  will  take  care  of  his  book-learning,  and  teach  him  whatever 
he  has  a  head  for." 

•"  He  has  a  head  for  everything,''  said  the  widow. 

"  Then,"  said  the  wise  man,  "everything  shall  go  into  it." 

The  widow  was  certainly  dazzled  ;  for,  as  we  have  seen,  she 
highly  prized  scholarly  distinction,  and  she  knew  that  the  Par- 
son looked  upon  Riccabocca  as  a  wondrous  learned  man.  But 
still  Riccaboeca  was  said  to  be  a  Papist^  and  suspected  to  be  a 
conjurer.  Her  scruples  on  both  these  points  the  Italian,  who  was 
an  adept  in  the  art  of  talking  over  the  fair  sex,  would  no  doubt 
have  dissipated,  if  there  had  been  any  use  in  it  ;  but  Lenny  put 
a  dead  stop  to  all  negotiations.  He  had  taken  a  mortal  dislike 
to  Riccabocca  :  he  was  very  much  frightened  by  him—  ami  the 
spectacles,  the  pipe,  the  cloak,  the  long  hair,  and.  the  red  um- 
brella; and  said  so  sturdily,  in  reply  to  every  overture  —  "  Please, 
sir,  I'd  rather  not  ;  I'd  rather  stay  along  with  mother,"  —  that 
Riccabocca  was  forced  to  suspend  all  further  experiments  in  his 
Machiavellian  diplomacy.  He  was  not  at  all  cast  down,  how- 
ever, by  his  first  failure  ;  on  -the  contrary,  he  was  one  of  those 
men  whom  opposition  stimulates,  And  what  before  had  been 
but  a  suggestion  of  prudence,  became  an  object  bf  desire.  Plenty 
of  other  lads  might  no  doubt  be  had,  on  as  reasonable  terms  as 
Lenny  Fairneld  ;  but  the  moment  ^Lenny  presumed  to  baffle  the 
Italian's  designs  upon  'him,  the-special  acquisition  of  Lenny  be- 
came of  paramount  importance  in  the  eyes  of  Riccabocca. 


94  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Jackeymo,  however,  lost  all  his  interest  in  the  traps,  snares, 
and  gins  which  his  master  proposed  to  lay  for  Leonard  Fairfield, 
in  the  more  immediate  surprise  that  awaited  him  on  learning 
that  Dr.  Riccabocca  had  accepted  an  invitation  to  pass  a  few 
days  at  the  Hall. 

"  There  will  be  no  one  there  but  the  family,"  said  Riccabocca. 
"  Poor  Giacomo,  a  little  chat  in  the  servants'  hall  will  do  you 
good ;  and  the  Squire's  beef  is  more  nourishing,  after  all,  than  the 
stickle-backs  and  minnows.  It  will  lengthen  your  life." 

"The  Padrone  jests,"  said  Jackeymo,  statelily;  "as  if  any 
one  could  starve  in  his  service." 

"  Urn,"  said  Riccabocca.  "  At  least,  faithful  friend,  you  have 
tried  that  experiment  as  far  as  human  nature  will  permit  ";  and 
he  extended  his  hand  to  his  fellow-exile  with  that  familiarity  which 
exists  between  servant  and  master  in  the  usages  of  the  Continent. 
Jackeymo  bent  low,  and  a  tear  fell  upon  the  hand  he  kissed. 

"  Cospeito  /  "  said  Dr.  Riccabocca,  "  a  thousand  mock  pearls 
do  not  make  up  the  cost  of  a  single  true  one  !  The  tears  of 
women — we  know  their  worth  ;  but  the  tear  of  an  honest 

man Fie,  Giacomo  ! — at  least  I  can  never  repay  you  this  ! 

Go  and  see  to  our  wardrobe." 

So  far  as  his  master's  wardrobe  was  concerned,  that  order  was 
pleasing  to  Jackeymo  ;  for  the  Doctor  had  in  his  drawers  suits 
which  Jackeymo  pronounced  to  be  as  good  as  new,  though 
many  a  long  year  had  passed  since  they  left  the  tailor's  hands. 
But  when  Jackeymo  came  to  examine  the  state  of  his  own 
clothing  department,  his  face  grew  considerably  longer.  It  was 
not  that  he  was  without  other  clothes  than  those  on  his  back — 
quantity  was  there,  but  the  quality  !  Mournfully  he  gazed  on 
two  suits  complete  in  the  three  separate  members  of  which  man's 
raiments  are  composed  ;  the  one  suit  extended  at  length  upon 
his  bed,  like  a  veteran  stretched  by  pious  hands  after  death;  the 
other  brought  piecemeal  .to  the  invidious  light — the  torso  placed 
upon  a  chair,  the  limbs  dangling  down  from  Jackeymo's  melan- 
choly arm.  No  bodies  long  exposed  at  the  Morgue  could 
evince  less  sign  of 'resuscitation  than  those  respectable  defuncts  ! 
For,  indeed,  Jackeymo  had  been  less  thrifty  of  his  apparel — more 
profusus  sui — than  his  master.  In  the  earliest  days  of  their  exile, 
he  preserved  the  decorous  habit  of  dressing  for  dinner — it  was  a 
respect  due  to  the  Padrone — and  that  habit  had  lasted  till  the 
two  habits  on  which  it  necessarily  depended  had  evinced  the  first 
symptoms  of  decay;  then  the  eveningclothes  had  been  taken  into 
morning  wear,in  which  hard  service  they  had  breathed  their  last. 

The  Doctor,  notwithstanding  his  general  philosophical  ab- 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  95 

straction  from  such  household  details,  had  more  than  once  said, 
rather  in  pity  to  Jackeymo  than  with  an  eye  to  that  respectability 
which  the  costume  of  the  servant  reflects  on  the  dignity  of  the 
master,  "Giacomo,  thou  wantest  clothes;  fit  thyself  out  of 
mine!" 

And  Jackeymo  had  bowed  his  gratitude,  as  if  the  donation 
had  been  accepted  ;  but  the  fact  was,  that  that  same  fitting-out 
was  easier  said  than  done.  For  though — thanks  to  an  exist- 
ence mainly  upon  stickle-backs  and  minnows — both  Jackeymo 
and  Riccabocca  had  arrived  at  that  state  which  the  longevity 
af  misers  proves  to  be  most  healthful  to  the  human  frame — 
viz.:  skin  and  bone — yet  the  bones  contained  in  the  skin  of 
Riccabocca  all  took  longitudinal  directions  ;  while  those  in  the 
skin  of  Jackeymo  spread  out  latitudinally.  And  you  might  as 
well  have  made  the  bark  of  a  Lombardy  poplar  serve  for  the 
trunk  of  some  dwarfed  and  pollarded  oak — in  whose  hollow  the 
Babes  of  the  Wood  could  have  slept  at  their  ease — as  have  fitted 
out  Jackeymo  from  the  garb  of  Riccabocca.  Moreover,  if  the 
skill  of  the  tailor  could  have  accomplished  that  undertaking,  the 
faithful  Jackeymo  would  never  have  had  the  heart  to  avail  him- 
self of  the  generosity  of  his  master.  He  had  a  sort  of  religious 
sentiment,  too,  about  those  vestments  of  the  Padrone.  The 
ancients,  we  know,  when  escaping  from  shipwreck,  suspended 
in  the  votive  temple  the  garments  in  which  they  had  struggled 
through  the  wave.  Jackeymo  looked  on  those  relics  of  the 
past  with  a  kindred  superstition.  "  This  coat  the  Padrone  wore 
on  such  an  occasion.  I  remember  the  very  evening  the  Padrone 
last  put  on  those  pantaloons  !  "  And  coat  and  pantaloons  were 
tenderly  dusted,  and  carefully  restored  to  their  sacred  rest. 

But  now,  after  all,  what  was  to  be  done  ?  Jackeymo  was  much 
too  proud  to  exhibit  his  person  to  the  eyes  of  the  Squire's  but- 
ler, in  habiliments  discreditable  to  himself  and  the  Padrone. 
In  the  midst  of  his  perplexity  the  bell  rang,  and  he  went  down 
into  the  parlor. 

Riccabocca  was  standing  on  the  hearth,  under  his  symbolical 
representation  of  the  "Patriae  Exul." 

"  Giacomo,"  quoth  he,  "  I  have  been  thinking  that  thou  hast 
never  done  what  I  told  thee,  and  fitted  thyself  out  from  my 
superfluities.  But  we  are  going  now  into  the  great  world  ;  visit- 
ing once  begun,  Heaven  knows  where  it  may  stop  !  Go  to  the 
nearest  town,  and  get  thyself  clothes.  Things  are  dear  in  Eng- 
land. Will  this  suffice  ?  "  and  Riccabocca  extended  a  ^5  note. 

Jackeymo,  we  have  seen,  was  more  familiar  with  his  master 
than  we  formal  English  permit  our  domestics  to  be  with  us.  But 


96  MY    NOVEL ;    OR 

in  his  familiarity  he  was  usually  respectful.  This  time,  how- 
ever, respect  deserted  him. 

"  The  Padrone  is  mad  !  "  he  exclaimed  ;  "  he  would  fling  away 
his  whole  fortune  if  I  would  let  him.  Five  pounds  English,  or 
a  hundred  and  twenty-six  pounds  Milanese  !*  Santa  Maria  ! 
Unnatural  father  !  And  what  is  to  become  of  the  poor  Signo- 
rina  ?  Is  this  the  way  you  are  to  marry  her  in  the  foreign  land  ?  " 

"  Giacomo,"  said  Riccabocca,  bowing  his  head  to  the  storm, 
"  the  Signorina  to-morrow  ;  to-day  the  honor  of  the  house.  Thy 
small-clothes,  Giacomo.  Miserable  man,  thy  small-clothes  !  " 

"  It  is  just,"  said  Jackeymo,  recovering  himself,  and  with 
humility  ;  "and  the  Padrone  does  right  to  blame  me,  but  not 
in  so  cruel  a  way.  It  is  just — the  Padrone  lodges  and  boards 
me,  and  gives  me  handsome  wages,  and  he  has  a  right  to. expect 
that  I  should  not  go  in  this  figure." 

"  For  the  board  and  the  lodgment,  .good,"  said  Riccabocca. 
"  For  the  handsome  wages,  they  are  the  visions  of  thy  fancy  !  " 

"  They  are  no  such  things,"  said  Jackeymo;  "  they  are  only  in 
arrear.  As  if  the  Padrone  could  not  pay  them  some  day  or  other 
— as  if  I  was  demeaning  myself  by  serving  a  master  who  did  not 
.intend  to  pay  his  servants  !  And  can't  I  wait  ?  Have  I  not  my 
savings  too  ?  But  be  cheered,  be  cheered  ;  you  shall  be  contented 
with  me.  I  have  two  beautiful  suits  still.  I  was  arranging 
them  when  you  rang  for  me.  You  shall  see,  you  shall  see." 

And  Jackeymo  hurried  from  the  room,  hurried  back  into  his 
own  chamber,  unlocked  a  little  trunk  which  he  kept  at  his  bed 
head,  tossed  out  a  variety  of  small  articles,  and  from  the  deep- 
est depth  extracted  a  leather  purse.  He  emptied  the  contents 
on  the  bed.  They  were  chiefly  Italian  coins,  some  five-franc 
pieces,  a  silver  medallion,  enclosing  a  little  image  of  his  patron 
saint — San  Giacomo— one  solid  English  guinea,  and  somewhat 
more  than  a  pound's  worth  in  English  silver.  Jackeymo  put  back 
the  foreign  coins,  saying,  prudently,  "  One  will  lose  on  them 
here":  he  seized  the  English  coins,  and  counted  them  out.  "But 
are  you  enough,  you  rascals  !  "  quoth-  he,  angrily,  giving  them  a 
good  shake.  His  eye  caught  sight  of  the  medallion — :he paused; 
and  after  eyeing  the  tiny  representation  of  the  saint,  with  great 
deliberation,  he  added  in  -a  sentence  which; he  must  have  picked 
up  from  the  proverbial  aphorisms  of  his  master — 

"  What's  the  difference  between  the  enemy  who  does  not  hurt 
me,  and  the  friend  who  does  not  serve  me  ?  Monsignort  San 
Giacomo^ my  patron  saint,  you  are  of  very  little  use  tome  in  the 
leather  bag.  But  i/  you  help  me  to  get  into  a  new  pair  of  small- 

'  *  By  the  pounds  Milanese,  Giacomo  means  the  Milanese  lira. 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  97 

clothes  on  this  important  occasion,  you  will  be  a  friend  indeed. 
Alia  bisogna.  Monsignore."  Then,  gravely  kissing  the  medallion, 
he  thrust  it  into  one  pocket,  the  coins  into  the  other,  made  up  a 
bundle  of  the  two  defunct  suits,  and  muttering  to  himself, 
"  Beast,  miser  that  I  am,  to  disgrace  the  Padrone,  with  all  these 
savings  in  his  se-rvice  !  "  ran  down  stairs  into  his  pantry,  caught 
up  his  hat  ^nd  stick,  and  in  a  few  moments  more  was  seen  trudg- 
ing off  to  the  neighboring  town  of  L — . 

Apparently  the  poor  Italian  succeeded,  for  he  came  back  that 
evening,  in  time  to  prepare  the  thin  gruel  which  made  his  mas- 
ter's supper,  with  a  suit  of  black — a  little  threadbare,  but  still 
highly  respectable — two  shirt  fronts,  and  two  white  cravats.  But, 
out  of  all  this  finery,  Jackeyrno  held  the  small-clothes  in  especial 
veneration  ;  for,  as  they  had  cost  exactly  what  the  medallion  had 
sold  for,  so  it  seemed  to  him  that  San  Giacomo  had  heard  his 
prayer  in  that  quarter  to  which  he  had  more  exclusively  directed 
the  saint's  attention.  The  other  habiliments  came  to  him  in 
the  merely  human  process  of  sale  and  barter  ;  the  smallclothes 
were  the  personal  gratuity  of  San  Giacomo  ! 
;" 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

. 
LIFE  has  been  subjected  to  many  ingenious  comparisons  ;  and 

if  we  do  not  understand  it  any  better,  it  is  not  for  want  of  what 
is  called  "reasoning  by  illustration."  Amongst  other  resem- 
blances, there  are  moments  when,  to  a  quiet  contemplator,  it 
suggests  the  imag^of  one  of  those  rotatory  entertainments  com- 
monly seen  in  fairs  and  known  by  the  name  of  "  whirligigs  or 
roundabouts,"  in  which  each  participator  of  the  pastime,  seated 
on  his  hobby,  is  always  apparently  in  the  act  of  pursuing  some 
one  before  him,  while  he  is  pursued  by  some  one  behind.  Men, 
and  women  too,  are  naturally  animals  of  chase  ;  the  greatest 
still  find  something  to  follow,  and  there  is  no  one  too  humble  not 
to  be  an  object  of  prey  to  another.  Thus,  confining  our  view  to 
the  village  of  Hazeldean  we  behold  in  this  whirligig  Dr.  Ricca- 
bocca  spurring  his  hobby  after  Lenny  Fairfield  ;  and  Miss  Je- 
mima, on  her  decorous  side-saddle,  whipping  after  Dr.  Ricca- 
bocca.  Why,  with  so  long  and  intimate  a  conviction  of  the 
villany  of  our  sex,  Miss  Jemima  should  resolve  upon  giving  the 
male  animal  one  more  chance  of  redeeming  itself  in  her  eyes,  I 
leave  to  the  explanation  of  those  gentlemen  who  profess  to  find 
"  their  only  books  in  woman's  looks."  Perhaps  it  might  be  from 
the  over-tenderness  and  clemency  of  Miss  Jemima's  nature; 
perhaps  it  might  be  that,  as  yet,  she  had  only  experienced  the  vil- 


98  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

lany  of  man  born  and  reared  in  these  cold  northern  climates  ; 
and  in  the  land  of  Petrarch  and  Romeo,  of  the  citron  and  myrtle, 
there  was  reason  to  expect  that  the  native  monster  would  be 
more  amenable  to  gentle  influences,  less  obstinately  hardened  in 
his  iniquities.  Without  entering  further  into  these  hypotheses, 
it  is  sufficient  to  say,  that,  on  Signer  Riccabocca's  appearance  in 
the  drawing-room  at  Hazeldean,  Miss  Jemima  felt  more  than 
ever  rejoiced  that  she  had  relaxed  in  his  favor  her  general  hos- 
tility to  men.  In  truth,  though  Frank  saw  something  quizzical 
in  the  old-fashioned  and  outlandish  cut  of  the  Italian's  sober 
dress  ;:in  his  long  hair,  and  the  chapeau  bras,  over  which  he 
bowed  so  gracefully  and  then  pressed  it,  as  if  to  his  heart,  be- 
fore tucking  it  under  his  arm,  after  the  fashion  in  which  the 
gizzard  reposes  under  the  wing  of  a  roasted  pullet ;  yet  it  was 
impossible  that  even  Frank  could  deny  to  Riccabocca  that  praise 
which  is  due  to  the  air  and  mannerof  anunmistakablegentleman. 
And  certainly  as,  after  dinner,  conversation  grew  more  familiar, 
and  the  Parson  and  Mrs.  Dale,  who  had  been  invited  to  meet  their 
friend,  did  their  best  to  draw  him  out, his  talk,  though  sometimes 
a  little  too  wise  for  his  listeners,  became  eminently  animated  and 
agreeable.  It  was  the  conversation  of  a  man  who,  besides  the 
knowledge  which  is  acquired  from  books  and  life,  had  studied  the 
art  which  becomes  a  gentleman — that  of  pleasing  in  polite  society. 

The  result  was  that  all  were  charmed  with  him,  and  that  even 
Captain  Barnabas  postponed  the  whist-table  for  a  full  houi 
after  the  usual  time.  The  'Doctor  did  not  play — he  thus  became 
the  property  of  the  two  ladies,  Miss  Jemima  and  Mrs.  Dale. 

Seated  between  the  two,  in  the  place  rightly  appertaining  to 
Flimsey,  who  this  time  was  fairly  dislodged,  to  her  great  won^ 
der  and  discontent,  the  Doctor  was  the  emblem  of  true  Domes* 
tic  Felicity,  placed  between  Friendship  and  Love. 
;  Friendship,  as  became  her,  worked  quietly  at  the  embroid- 
ered pocket-handkerchief,  and  left  Love  to  more  animated 
operations.  "You  must  be  very  lonely  at  the  Casino,"  said 
Love,  in  a  sympathizing  tone. 

"Madam,"  replied  Riccabocca  gallantly,  "I  shall  think  so 
when  I  leave  you." 

Friendship  cast  a  sly  glance  at  Love-r— Love  blushed,  or  look- 
ed  down  on  the  carpet, — which  comes  to  the  same  thing.  " .Yet,'' 
began  Love  again — "yet  solitude  to  a  feeling  heart — " 

Riccabocca  thought  of  the  note  of  invitation,  and  involun- 
tarily buttoned  his  coat,  as  if  to  protect  the  individual,  organ, 
thus  alarmingly  referred  to. 

"  Solitude,  to  a  feeling  heart,  has  its  charms.     It  is  so  hard 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  99 

even  for  us  poor  ignorant  women  to  find  a  congenial  compan- 
ion—rbut  for  you  /"  Love  stopped  short,  as  if  it  had  said  too 
much,  and  smelt  confusedly  at  its  bouquet. 

Dr.  Riccabocca  cautiously  lowered  his  spectacles,  and  darted 
one  glance,  which,  with  the  rapidity  and  comprehensiveness  of 
lightning,  seemed  to  envelop  and  take  in,  as  it  were,  the  whole 
inventory  of  Miss  Jemima's  personal  attractions.  Now,  Miss 
Jemima,  as  I  have  before  observed,  had  a  mild  and  pensive  ex- 
pression of  countenance,  and  she  would  have  been  positively 
pretty  had  the  mildness  looked  a  little  more  alert,  and  the  pen- 
siveness  somewhat  less  lackadaisical.  In  fact,  though  Miss 
Jemima  was  constitutionally  mild,  she  was  not  de  naturd  pen- 
sive; she  had  too  much  of  the  Hazeldean  blood  in  her  veins  for 
that  sullen  and  viscid  humor  called  melancholy,  and  therefore 
this  assumption  of  pensiveness  really  spoiled  her  character  of 
features,  which  only  wanted  to  be  lighted  up  by  a  cheerful 
smile  to  be  extremely  prepossessing.  The  same  remark  might 
apply  to  the  figure,  which — thanks  to  the  same  pensiveness — 
lost  all  the  undulating  grace  which  movement  and  animation 
bestow  on  the  fluent  curves  of  the  feminine  form.  The  figure 
was  a  good  figure,  examined  in  detail — a  little  thin,  perhaps,  but 
by  no  means  -emaciated — with  just  and  elegant  proportions,  and 
naturally  light  and  flexible.  But  that  same  unfortunate  pensive- 
ness  gave  to  the  whole  a  character  of  inertness  and  languor;  and 
when  Miss  Jemima  reclined  on  the  sofa,  so  completeseemedthere- 
laxation  of  nerve  and  muscle  that  you  would  have  thought  she  had 
loSt  the  use  of  her  limbs.  Over  her  face  and  form,  thus  defrauded 
of  the  charms  Providence  had  bestowed  on  them,  Dr.  Riccaboc- 
ca's  eye  glanced  rapidly;  and  then  moving  nearer  to  Mrs.  Dale — 
"Defend  me"  (he  stopped  a  moment,  and  added) — "from  the 
charge  of  not  being  able  to  appreciatecongenial  companionship." 

"Oh,  I  did  not  say  that !"  cried  Miss  Jemima. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  the  Italian,  "  if  I  am  so  dull  as  to  misun- 
derstand you.  One  may  welMose  one's  head,  at  least,  in  such 
a  neighborhood  as  this."  He  rose  as  he  spoke,  and  bent  over 
Frank's  shoulder  to  examine  some  Views  of  Italy,  which  Miss 
Jemima  (with  what,  if  wholly  unselfish,  would  have  been  an  at- 
tention truly  delicate)  had  extracted  from  the  library  in  order 
to  gratify  the  guest. 

"  Most  interesting  creature,  indeed,"  sighed-  Miss  Jemima, 
"but  too — too  flattering." 

"  Tell;  me,"  said  Mrs.  Dale,  gravely,  "do  you  think,  love,  that 
you  could  put  off  the  end  of  the  world  a  little  longer,  or  must 
we  make  haste  in  order  to  be  in  time  ?  " 


100  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

"  How  wicked  you  are  !  "  said  Miss  Jemima,  turning  aside. 

Some  few  minutes  afterward,  Mrs.  Dale  contrived  it  so  that 
Dr.  Riccabocca  and  herself  were  in  a  further  corner  of  the 
room,  looking  at  a  picture  said  to  be  by  Wouvermans. 

MRS.  DALE. — She  is  very  amiable,  Jemima,  is 'she  not  ? 

RICCABOCCA. —  Exceedingly  so.     Very  fine  battle-piece  ! 

MRS.  DALE. — So  kind-hearted. 

RICCABOCCA. — All  ladies  are.  How  naturally  that  warrior 
makes  his  desperate  cut  at  the  runaway  ! 

MRS.  DALE. — She  is  not  what  is  called  regularly  handsome, 
but  she  has  something  very  winning. 

RICCABOCCA  (with  a  smile). — -So  winning,  that  it  is  strange 
she  is  not  won.  That  gray  mare  in  the  foreground  stands  out 
very  boldly  ! 

MRS.  DALE  (distrusting  the  smile  of  Riccabocca,  and  throw- 
ing in  a  more  effective  grape  charge). — 'Not  won  yet;  and  it  fs 
strange  !  she  will  have  a  very  pretty  fortune. 

RICCABOCCA.— Ah  ! 

MRS.DALE. — Six  thousand  pounds,  I  dare  say — certainly  four. 

RICCABOCCA  (suppressing  a  sigh,  and  with  his  wonted  ad- 
dress).— If  Mrs.  Dale  werti  still  single,  she  would  never  need  a 
friend  to  say  what  her  portion  might  be;  but  Miss  Jemima  is 
so  good  that  I  am  quite  sure  it  is  not  Miss  Jemima's  fault  that 
she  is  still— Miss  Jemima  ! 

The  foreigner  slipped  away  as  he  spoke,  and  sate  himself 
down  beside  the  whist-players. 

Mrs.  Dale  was  disappointed,  but  certainly  not  offended. — "It 
would  be  such  a  good  thing  for  both,"  muttered  she,  almost 
audibly. 

"  Giacomo,"  said  Riccabocca,  as  he  was  undressing  that  night 
in  the  large,  comfortable,  well-carpeted  English  bed-room,  with 
that  great  English  four-posted  bed  in  the  recess  which  seems 
made  to  shame  folks  out  of  single-blessedness — "  Giacomo,  I 
have  had  this  evening  the  offer  of  probably  six  thousand  pounds 
—certainly  of  four  thousand." 

"  Cosa  meravigliosa  ! "  exclaimed  Jackeymo — "miraculous 
thing  !  "  and  he  crossed  himself  with  great  fervor.  "  Six  thou- 
sand pounds  English  !  why,  that  must  be  a  hundred  thousand — 
blockhead  that  I  am  ! — more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand pounds  Milanese  !  "  And  Jackeymo,  who  was  consider- 
ably enlivened  by  the  Squire's  ale,  commenced  a  series  of  ges- 
ticulations and  capers',  in  the  midst  of  which  he  stopped  and 
cried,  "  But  not  for  nothing  ? " 

"  Nothing  !  no." 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  IO1 

"  These  mercenary  English! — the  Government  wants  to  bribe 
you." 

"That's  not  it." 

"The  priests  want  you  to  turn  heretic." 

"  Worse  than  that,"  said  the  philosopher. 

"  Worse  than  that  !     O  Padrone  !  for  shame  !  " 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  but  pull  off  my  pantaloons — they  want  me 
never  to  wear  these  again  !  " 

"  Never  to  wear  what  ?"  exclaimed  Jackeymo,  staring  outright 
at  his  master's  long  legs  in  theirlinen  drawers — "never  to  wear — " 

"  The  breeches,"  said  Riccabocca,  laconically. 

"  The  barbarians  !  "  faltered  Jackeymo. 

"  My  nightcap  ! — and  never  to  have  any  comfort  in  this,"  said 
Riccabocca,  drawing  on  the  cotton  head-gear;  "and  never  to 
have  any  sound  sleep-.in  that,"  pointing  to  the  four-posted  bed. 
"And  to  be  a  bondsman  and  a  slave,"  continued  Riccabocca, 
waxing  wroth;  "  and  lobe  wheedled  and  purred  at,  and  pawed, 
and  clawed,  and  scolded,  and  fondled,  and  blinded,  and  deaf- 
ened, and  bridled,  and  saddled— -bedevilled  and — married  !  " 

"  Married  !  "  said  Jackeymo,  more  dispassionately — "  that's 
very  bad,  certainly;  but  more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand lire,  and  perhaps  a  pretty  young  lady,  and — " 

"  Pretty  young  lady!  "  growled  Riccabocca,  jumping  into  bed 
and  drawing  the  clothes  fiercely  over  him.  "  Put  out  the  can- 
dle, and  get  along  with  you — do,  you  villanous  old  incendiary!" 

'  , . 

CHAPTER  IX. 

i 

IT  was  not  many  days  since  the  resurrection  of  those  ill- 
omened  stocks,  and  it  was  evident  already,  to  an  ordinary  ob- 
server, that  something  wrong  had  got  into  the  village.  'The  peas- 
ants wore  a  sullen  expression  of  countenance;  when  the  Squire 
passed,  they  took  off  their  hats  with  more  than  ordinary  formality, 
but  they  did  not  return  the  same  broad  smile  to  his  quick,  hearty 
"Good-day,my  man."  The  women  peered  at  him  from  the  thresh- 
old of  the  casement,  but  did  not,  as  was  their  wont  (at  least  the 
wont  of  the  prettiest),  take  occasion  to  come  out  to  catch  his  pass- 
ing compliment  on  their  good  looks,or  their  tidy  cottages.  And 
th  echildren,  who  used  to  play  after  work  on  the  site  of  theold  stocks, 
no\vshunnedtheplace,and,  indeed,  seemed  toceaseplay  altogether. 

On  the  other  hand,  no  man  likes  to  build,  or  rebuild,  a  great 
public  work  for  nothing.  Now  that  the  Squire  had  resuscitated 
the  stocks,  and  made  them  so  exceedingly  handsome,  it  was 
natural  that  he  should  wish  to  put  somebody  into  them.  More- 


io2  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

over,  his  pride  and  self-esteem  had  been  wounded  by  the  Par- 
son's opposition  ;  and  it  would  be  a  justification  to  his  own 
forethought,  and  a  triumph  over  the  Parson's  understanding,  if 
he  could  satisfactorily  and  practically  establish  a  proof  that 
the  stocks  had  not  been  repaired  before  they  were  wanted. 

Therefore,  unconsciously  to  himself,  there  was  something 
about  the  Squire  more  burly,  and  authoritative,  and  menacing 
than  heretofore.  Old  Gaffer  Solomons  observed,  that  "  they 
had  better  "moind  well  what  they  were  about,  for  that  the 
Squire  had  a  wicked  look  in  the  tail  of  his  eye — just  as  the 
dun  bull  had  afore  it  tossed  neighbor  Barnes's  little  boy." 

For  two  or  three  days  these  mute  signs  of  something  brewing 
in  the-  atmosphere  had  been  rather  noticeable  than  noticed, 
without  any  positive  overt  act  of  tyranny  on  the  one  hand,  or 
rebellion  on  the  other.  But  on  the  very  Saturday  night  in 
which  Dr.  Riccabocca  was  installed  in  the  four-posted  bed  in 
the  chintz  chamber,  the  threatened  revolution  commenced.  In 
the  dead  of  that  night,  personal  outrage  was  committed  on  the 
stocks.  And  on  Sunday  morning,  Mr. Stirn, who  was  the  earliest 
riser  in  the  parish,  perceived,  on  going  to  the  farm-yard,  that  the 
knob  of.the  column  that  flanked  the  board  had  been  feloniously- 
broken  off  ;  that  the  four  holes  .were  bunged  up  with  mud ;  and 
that  some  Jacobinical  villain  had  carved  on  the  very  centre  of  the 
flourish  or  scroll-work,  "Damthestoks!"  Mr.  Stirn 'wasmuch  too 
vigilant  a  right-hand  man,  much  too  zealous  a  friend  o£law  and 
order,not  to  regard  such  proceedings  withhorror  and  alarm.  And 
when  theSquirecameinto  his  dressing-room  at  half-pastseven, his 
butler  (who  fulfilled  also  the  duties  of  valet)  informed  him,  with  a 
rnysteriousair,thatMr.Stirnhadsomething"verypartiklertocom- 
municate,  about  a  most  howdacious  midnight  'spiracy  and  'sault." 

The  Squire  stared,  and  bade  Mr.  Stirn  be  admitted. 

"  Well  ?"  cried  the  Squire,  suspending  the  operation  of  strop- 
ping his  razor. 

Mr.  Stirn  .groaned. 

"Well,  man,  what  now?" 

"I  never  knowed  such  a  thing  in  this  here  parish  afore," 
began  Mr.  Stirn,  "  and  I  can  only  'count  for  it  by  s'posing  that 
them  foreign  Papishers  have  been  semminating — " 

"  Been  what  ?" 

"  Semminating — " 

"  Disseminating,  you  blockhead — disseminating  what?" 
•  "  Damn  the  stocks,"  began  Mr.  Stirn,  plunging  right  in  medias 
res,  and  by  a  fine  use  of  one  of  the  noblest  figures  in  rhetoric.> 

"Mr.   Stirn  !"  cried    the    Squire,   reddening,  "did  you  say 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  103 

'  Damn  the  stocks  ? ' — damn  my  new  handsome  pair  of  stocks  !  " 

"  Lord  forbid,  sir  ;  that's  what  they  say  ;  that's  what  they  have 
digged  on  it  with  knives  and  daggers,  and  they  have  stuffed  mud 
in  its  four  holes,  and  broken  the  capital  of  the  elewation." 

The  Squire  took  the  napkin  off  his  shoulder,  laid  down  strop 
and  razor  ;  he  seated  himself  in  his  arm-chair  majestically, 
crossed  his  legs,  and,  in  a  voice  that  affected  tranquillity,  said  : 

"Compose  yourself,  Stirn  ;  you  have  a  deposition  to  make^ 
touching  an  assault  upon — can  I  trust  my  senses  ? — upon  my 
new  stocks.  Compose  yourself — be  calm.  NOW  !  What  the 
devil  is  come  to  the  parish  ? " 

"Ah,  sir,  what  indeed?"  replied  Mr.  Stirn  ;  and  then  laying 
the  fore-finger  of  the  right  hand  on  the  palm  of  the  left,  he 
narrated  the  case. 

"And  whom  do  you  suspect  ?  Be  calm  now  ;  don't  speak  in 
a  passion.  You  are  a  witness,  sir — a  dispassionate,  unprejudiced 
witness.  Zounds  and  fury  !  this  is  the  most  insolent,  unpro- 
voked, diabolical — but  whom  do  you  suspect,  I  say  ?  " 

Stirn  twirled  his  hat,  elevated  his  eyebrows,  jerked  his  thumb 
over  his  shoulder,  and  whispered — "  I  hear  as  how  the  two 
Papishers  slept  at  your  honor's  last  night." 

"  What,  dolt !  do-  y6u  suppose  Dr.  Rickeybockey  got  out  of 
his  warm  bed  to  bung  up  the  holes  in  my  new  stocks?" 

"Noa;  he's  too  cunning  to  do  it  himself,  but  he  may  have  been 
semminating.  He'smighty  thick  with  Parson  Dale,andyourhonor 
knows  as  how  the  Parson  set  his  face  ag'in  the  stocks.  Wait  a 
bit, sir — don't  fly  at  me  yet.  There  be  a  boy  in  this  here  parish — " 

"  A  boy — ah,  fool,  now  you  are  nearer  the  mark.  The  Parson 
write  '  Damn  the  stocks,'  indeed  !  What  boy  do  you  mean  ? " 

"And  that  boy  be  cockered  up  much  by  Mr.  Dale;  and  the 
Papisher  went  and  sat  with  him  and  his  mother  a  whole  hour 
t'other  day,  and  that  boy  is  as  deep  as  a  well ;  and  I  seed  him 
lurking  about  the  place,  and  hiding  hisself  under  the  tree  the 
day  the  stocks  was  put  up — and  that  'ere  boy  is  Lenny  Fail-field." 

"  Whew,"  said  the  Squire,  whistling,  "  you  have  not  your  usual 
sense  about  you  to-day,  man.  Lenny  Fairfield — pattern  boy  of 
the  village.  Hold  your  tongue.  I  dare  say  it  is  not  done  by 
any  one  in  the  parish,  after  all;  some  good-for-nothing  vagrant — 
that  cursed  tinker,  who  goes  about  with  a  very  vicious  donkey — 
donkey  that  I  caught  picking  thistles  out  of  the  very  eyes  of  the 
old  stocks  !  Shows  how  the  tinker  brings  up  his  donkeys  !  Well, 
keep  a  sharp  look-out.  To-day  is  Sunday;  worst  day  of  the 
week,  I'm  sorry  and  ashamed  to  say,  for  rows  and  depredations. 
Between  the  services,  and  after  evening  church,  there  are  al- 


104  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

ways  idle  fellows  from  all  the  neighboring  country  about,  as  you 
know  too  well.  Depend  on  it,  the  real  culprits  will  be  found 
gathering  round  the  stocks,  and  will  betray  themselves  ;  have 
your  eyes,  ears,  and  wits  about  you,  and  I've  no  doubt  we  shall 
come  to  the  rights  of  the  matter  before  the  day's  out.  And  if  we 
do,"  added  the  Squire,  "we'll  make  an  example  of  the  ruffian  !  " 

"  In  course,"'  said  Stirn;  "  and  if  we  don't  find  him,  we  must 
make  an  example  all  the  same.  That's  what  it  is,  sir.  That's 
why  the  stocks  ben't  respected;  they  has  not  had  an  example 
yet — we  want  an  example." 

"On  my  word,  I  believe  that's  very  true;  and  we'll  clap  in 
the  first  idle  fellow  you  catch  in  anything  wrong,  and  keep  him 
there  for  two  hours  at  least." 

"With  the  biggest  pleasure,  your  honor — that's  what  it  is." 

And  Mr.  Stirn,  having  now  got  what  he  considered  a  com- 
plete and  unconditional  authority  over  all  the  legs  and  wrists 
of  Hazeldean  parish,  quoad  the  stocks,  took  his  departure. 

CHAPTER  X. 

"RANDAL,"  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  on  this  memorable  Sunday — 
"  Randal,  do  you  think  of  going  to  Mr.  Hazeldean's  ? " 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  answered  Randal.  "  Mr.  Egerton  does  not 
object  to  it;  and  as  I  do  not  return  to  Eton,  I  may  have  no 
Other  opportunity  of  seeing  Frank  for  some  time.  I  ought  not 
to  fail  in  respect  to  Mr.  Egerton 's  natural  heir." 

"Gracious  me  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Leslie,  who,  like  many  women 
of  her  cast  and  kind,  had  a  sort  of  worldliness  in  her  notions, 
which  she  never  evinced  in  her  conduct — "gracious  me! — 
natural  heir  to  the  old  Leslie  property  !  " 

"  He  is  Mr.  Egerton's  nephew, and, "added  Randal,  ingenuously 
letting  out  his  thoughts,  "I  am  no  relation  to  Mr.  Egerton  at  all." 

"  But,"  said  poor  Mrs.  Leslie,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "  it 
would  be  a  shame  in  the  man,  after  paying  your  schooling  and 
sending  you  to  Oxford,  and  having  you  to  stay  with  him  in  the 
holidays,  if  he  did  not  mean  anything  by  it," 

"Anything,  mother — yes — but  not  the  thing  you  suppose. 
No  matter.  It  is  enough  that  he  has  armed  me  for  life,  and  I 
shall  use  the  weapons  as  seems  to  me  best." 

Here  the  dialogue  was  suspended  by  the  entrance  of  the 
other  members  of  the  family,  dressed  for  church. 

"It  can't  he  time  for  church  !  No  !  it  can't  !  "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Leslie.  She  was  never  in  time  for  anything. 

"  Last  bell  ringing,"  said  Mr.  Leslie,  who,  though  a  slow  man, 


VARIETIES    IN-ENGLISH    LIFE.  10$ 

was  methodical  and  punctual.  Mrs.  Leslie  made  a  frantic  rush 
at  the  door,  the  Montfydget  blood  being  now  in  a  blaze — dashed 
up  the  stairs — burst  into  her  room,  tore  her  best  bonnet  from 
the  peg,  snatched  her  newest  shawl  from  the  drawers,  crushed 
the  bonnet  on  her  head,  flung  the  shawl  on  her  shoulders,  thrust 
a  desperate  pin  into  its  folds,  in  order  to  conceal  a  buttonless 
yawn  in  the  body  of  her  gown,  and  then  flew  back  like  a  whirl- 
wind. Meanwhile  the  family  were  already  out  of  doors,  in 
waiting  ;  and  just  as  the  bell  ceased,  the  procession  moved  from 
the  shabby  house  to  the  dilapidated  church. 

The  church  was  a  large  one,  but  the  congregation  was  small, 
and  so  was  the  income  of  the  Parson.  It  was  a  lay  rectory, 
and  the  great  tithes  had  belonged  to  the  Leslies,  but  they  had 
been  long  since  sold.  The  vicarage,  still  in  their  gift,  might  be 
worth  a  little  more  than  ;£ioo  a  year.  The  present  incumbent 
had  nothing  else  to  live  upon.  He  was  a  good  man,  and  riot 
originally  a  stupid  one  ;  but  penury  and  the  anxious  cares  for 
wife  and  family,  combined  with  what  may  be  called  solitary  con- 
finement for. the  cultivated  mind,  when,  amidst  the  two-legged 
creatures  round,  it  sees  no  other  cultivated  mind  with  which  it 
can  exchange  one  extra-parochial  thought — had  lulled  him  into 
a  lazy  mournfulness,  which  at  times  was  very  like  imbecility. 
His  income  allowed  him  to  do  no  good  to  the  parish,  whether  in 
work,  trade,  or  charity  ;  and'thus  he  had  no  moral  weight  with 
the  parishioners  beyond  the  example  of  his  sinless  life,  and  such 
negative  effect  as  might  be  produced  by  his  slumberous  exhor- 
tations. Therefore  his  parishioners  troubled  him  very  little  ; 
and  but  for  the  influence  which,  in  hours  of  Montfydget  activity, 
Mrs.  Leslie  exercised  over  the  most  tractable — that  is,  the  chil- 
dren and  the  aged — not  half  a  dozen  persons  would  have  known 
or  cared  whether  he  shut  up  his  church  or  not. 

But  our  family  were  seated  in  state  in  their  old  seignorial  pew, 
and  Mr.  Dumdrum,  with  a  nasal  twang,  went  lugubriously 
through  the  prayers  ;  and  the  old  people  who  could  sin  no  more, 
and  the  children  who  had  not  yet  learned  to  sin,  croaked  forth 
responses  that  might  have  come  from  the  choral  frogs  in  Aristo- 
phanes. And  there  was  a  long  sermon  Apropos  to  nothing 
which  could  possibly  interest  the  congregation — being,  in  fact, 
some  controversial  homily,  which  Mr.  Dumdrum  had  composed 
and  preached: years  before.  And  when  this  discourse  was  over 
there  was  a  loud  universal  grunt,  as  if  of  relief  and  thanksgiv- 
ing, and  a  great  clatter  of  shoes— and  the  old  hobbled,  and  the 
young  scrambled,  to  the  church  door. 

Immediately1  after  .church,  the  Leslie  family  dined;    and  as 


106  MY    NOVEL ;    OR 

soon  as  dinner  was  Over,  Randal  set  out  on  his  foot  journey  to 
Hazeldean  Hall. 

Delicate  and  even  feeble  though  his  frame,  he  had  the  en- 
ergy and  quickness  of  movement  which  belongs  to  nervous  tem- 
peraments ;  and;  he  tasked  the  slow  stride  of  a  peasant,  whom 
he  took  to  serve  him  as  a  guide  for  the  first  two  or  three  miles. 
Though  Randal  had  not  the  gracious,  open  manner  with  the 
poor  which  Frank  inherited  from  his  father,  he  was  still  (des- 
pite many  a  secret  hypocritical  vice  at  war  with  the  character  of 
a  gentleman)  gentleman  enough  to  have  nochurlish  pride  to  his 
inferiors.  He  talked  little,  but  he  suffered;his  guide  to  talk;  and 
the  boor,  who  was  the  same  whom  Frank  had  accosted,  indulged 
in  eulogistic  comments  on  that  young  gentleman's  pony,  from 
which  he  diverged  in  to  some  compliments  on  the  young  gentleman 
himself.  Randal  drew  his  hat  over  his  brows.  There  is  a  wonder- 
ful tact  and  fine  breeding  in  your  agricultural  peasant;  and  though 
Tom  Stowell  was  buta brutish  specimen  of  the  class,  he  suddenly 
perceived  that  he  was  giving  pain.  He  paused,  scratched  his  head, 
and  glancing  affectionately  toward  his  companion,  exclaimed — 

"  But  I  shall  live  to  see  you  on  a  handsomer  beastis  than  that 
little:  pony,  Master  Randal ;  and  sure  I  ought,  for  you  be  as 
good  a  gentleman  as  any  in  the  land." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Randal.  "  But  I  like  walking  better 
than  riding — I  am  more  used  to  it." 

"  Well,  and  you  walk  bra'ly — there  ben't  a  better  walker  in 
the  country.  And  very  pleasant  it  is  walking  ;  and  'tis  a  pretty 
country  afore  you,  all  the  way  to  the  Hall." 

Randal  strode  on,  as  if  impatient  of  these  attempts  to  flatter 
or  to  soothe  ;  and,  coming  at  length  into  a  broader  land,  said — 
"  I  think  I  can  find  my  way  now.  Many  thanks  to  you,  Tom  "•; 
and  he  forced  a  .shilling  into  Tom's  horny  palm;  The  man 
took  it  reluctantly,  and  a  tear  started  to  his  eye.  He  felt  more 
grateful  for  that  shilling  than  he  had  for  Frank's  liberal  half- 
crown  ;  and  he  thought  of  the  poor  fallen  family,  and  forgot 
his  o\vn  dire  wrestle  with  the  wolf  at  his  door. 

He  stayed  lingering  in  the  lane  till  the  figure  of  Randal  was 
out  of  sight,  and  then  returned  slowly.  Young  Leslie  continued 
to  walk  on  at  a  quick  pace.  With  all  his  intellectual  culture, 
and  his  restless  aspirations,  his  breast  afforded  him  no  thought 
so  generous,  no  sentiment  so  poetic,  as  those  with  which  the 
unlettered  clown  crept  slouchingly  homeward. 

As  Randal  gained  a  point  where  several  lanes  met  on  a  broad 
piece  of  waste  land,  he  began  to  feel  tired,  and  his  step  slack- 
ened. Just  then  a  gig  emerged  from  one  of  these  by-roads, 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  107 

and  took  the  same  direction  as  the  pedestrian.  The1  road  was 
rough  and  hilly,  and  the  driver  proceeded  at  a  foot's  pace  ;  so 
that  the  gig  and  the  pedestrian  went  pretty  well  abreast. 

"You  seem  tired,  sir,"  said  the  driver,  a'stout  young  farmer 
of  the  higher  class  of  tenants — and  he  looked  down  compassion- 
ately on  the  boy's  pale  countenance  and  weary  stride, — "  Per- 
haps we  are  going  the  same  way,  and  I  can.give  you  a  lift  ?  " 

It  was  Randal's  habitual  policy  to  make  use  of  every  advan- 
tage proffered  to  him,  and  he  accepted  the  proposal  frankly 
enough  to  please  the  honest  farmer. 

"  A  nice  day,  sir,"  said  the  latter,  as  Randal  sat  by  his  side. 
"  Have  you  come  far  ?  " 

"From  Rood  Hall." 

"  Oh,  you  be  young  Squire  Leslie,"  said  the  farmer,  more 
respectfully,  and  lifting  his  hat. 

"  Yes,  my  name  is  Leslie.     You  know  Rood,  then  ?  " 

"  I  was  brought  up  on  your  father's  land,  sir.  You  may 
have  heard  of  Farmer  Bruce  ?  " 

RANDAL. — I  remember,  when  I  was  a  little  boy,  a  Mr.  Bruce  who 
rented,  I  believe,  the  best  part  of  our  land^and  who  used  to  bring  us 
cakes  when  he  called  to  see  my  father.  He  is  a  relation  of  yours? 

FARMER  BRUCE.-i-He  was  my  uncle.  He  is  dead  now,  poor 
man. 

RANDAL.— Dead  !  I  am  grieved  to  hear  it.  He  was  very  kind 
to  us  children:.  But  it  is  long  since  he  left  my  father's  fafm. 

FARMER  BRUCE  (apologetically). — I  am'  sure  he  was  very 
sorry  to  go.  But,  you  see,  he  had  an  unexpected  legacy — 

RANDAL. — And  retired  from  business  ? 

FARMER  BRUCE. — No.  But,  having  capital,  he  could  afford 
to  pay  a  good  rent  for  a.  real  good  farm. 

RANDAL  (bitterly). — All  capital  seems  to  fly  from  the  lands 
of  Rood.  And  whose  farm  did  he  take  ? 

FARMER  BRUCE. — He  took  Hawleigh,  under  Squire  Hazel- 
dean.  I  rent  it  now.  We've  laid  out  a  power  o'  money  on  it. 
But  I  don't  complain.  It  pays  well. 

RANDAL.— Would  the  money  have  paid  ais  well,  sunk  on  my 
father's  land  ? 

FARMER  BRUCE. — Perhaps  it  might,  in  the  long  run.  But 
then,  sir,  we  wanted  new  premises — barns  and  cattle-sheds,  and 
a  deal  more — which  the  landlord  should  do  ;  but  it  is  not  every 
landlord  as  can  afford  that.  Squire  Hazeldean's  a  rich  man. 

RANDAL. — ^Ay  ! 

The  road  now  became  pretty  good,  and  the  farmer  put  his 
horse  into  a  brisk  trot. 


108  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  But  which  way  be  you  going,  sir  ?  I  don't  care  for  a  few 
miles  more  or  less,  if  I  can  be  of  service." 

"  I  am  going  to  Hazeldean,"  said  Randal,  rousing  himself 
from  a  reverie.  "  Don't  let  me  take  you  out  of  your  way." 

"  Oh,  Hawleigh  Farm  is  on  the  other  side  of  the  village,  so  it 
be  quite  my  way,  sir." 

The  farmer,  then,  who  was  really  a  smart  young  fellow — one 
of  that  race  which  the.application  of  capital  to  land  has  pro- 
duced, and  which,  in  point  of  education  and  refinement,  are  at 
least  on  a  par  with  the  squires  of  a  former  generation— began 
to  talk  about  his  handsome  horse,  about  horses  in  general,  about 
hunting  and  coursing  ;  he  handled  all  these  subjects  with  spirit, 
yet  with  modesty.  Randal  pulled  his  hat  still  lower  down  over  his 
brows,  and  did  not  interrupt  him  till  they  passed  the  Casino,  when, 
struck  by  the  classic  air  of  the  place,  and  catching  a  scent  from 
the  orange-trees,  the  boy  asked  abruptly— "Whose  house  is  that?" 

"Oh,  it  belongs  to  Squire  Hazeldean,  but  it  is  let  or  lent  to  a 
foreign  Mounseer.  They  say  he  is  quite'the  gentleman,  but  un- 
commonly poor." 

"Poor,"  said  Randal,  turning  back  to  gaze  on  the  trim  garden, 
the  neat  terrace,  the  pretty  belvidere,  and  (the  door  of  the  house 
being  open)  catching  a  glimpse  of  thepainted  hall  within — *"poor? 
the  place  seems  well  kept.  What  do  you  call  poor,  Mr.  Bruce  ? " 

The  farmer  laughed.  "  Well,  that's  a  home  question,  sir. 
But  I  believe  the  Mounseer  is  as  poor  as  a  man  can  be  who 
makes  no  debts  and  does  not  actually  starve." 

"  As  poor  as  my  father  ? "  asked  Randal,  openly  and  abruptly. 

"  Lord,  sir  !  your  father  be  a  very  rich  man'compared  to  him." 

Randal  continued  to  gaze,  and  his  mind's  eye  conjured  up  the 
contrast  of  his  slovenly  shabby  home,  with  all  its  neglected  ap- 
purtenances  !  No  trim  garden  at  Rood  Hall,  no  scent  from 
odorous  orange-blossoms.  Here  poverty  at  least  was  elegant — 
there,  how  squalid  !  He  did  not  comprehend  at  how  cheap  a 
rate  the  luxury  of  the  Beautiful  can  be  effected.  They  now  ap- 
proached the  extremity  of  the  Squire's  park  pales  ;  and  Randal, 
seeing  a  little  gate,  bade  the  farmer  stop  his  gig,  and  descended. 
The  boy  plunged  amidst  the  thick  oak-groves  ;  the  farmer  went 
his  way  blithely,  and  his  mellow  merry  whistle  came  to  Randal's 
moody  ear  as  he  glided  quick  under  the  shadow  of  the  trees. 

He  arrived  at  the  Hall,  to  find  that  all  the  family  were  at 
church  ;  and,  according  to  the  patriarchal  custom,  the  church- 
going  family  embraced  nearly  all  the  servants.  It  was  therefore 
an  old  invalid  housemaid  who  opened  the  door  to  him.  She  was 
rather  deaf,  and  seemed  so  stupid  that  Randal  did  not  ask  leave  to 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  lot, 

enter  and  wait  for  Frank'sreturn.  He  therefore  said  briefly  that  he 
would  just  stroll  on  the  lawn, and  call  again  when  church  was  over. 

The  old  woman  stared,  and  strove  to  hear  him  ;  meanwhile 
Randal  turned  round  abruptly,  and  sauntered  toward  the  gar- 
den side  of  the  handsome  old  house, 

There  was  enough  to  attract  any  eye  in  the  smooth  greensward 
of  the  spacious  lawn — in  the  numerous  parterres  of  variegated 
flowers — in  the  venerable  grandeur  of  the  two  mighty  cedars, 
which  threw  the"ir  still  shadows  over  the  grass — and  in  the  pic- 
turesque building,  with  its  projecting  mullions  and  heavy  gables; 
yet  I  fear  that  it  was  with  no  poet's  nor  painter's  eye  that  this 
young  old  man  gazed  on  the  scene  before  him. 

He  beheld  the  evidence  of  wealth — and  the  envy  of  wealth 
jaundiced  his  soul. 

Folding  his  arms  on  his  breast,  he  stood  awhile,  looking  all 
around  him,  with  closed  Hps  and  lowering  brow  ;  then  he  walked 
slowly  on,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground, and  muttered  to  himself — 

"  The  heir  to  this  property  is  little  better  than  a  dunce  ;  and 
they  tell  me  I  have  talents  and  learning,  and  I  have  taken  to  my 
heart  the  maxim,  '  Knowledge  is  power.'  And  yet,  with  all  my 
struggles,  will  knowledge  ever  place  me  on  the  same  level  as  that 
on  which  this  dunce  is  born  ?  I  don't  wonder  that  the  poor 
should  hate  the  rich.  But  of  all  the  poor,  who  should  hate  the 
rich  like  the  pauper  gentleman?  I  suppose  Audley  Egerton 
means  me  to  come  into  Parliament,  and  be  a  Tory  like  himself  ! 
What !  keep  things  as  they  are  !  No  ;  for  me  not  even  Democ- 
racy, unless  there  first  come  Revolution.  I  understand  the  cry 
of  a  Marat — 'More  blood  !"'  Marat  had  lived  as  a  poor  man, 
and  cultivated  science — in  the  sight  of  a  prince's  palace." 

He  turned  sharply  round,  and  glared  vindictively  on  the  poor 
old  Hall,  which,  though  a  very  comfortable  habitation,  was  cer- 
tainly no  palace  ;  and,  with  his  arms  still  folded  on  his  breast, 
he  walked  backward^  as  if  not  to  lose  the  view,  nor  the  chain  of 
ideas  it  conjured  up. 

"  But,"  he  continued  to  soliloquize — "  but  of  revolution  there 
is  no  chance.  Yet  the  same  wit  and  will  that  would  thrive  in 
revolutions  should  thrive  in  this  common-place  life.  Knowledge 
is  power.  Well,  then,  shall  I  have  no  power  to  oust  this  block- 
head ?  Oust  him — what  from  ?  His  father's  halls  ?  Well,  but 
if  he  were  dead,  who  would  be  the  heir  of  Hazeldean  ?  Have 
I  not  heard  my  mother  say  that  I  am  as  near  in  blood  to  this 
Squire  as  any  one,  if  he  had  no  children  ?  Oh,  but  the  boy's  life 
is  worth  ten  of  mine  !  Oust  him  from  what  ?  At  least  from  the 
thoughts  of  his  Uncle  Egerton-:— an  uncle  who  has  never  even 


110  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

seen  him  !  That,  at  least,  is  more  feasible.  'Make  my  way  in 
life,'  sayest  them,  Audley  Egerton.  Ay — and  to  the  fortune  thou 
hast  robbed  from  my  ancestors.  Simulation — simulation.  Lord 
Bacon  allows  simulation.  Lord  Bacon  practised  it — and — " 

Here  the  soliloquy  came  to  a  sudden  end  ;  for  as,  rapt  in  his 
thoughts,  the  boy  had  continued  to  walk  backward,  he  had  come 
to  the  verge,  where  the  lawn  slided  off  into  the  ditch  of  the  ha-ha; 
and,  just  as  he  was  fortifying  himself  by  the  precept  and  practice 
of  my  Lord  Bacon,  the  ground  went  from  under  him,  and — slap 
into  the  ditch  went  Randal  Leslie  ! 

It  so  happened  that  the  Squire,  whose  active  genius  was  al- 
ways at  some  repair  or  improvement,  had  been  but  a  few  days 
before  widening  and  sloping  off  the  ditch  just  in  that  part,  so 
that  the  earth  was  fresh  and  damp,  and  not  yet  either  turfed  or 
flattened  down.  Thus  when  Randal,  recovering  his  first  sur- 
•  prise  and  shock,  rose  to  his  feet,  he  found  his  clothes  coveted 
with  mud;  while  the  rudeness  of  the  fall  was  evinced  by  the  fan- 
tastic and -extraordinary  appearance  of  his  hat,  which,  hollowed 
here/ bulging  there,  and  crushed  out  of  all  recognition  generally, 
was  as  little  like  the  hat  of  a  decorous,  hard  reading  young  gen- 
tleman— protigtvi the  dignified  Mr.  Audley  Egerton — as  any  hat 
picked  out  of  a  kennel  after  some  drunken  brawl  possibly  could  be. 

Randal  was  dizzy,  and  stunned,  and  bruised,  and  it  was  some 
moments  before  he  took  heed  of  his  raiment.  When  he  did 
so,  his  spleen  was  greatly  aggravated.  He  was  still  boy  enough 
not  to  like  the  idea  of  presenting  himself  to  the  unknown 
Squire,  and  the  dandy  Frank,  in  such  a  trim  ;  he  resolved  in- 
continently to  regain  the  lane  and  turn  home,  without  accom- 
plishing the  object  of  his  journey  ;  and  seeing  the  footpath 
right  before  him,  which  led  to  a  gate  that  he  conceived  wbuld 
admit  him  into  the  highway  sooner  than  the  path  by  which  he 
had  come,  he  took  it  at  once. 

It  is  surprising  how  little  we  human  Creatures  heed  the  warn- 
ings of  our  good  genius.  I  have  no  doubt  that  some  benignant 
power  had  precipitated  Randal  Leslie  into  the  ditch,  as  a  sig- 
nificant hint  of  the  fate  of  all  who  choose  what  is,  now-a-days, 
by  no  means  an  uncommon  step  in  the  march  of  intellect — viz., 
the  walking  backward,  in  order  to  gratify  a  vindictive  view  of 
one's  neighbor's  property  !  I  suspect' that,  before  this  century 
is  out,  many  a  fine  fellow  will  thus  have  found  his  ha-ha,  and 
scrambled  out  of  the  ditch  with  a  much  shabbier  coat  than  he 
had  on  when  he  fell  into  it.  But  Randal  did  not  thank  his 
good  genius  for  giving  him  a  premonitory  tumble; — and  I 
never  .yet  knew  a  man  who  did  ! 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  Ill 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  Squire  was  greatly  ruffled  at  breakfast  that  morning.  He 
was  too  much  of  an  Englishman  to  bear  insult  patiently,  and  he 
considered  that  he  had  been  personally  insulted  in  the  outrage 
offered  to  his  recent  donation  to  the  parish.  His  feelings,  too, 
were  hurt  as  well  as  his  pride.  There  was  something  so  un- 
grateful in  the  whole  thing,  just  after  he  had  taken  so  much 
pains,  not  only  in  the  resuscitation,  but  the  embellishment  of  the 
stocks.  It  was  not,  hovvever,so  rare  an  occurrence  for  the  Squire 
to  be  ruffled,  as  to  create  any  remark.  Riccabocca,  indeed,  as.  a 
stranger,  and  Mrs.  Hazeldean,as  a  wife,  had  the  quick  tact  to  per- 
ceive that  the  host  wasglum  and  the  husband  snappish;  buttheone 
was  too  discreet,  and  the  other  too  sensible,  to  chafe  the  new  sore, 
whatever  it  might  be;  and  shortly  after  breakfast  the  Squire  re- 
tired into  his  study,  and  absented  himself  from  morning  service. 

In  his  delightful  Life  of  Oliver  Goldsmith,  Mr.  Forster  takes 
care  to  touch  our  hearts  by  introducing  his  hero's  excuse  for  not 
entering  the  priesthood:  "He  did  not  fee!  himself  good 
enough."  Thy  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  poor  Goldsmith,  was  an  ex- 
cellent substitute  for.  thee  ;  and  Dr.  Primrose  at  least  will  be 
good  enough  for  the  world  until  Miss  Jemima's  fears  are  real- 
ized. N6\v,  Squire  Hazeldean  had  a  tenderness  of  conscience 
much  less  reasonable  than  Goldsmith's.  There  were  occasion- 
ally days  in  which  he  did  not  feel  good  enough1 — I  don't  say 
for  a  priest,  but  even  for  one  of  the  congregation— -"  days  in 
which,"  -said  the  Squire  in  his  own  blunt  way,  "  as  I  have  never 
in  my  life  m-et  a  worse  devil  than  a  devil  of  a  temper,  I'll  not 
carry  mine  into  the  family  pew.  He  shan't  be  growling  out  hypo- 
critical responses  from  my  poor  grandmother's  prayer-book."  So 
theSquireand  hisdemon  stayed  at  home.  But  the  demon  was'gen- 
erally  cast  out  before  the  day  was  over;  and, on  this  occasion,  when 
the  bell  rang  for  afternoon  service,  it  may  be  presumed  that  the 
Squire  had  reasoned  or  fretted  himself  into  a  proper  state  of  mind ; 
for  he  was  then  seen  sallying  forth  from  the  porch  of  hishall,arm- 
in-arm  with  his  wife,  and  at  the'head  of  his  household.  The  sec- 
ond service  was  (as  is  commonly  the  case  in  rural  districts)  more 
numerously1  attended  than  the  first  one  ;  and  it  was  our  Par- 
son's wont  to  devote  to  this  service  his  most  effective  discourse. 

Parson  Dale,  though  a  very  fair  scholar,  had  neither  the  deep 
theology  nor  the  archaeological  learning  that  distinguishes  the 
rising  generation  of  the'clergyi  I  much  doubt  if  he  could  have 
passed  what  would  now:be  called  a  creditable  examination  in  the 


112  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

Fathers  ;  and  as  for  all  the  nice  formalities  in  the  Rubric,  he 
would  never  have  been  the  man  to  divide  a  congregation  or 
puzzle  a  bishop.  Neither  was  Parson  Dale  very  erudite  in  ec- 
clesiastical architecture;  he  did  not  much  care  whether  all  the  de- 
tails in  the  church  were  purely  Gothic  or  not;  crockets  and  finials, 
round  arch  and  pointed  arch,  were  matters,  I  fear,  on  which  he  had 
never  troubled  his  head.  But  one  secret  Parson  Dale  did  possess, 
which  is  perhaps  of  equal  importance  with  those  subtler  mysteries 
— he  knew  how  to  fill  his  church !  Even  at  morning  service  no 
pews  were  empty,  and  at  evening  service  the  church  overflowed. 
Parson  Dale,  too,  may  be  considered,  now-a-days,  to  hold  but 
a  mean  idea  of  the  spiritual  authority  of  the  Church.  He  had 
never  been  known  to  dispute  on  its  exact  bearing  with  the  State 
— whether  it  was  incorporated  with  the  State,  or  above  the 
State,  whether  it  was  antecedent  to  the  Papacy  or  formed  from 
'the  Papacy,  etc.,  etc.  According  to  his  favorite  maxim,  Quieta 
non  movere  (not  to  disturb  things  that  are  quiet),  I  have  no  doubt 
that  he  would  have  thought  that  the  less  discussion  is  provoked 
upon  such  matters  the  better  for  both  Church  and  laity.  Nor 
had  he  ever  been  known  to  regret  the  disuse  of  the  ancient  cus- 
tom of  excommunication,  nor  any  other  diminution  of  the  pow- 
ers of  the  priesthood,  whether  minatory  or  militant  ;  yet,  for  all 
this,  Parson  Dale  had  a  great  notion  of  the  sacred  privilege  of 
a  minister  of  the  gospel — to  advise — to  deter — to  persuade — to 
reprove.  And  it  was  for  the  evening  service  that  he  prepared 
those  sermons,  which  may  be  called  "  sermons  that  preach  at 
you."  He  preferred  the  evening  for  that  salutary  discipline, 
not  only  because  the  congregation  was  more  numerous,  but  also 
because,  being  a  shrewd  man  in  his  own  innocent  way,  he  knew 
that  people  bear  better  to  be  preached  at  after  dinner  than  be- 
fore ;  that  you  arrive  more  insinuatingly  at  the  heart  when  the 
stomach  is  at  peace.  There  was  a  genial  kindness  in  Parson 
Dale's  way  of  preaching  at  you.  It  was  done  in  so  impercepti- 
ble, fatherly  a  manner,  that  you  never  felt  offended.  He  did  it, 
too,  with  so  much  art  that  nobody  but  your  own  guilty  self  knew 
that  you  were  the  sinner  he  was  exhorting.  Yet  he  did  not 
spare  rich  nor  poor  ;  he  preached  at  the  Squire,  and  that  great 
fat  farmer,  Mr.  Bullock,  the  churchwarden,  as  boldly  as  at 
Hodge  the  ploughman  and  Scrub  the  hedger.  As  for  Mr.  Stirn, 
he  had  preached  at  him  more  often  than  at  any  one  in  the  par- 
ish ;  but  Stirn,  though  lie  had  the  sense  to  know  it,  never  had 
the  grace  to  reform.  There  was,  too,  in  Parson  Dale's  sermons 
something  of  that  boldness  of  illustration  which  would  have  been 
scholarly  if  he  had  not  made  it  familiar,  and  which  is  found  in 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  113 

the  discourses  of  our  elder  divines.  Like  them,  he  did  not 
scruple,  now  and  then,  to  introduce  an  anecdote  from  history, 
or  borrow. an  allusion  from  some  non-scriptural  author,  in  order 
to  enliven  the  attention  of  his  audience,  or  render  an  argument 
more  plain.  And  the  good  man  had  an  object  in  this,  a  little 
distinct  from,  though  wholly  subordinate  to,  the  main  purpose 
of  his  discourse.  He  was  a  friend  to  knowledge — but  to  knowl- 
edge accompanied  by  religion  ;  and  sometimes  his  references  to 
sources  not  within  the  ordinary  reading  of  his  congregation 
would  spirit  up  some  farmer's  son,  with  an  evening's  leisure  on 
his  hands,  to  ask  the  Parson  for  farther  explanation,  and  so  to  be 
lured  on  to  a  little  solid  or  graceful  instruction, under  a  safeguide. 

Now,  on  the  present  occasion,  the, Parson,  who  had  always  his 
eye  and  heart  on  his  flock,  and  who  had  seen  with  great  grief 
the  realization  of  his  fears  at  the  revival  of  the  stocks  ;  seen 
that  a  spirit  of  discontent  was  already  at  work  amongst  the 
peasants,  and  that  magisterial  and  inquisitorial  designs  were 
darkening  the  natural  benevolence  of  the  Squire  ;  seen,  in  short, 
the  signs  of  a  breach  between  classes,  and  the  precursors  of  the 
ever-inflammable  feud  between  the  rich  and  the  poor,  meditated 
nothing  less  than  a  great  Political  Sermon— -a  sermon  that  should 
extract  from  the  rootsof  social  truths  a  healingyirtuef  or  the  wound 
that  lay  sore,  but  latent,  in  the  breast  of  his  parish  of  Hazeldean. 

And  thus  ran — 

THE  POLITICAL  SERMON  OF  PARSON  DALE. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

. 

"  For  every  man  shall  bear  his  own  burden." — GAL.,  vi.,  5. 
"  BRETHREN,  every  man  has  his  burden.  If  God  designed 
our  lives  to  end  at  the  grave,  may  we  not  believe  that  he  would 
have  freed  an  existence  so  brief  from  the  cares  and  sorrows  to 
which,  since  the  beginning  of  the  world,  mankind  has  been  sub- 
jected ?  Suppose  that  I  am  a  kind  father,  and  have  a  child  .whom 
I  dearly  love,  but  I  know  by  a  Divine  revelation  that  he  will  die 
at  the  age  of  eight  years,  surely  I  should  not  vex  his  infancy  by 
needless  preparations  for  the  duties  of  life.  .If  I  am  a  rich  man, 
I  should  not  send  him  from  the  caresses  of  his  mother  to  the 
stern  discipline  of  school.  If  I  am  a  poor  man,  I  should  not  take 
him  with  me  to  hedge  and  dig,  to  scorch  in  the  sun,  to  freeze  in 
the  winter's  cold  ;  why  inflict  hardships  on  his  childhood  for 
the  purpose  of  fitting  him  for  manhood,  when  I  know  that  he  is 
doomed  not  to  grow  into  man  ?  But  if,  on  the  other  hand,  I 
believe  my  child  is  reserved  for  a  more  durable  existence,  then 
should  I  not,  out  of  the  very  love  I  bear  to  him,  prepare  his 


114  MY   NdVEL  ;   OR, 

childhood  for  the  struggle  of  life,  according  to  that  station  in 
which  he  is  born,  giving- many  a  toil,  many  a  pain,  to  the  infant, 
in  order  to  rear  and  strengthen  him  for  his  duties  as  man  ?  So  it 
is  with  our  Father  that  is  in  heaven.  Viewing  this  life  as  our  in- 
fancy, and  the  next  as  our  spiritual  maturity,  where, 'in  the  ages 
to  come,  he  may  show  the  exceeding  riches  of  his  grace,'  it  is  in 
his  tenderness,  as  in  his  wisdom,  to  permit  the  toil  and  the  pain 
which,  in  tasking  the  powers  and  developing  the  virtues  of  the 
soul,  prepare  it  for  '  the  earnest  of  our  inheritance.'  Hence  it  is 
that  every  man  has  his  burden.  Brethren,  if  you  believe  that 
God  is  good,  yea,  but  as  tender  as  a  human  father,  you  will  know 
that  your  troubles  in  life  are  a  proof  that  you  are  reared  for  an 
eternity.  But  each  man  thinks  his  own  burden  the  hardest  to 
bear  ;  the  poor  man  groans  under  his  poverty,  the  rich  man  un- 
der the  cares  that  multiply  with  wealth.  For,  so  far  from  wealth 
freeing  us  from  trouble,  all  the  wise  men  who  have  written  in 
all  the  ages  have  repeated,  with  one  voice,  the  words  of  the 
wisest  :  '  When  goods  increase,  they  are  increased  that  eat  them; 
and  what  good  is  there  to  the  owners  thereof,  saving  the  behold- 
ing them  with  their  eyes  ?'  And  this  is  literally  true,  my  breth- 
ren ;  for,  let  a  man  be  as  rich  as  was  the  great  King  Solomon 
himself,  unless  he  lock  up  all  his  gold  in  a  chest,  it  must  go 
abroad  to  be  divided  amongst  others;  yea,  though,  like  Solomon, 
he  make  him  great  works — though  he  build  houses  and  plant 
vineyards,  and  make  him  gardens  and  orchards,  still  the  gold 
that  he  spends  feeds  but  the  mouths  he  employs;  and  Solomon 
himself  could  not  eat  with  a  better  relish  than  the  poorest  ma- 
son who  builded  the  house,ortrie  humblest  laborer  who  planted 
the  vineyard.  Therefore,  '  when  goods  increase,  they  are  in- 
creased thateat  them.'  And  this,  my  brethren, may  teach  us  tolera- 
tion and  compassion  for  the  rich.  We  share  their  riches,  whether 
they  willor  not;  we  do  not  share  their  cares.  The  profane  history 
of  our  own  country  telfs  us  that  a  princess,  destined  to  be  thegreat- 
est  queen  that  ever  sat  on  this  thron-e,  envied  the  milkmaid  sing- 
ing; and  a  profane  poet,  whose  wisdom  was  only  less  than  that  of 
the  inspired  writers,  represents  the  man  who  by  force  and  wit  had 
risen  to  be  a  king,  sighing  for  the  sleep  vouchsafed  to  the  meanest 
of  his  subjects — all  bearing  out  the  words  of  the  son  of  David: 
'  The  sleep  of  the  laboring  man  is  sweet,  whether  he  eat  little  or 
much;  but  the  abundance  of  the  rich  will  not  suffer  him  to  sleep.' 
"Amongst  my  brethren  now  present,  there  is  doubtless  some 
one  who  has  been  poor,  and  by  honest  industry  has  made  him- 
self comparatively  rich.  Let  his  heart  answer  me 'while  I  speak; 
are  not  the  chief  cares  that  now  disturb  him  to  be  found  in  the 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  11$ 

goods  he  hath  acquired  ?— has  he  not  both  vexations  to  his 
spirit  and  trials  to  his  virtue,  which  he  knew  not  when  he  went 
forth  to  his  labor,  and  took  no  heed  of  the  morrow  ?  But  it  is 
right,  my  brethren,  that  to  every  station  there  should  be  its 
care — to  every  man  his  burden  ;  for  if  the  poor  did  not  some- 
times so  far  feel  poverty  to  be  a  burden  as  to  desire  to  better 
their  condition,  and  (to  use  the  language  of  the  world)  'seek  to 
rise  in  life/ their  most  valuable  energies  would  never  be  aroused; 
and  we  should  not  witness  that  spectacle,  which  is  so  common 
in  the  land  we  live  in- — namely,  the  successful  struggle  of  manly 
labor  against  adverse  fortune — a  struggle  in  which  the  triumph 
of  one  gives  hope  to  the  thousands.  It  is  said  that  necessity  is 
the  mother  of  invention;  and  the  social  blessings  which  are  now 
as  common  to  us  as  air  and  sunshine,  have  come  from  that  law 
of  Our  nature  which  makes  us  aspire  toward  indefinite  improve- 
ment, enriches  each  successive  generation  by  the  labors  of  the 
last,  and  in  free  countries  often  lifts  the  child  of  the  laborer  to 
a  place  amongst  the  rulers'of  the  land.  Nay,  if  necessity  is  the 
mother  of  invention,  poverty  is  the  creator  of  the  arts.  If  there 
had  been  no  poverty,  and  no  sense  of  poverty,  where  would  have 
been  that  which  we  call  the  wealth  of  a  country  ?  Subtract  from 
civilization  all  that  has  been  produced  by  the  poor,  and  what  re- 
mains ? — the  state  of  the  savage.  Where  you  now  see  laborer 
and  prince,  you  would  see  equality  indeed — the  equality  of  wild 
men.  No  ;  not  even  equality  there  !  For  there  brute  force  be- 
comes lordship — and  woe  to  the  weak  !  Where  you  now  see 
some  in  frieze,  some  in  purple,  you  would  see  nakedness  in  all. 
Where  stands  the  palace  and  the  cot,  you  would  behold  but  mud 
huts  and  caves.  As  far  as  the  peasant  excels  the  king  among 
savages,  so  far  does  the  society  exalted  and  enriched  by  the  strug- 
gles of  labor  excel  the  state  in  which  Poverty  feels  no  disparityv 
andToil  sighs  for  no  ease.  On  the  other  hand,  if  the  rich  were  per- 
fectly contented  with  theirwealth,theirhearts  would  becomehard- 
ened  in  the  sensual  enjoyments  it  procures.  It  is  that  feeling,  by 
Divine  Wisdom  implanted  in  the  soul, that  there  is  vanity  and  vex- 
ation of  spirit  in  the  thingsof  Mammon,  which  still  leaves  the  rich 
man  sensitive  to  the  instincts  of  heaven, and  teacheshim  toseek  for 
happiness  in  those  beneficent  virtues  which  distributees  wealth 
to  the  profit  of  others.  If  you  could  exclude  the  air  from  the  rays 
of  the  fire,  the  fire  itself  would  soon  languish  and  die  in  the  midst 
of  its  fuel;  and  so  a  man's  joy  in  his  wealth  is  kept  alive  by  the 
air  which  it  warms;  and  if  pent  within  itself — is  extinguished. 
"  And  this,  my  brethren,  leads  me  to  another  view  of  the  vast 
cubject  opened  to  us  by  the  words  of  the  apostle — '  Every  man 


Il6  MVT    NOVEL  J    OR, 

shall  bear  his  own  bvirden.'  The  worldly  conditions  of  life  are 
unequal.  Why  are  they  unequal  ?  O  my  brethren,  do  ye  not  per- 
ceive? Think  you  that,  if  it  had  been  better  for  our  spiritual 
probation  that  there  should  be  neither  great  nor  lowly,  rich  nor 
poor,Providence  would  not  so  have  ordered  the  dispensations  of 
the  world,  and  so,  by  its  mysterious  but  merciful  agencies,  have 
influenced  the  framework  and  foundations  of  society?  But  if 
from  the  remotest  period  of  human  annals,  and  in  all  the  num- 
berless experiments  of  government  which  the  wit  of  man  has 
devised,  still  this  inequality  is  ever  found  to  exist,  may  we  not 
suspect  that  there  is  something.in  the  very  principles  of  our  na- 
ture to  which  that  inequality  is  necessary  and  essential  ?  Ask 
why  this  inequality  ?  Why  ? — as  well  ask  why  life  is  the  sphere 
of  duty  and  the  nursery  of  virtues!  For  if  all  men  were  equal, 
if  there  were  no  suffering  and  no  ease,  no  .poverty  and  no  wealth, 
would  you  not  sweep  with  one  blow  the  half,  at  least,  of  human 
.virtues  from  the  world  ?  If  there  were  no  penury  and  no  pain, 
what  would  become  of  fortitude  ? — what  of  patience  ? — -what  of 
resignation  ?  If  there  were  no  greatness  and  no  wealth,  what 
would  become  of  benevolence,  of  charity,  of  the  blessed  human 
.pity,  of  temperance  in  the  midst  of  luxury,  of  justice  in  the  exer- 
cise of  power  ?  Carry  the  question  further;  grant  all  conditions 
the  same — no  reverse,  no  rise,  and  no  fall — nothing  to  hope  for, 
nothing  to  fear— what  a  moral  death  you  would  at  once  inflict 
upon  all  the  energies  of  the  soul,  and  what  a  link  between  the 
Heart  of  man  and  the  Providence  of  God  would  -be  snapped 
asunder!  If  we  could  annihilate  evil,  we  should  annihilate  hope; 
and  hope,  my  brethren,  is  the  avenue  to  faith.  If  there  be  'a  time 
to  weep  and  a  time  to  laugh,'  it  is  that  he  who  mourns  may  turn 
to  eternity  for  comfort,  and  he  who  rejoices  may  bless  God  for 
the  happy  hour.  Ah  !  my  brethren,  were  it  possible  to  annihilate 
the  inequalities  of  human  life,  it  would  be  the  banishment  of  our 
worthiest  virtues,  the  torpor  of  our  spiritual  nature,  the  palsy  of 
our  mental  faculties.  The  moral  world,  like  the  world  without 
us,  derives  its  health  and  its  beauty  from  diversity  and  contrast. 
"'Every  man  shall  bea,r  hisown.  burden.'  True;  but  now  turn 
to  an  earlier  verse  in  the  same  chapter, — 'Bear  ye  one  another's 
burdens,  and  so  fulfill  the  law  of  Christ.'  Yes;  while  heaven  or- 
dains to  each  his  peculiar  suffering,  it  connects  the  family  of  roan 
into  one  household, by  that  feeling  which,  more  perhaps  than  any 
other,  distinguishes  us  from  the  brute  creation — I  mean  the  feel- 
ing to  which  we  give  the  name  of  sympathy — the  feeling  for  each 
other!  The  flock  heedeth  not  the  sheep  that  creep  into  the  shade 
to  die;  but  man  hath  sorrow  and  joy  not  in  himself  alone,  but  in 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  117 

the  joy  and  sorrow  of  those  around  him.  He  who  feels  only  for 
himself  abjures  his  very  nature  as  man;  fordo  we  not  say  of  one 
who  has  no  tenderness  for  mankind  that  he  is  inhuman  ?  and  do 
we  not  call  him  who  sorrows  with  the  sorrowful,  humane  ? 

"  Now,  brethren,  that  which  especially  marked  the  divinemis- 
sion  of  our  Lord,  is  the  direct  appeal  to  this  sympathy  which  dis- 
tinguishes us  from  the  brute.  He  seizes,  not  upon  some  faculty 
of  genius  given  but  to  few,  but  upon  that  ready  impulse  of  heart 
which  is  given  to  us  all;  and  in  saying  '  Love  one  another,'  'Bear 
ye  one  another's  burdens,'  he  elevates  the  most  delightful  of  our 
emotions  into  the  most  sacred  of  his  laws.  The  lawyer  asks  our 
Lord, '  Who  is  my  neighbor  ? '  Our  Lord  replies  by  the  parable 
of  the  good  Samaritan.  The  priest  and  the  Levite  saw  the  wound- 
ed man  that  fell  among  the  thieves,  and  passed  by  on  the  other 
side.  That  priest  might  have  been  austere  in  his  doctrine, that  Le- 
vite might  have  been  learned  in  the  law;  but  neither  to  the  learn- 
ing of  the  Levite,  nor  to  the  doctrine  of  the  priest,  does  our  Sa- 
viour even  deign  to  allude.  He  cites  but  the  action  of  the  Sa- 
maritan, and  saith  to  the  lawyer  :  '  Which  now  of  these  three, 
thinkest  thou,was  neighbor  unto  him  that  fell  amongthe  thieves? 
And  he  said,  He  that  showed  mercy  unto  him.  Then  said  Jesus 
unto  him,  Go,  and  do  thou  likewise.' 

"O  shallowness  of  human  judgments  !  It  was  enough  to  be 
born  a  Samaritan  in  order  to  be  rejected  by  the  priest,  and  de- 
spised by  the  Levite.  Yet  now,  what  to  us  the  priest  and  the 
Levite — of  God's  chosen  race  though  they  were?  They  passed 
from  the  hearts  of  men  when  they  passed  the  sufferer  by  the  way- 
side ;  while  this  loathed  Samaritan,  half  thrust  from  the  pale  of 
the  Hebrew,  becomes  of  our  family,  of  our  kindred  ;  a  brother 
amongst  the  brotherhood  of  Love,  so  long  as  Mercy  and  afflic- 
tion shall  meet  in  the  common  thoroughfare  of  Life  ! 

'"Bear  ye  one  another's  burdens,  and  so  fulfil  the  law  of 
Christ.'  Think  not,  O  my  brethren,  that  this  applies  only  to 
almsgiving — to  that  relief  of  distress  which  is  commonly  called 
charity — to  the  obvious  duty  of  devoting,  from  our  superfluities, 
something  that  we  scarcely  miss,  to  the  wants  of  a  starving  brother. 
No.  I  appeal  to  the  poorest  amongst  ye,  if  the  worst  burdens  are 
those  of  the  body — if  the  kind  word  and  the  tender  thought  have 
not  of  ten  lightened  your  hearts  more  than  bread  bestowed  with  a 
grudge,  and  charity  that  humbles  you  by  a  frown.  Sympathy  is  a 
beneficence  at  the  command  of  us  all, — yea,  of  the  pauper  as  of 
the  king;  and  sympathy  isChrist's  wealth.  Sympathy  is  brother- 
hood. The  rich  are  told  to  have  charity  for  the  poor,  and  the  poor 
are  enjoined  to  respect  their  superiors.  Good;  I  say  not  to  the 


Il8  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

contrary.  But  I  say  also  to  the  poor,  '  In  your  turn  have  charity 
for  the  rich' ;  and  I  say  to  the  rich,1  In  your  turn  respect  the  poor.' 

'"Bear  ye  one  another's  burdens,  and  so  fulfil  the  law  of 
Christ.'  Thou,  O  poor  man,  envy  not  nor  grudge  thy  brother 
his  larger  portion  of  worldly  goods.  Believe  that  he  hath  his 
sorrows  and  crosses  like  thyself,  and  perhaps,  as  more  delicately 
nurtured,  he  feels  them  more  ;  nay,  hath  he  not  temptations  so 
great  that  our  Lord  hath  exclaimed — '  How  hardly  shall  they  that 
have  riches  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ! '  And  what  are 
temptations  but  trials  ? — what  are  trials  but  perils  .and  sorrows  ? 
Think  not  that  you  can  bestow  no  charity  on  the  rich  man,  even 
while  you  take  your  sustenance  from  his  hands.  Aheathen  writer, 
often  cited  by  the  earliest  preachers  of  thegospel,hath  truly  said — 
'Wherever  there  is  room  for  a  man,  there  is  place  fora  benefit.' 

"  And  I  ask  any  rich  brother  among  you,  when  he  hath  gone 
forth  to  survey  his  barns  and  his  granaries,  his  gardens  and  his 
orchards,  if  suddenly,  in  the  vain  pride  of  his  heart,  he  sees  the 
scowl  on  the  brow  of  the  laborer — if  he  deems  himself  hated  in 
the  midst  of  his  wealth — if  he  feels  that  his  least  faults  are 
treasured  up  against  him  with  the  hardness  of  malice,  and  his 
plainest  benefits  received  with  the  ingratitude  of  envy — I  ask, 
I  say,  any  rich  man,  whether  straightway  all  pleasure  in  his 
worldly  possessions  does  not  fade  from  his  heart,  and  whether 
he  does  not  feel  what  a  wealth  of  gladness  it  is  in  the  power  of 
the  poor  man  to  bestow  !  For  all  these  things,  of  Mammon  pass 
away  ;  but  there  is  in  the  smile  of  him  whom  we  have  served,  a 
something  that  we  may  take  with  us  into  heaven.  If,  then,  ye 
bear  one  another's  burdens,  they  who  are  poor  will  have, mercy 
on  the  errors,  and  compassion  for  the  griefs,  of  the  rich.  To  all 
men  it  was  said, — yes,  to  Lazarus  as  to  Dives, — '  Judge  not,  that 
ye  be  not  judged.'  But  think  not,  O  rich  man,  that  we  preach 
only  to  the  poor.  If  it  be  their  duty  not  to  grudge  thee  thy  sub- 
stance, it  is  thine  to  do  all  that  may  sweeten  their  labor.  Re* 
member  that  when  our  Lord  said,  '  How  hardly  shall  they  t,hat 
have  riches  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  heaven,'  he  replied  also 
to  them  who  asked,  '  Who  then  shall  be  saved  ? '  '  The  things 
which  are  impossible  with  men  are  possible  with  God  '  ;..that  is, 
man  left  to  his  own  temptations  would  fail ;  but,  strengthened 
by  God,  he  shall  be  saved.  If  thy  riches  are  the  tests  of  thy 
trial,  so  may  they  also  be  the  instruments  of  thy  virtues.  Prove 
by  thy  riches  that  thou  art  compassionate  and  tender,  temper- 
ate and  benign  ;  and  thy  riches  themselves  may  become  the 
evidence  at  once  of  thy  faith  and  of  thy  works. 

"  We  have  constantly  on  our  lips  the  simple  precept, '  Do  unto 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  119 

others  as  you  would  be  done  by.'  Why  do  we  fail  so  often  in  the 
practice  ?  Because  we  neglect  to  cultivate  that  SYMPATHY  which 
nature  implants  as  an  instinct,  and  the  Saviour  exalts  as  a  com- 
mand. If  thou  wculdst  do  unto  thy  neighbor  as  thou  wouldst 
be  done  by,  ponder  well  how  thy  neighbor  will  regard  the  action 
thou  art  about  to  do  to  him.  Put  thyself  into  his  place.  If 
thou  art  strong  and  he  is,  weak,  descend  from  thy  strength  and 
enter  into  his  weakness  ;  lay  aside  thy  burden  for  the  while, 
and  buckle  on  his  own  ;  let  thy  sight  see  as  through  his  eyes — 
thy  heart  beat  as  in  his  bosom.  Do  this,  and  thou  wilt  often 
confess  that  what  had  seemed  just  to  thy  power  will  seem  harsh 
to, .his  weakness.  Fo.r  '  as  a  zealous  man  hath  not  done  his  duty 
when  he  calls  his  brother  drunkard  and  beast,'*  even  so  an 
administrator  of  the  law  mistakes  his  object  if  he  writes  on  the 
grand  column  of  society  only  warnings  that  irritate  the  bold  and 
terrify  the  timid. ;  and  a  man  will  be  no  more  in  love  with  law 
than  with  virtue, '  if  he  be  forced  to  it  with  rudeness  and  incivili- 
ties.' f  If,  then,  ye  would  bear  the  burden  of  the  lowly,  O  ye 
great,  feel  not  only/0/-  them  but  with!  Watch  that  your  pride 
does  not  chafe  them — your  power  does  not  wantonly  gall.  Your 
worldly  inferior  is  of  the  class  from  which  the  Apostles  were 
chosen — amid  which  the  Lord  of  Creation  descended  from  a 
throne  above  the  seraphs." 

The  Parson  here  paused  a  moment,  and  his  eye  glanced  to- 
ward the  pew  near  the  pulpit,  where  sat  the  magnate  of  Hazel- 
dean.  The  Squire  was  leaning  his  chin  thoughtfully  on  his 
hand,  his  brow  inclined  downward,  and  the  natural  glow  of  his 
complexion  much  heightened. 

"  But,"— resumed  the  Parson  softly,  without  turning  to  his 
book,  and  rather  as  if  prompted  by  the  suggestion  of  the  mo- 
ment— "but  he  who  has  cultivated  sympathy  commits  not  these 
errors,  or,  if  committing  them,  hastens  to  retract.  So  natural  is 
sympathy  to  the  good  man,  that  he  obeys  it  mechanically  when 
he  suffers  his  heart  to  be  the  monitor  of  his  conscience,  in  this 
sympathy  behold  the  bond  between  rich  and  poor  !  By  this 
sympathy,  whatever  our  varying  worldly  lots,  they  become  what 
they  were  meant  to  be — exercises  for  the  virtues  more  peculiar 
to  each  ;  and  thus,  if  in  the  body  each  man. bear  his  own  bur- 
den, yet  in  the  fellowship  of  the  soul  all  have  common  relief  in 
bearing  the  burdens  of  each  other. 

"  This  is  the  law  of  Christ— fulfil  it,  O  my  flock  !  " 

Here  the  parson  closed  his  sermon,  and  the  congregation 
bowed  their  heads. 

*  JBRKMY  TAYLOR—  Of  Christian  Prudtnce.    Part  II.  t  Ibid, 


120  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR 

BOOK  THIRD.— INITIAL  CHAPTER. 

SHOWING   HOW    MY    NOVEL   CAME   TO    BE   CALLED    "MY   NOVEL." 

"  I  AM  not  displeased  with  your  novel,  so  far  as  it  has  gone," 
said  my  fattier,  graciously;  "though  as  for  the  Sermon — ' 

Here  I  trembled!  but  the  ladies,  Heaven  bless  them!  had  taken 
Parson  Dale  under  their  special  protection  ;  and,  observing  that 
my  father  was  puckering  up  his  brows  critically,  they  rushed 
boldly  forward  in  defence  of  The  Sermon,  and  Mr.  Caxton  was 
forced  to  beat  a  retreat.  However,  like  a  skilful  general,  he 
renewed  the  assault  upon  outposts  less  gallantly  guarded.  But 
as  it  is  not  my  business  to  betray  my  weak  points,  I  leave  it  to 
the  ingenuity  of  cavillers  to  discover  the  places  at  which  the 
author  of  Human  Error  directed  his  great  guns. 

"  But,"  said  the  Captain  "you  are1  a  lad  of  too  much  spirit, 
Pisistratus,  to  keep  us  always  in  the  obscure  country  quarters 
of  Hazeldean — you  will  march  us  out  into  open  service  before 
you  have  done  with  us?" 

PISISTRATUS  (magisterially,  for  he  has  been  somewhat  nettled 
by  Mr.  Caxton's  remarks— and  he  puts  on  an  air  of  dignity  in 
order  to  awe  away  minor  assailants). — Yes,  Captain  Roland — 
ndt  yet  awhile,  but  all  in  good  time.  I  have  not  stinted  myself 
in  canvas,  and  behind  my  foreground  of  the  Hall  and  the  Par- 
sonage I  propose,  hereafter,  to  open  some  lengthened  perspec- 
tive of  the  varieties  of  English  life—" 

MR.  CAXTON. — Hum  ! 

BLANCHE  (putting  her  hand  on  my  father's  lip). — We  shall 
know  better  the  design,  perhaps,  when  we  know  the  title.  Pray, 
Mr.  Author,  what  is  the  title? 

MY  MOTHER  (with  more  animation  than  usual). — Ay,  Sisty — 
the  title  ! 

PISISTRATUS  (startled).— The  title  !  By  the  soul  of  Cer- 
vantes !  I  have  never  thought  of  a  title1! 

CAPTAIN  ROLAND  (solemnly). — There  is  a  great  deal  in  a 
good  title.  As  a  novel-reader,  I  know  that  by  experience. 

MR.  SQUILLS. — Certainly  ;  there  is  riot  a  catchpenny  in  the 
world  but  what  goes  down,  if  the  title  be  apt  and  seductive. 
Witness  "  Old  Parr's  Life  Pills."  Sell  by  the  thousand,  sir, 
when  my  "  Pills  for  Weak  Stomachs,"  which  I  belreve  to  be 
just  the  same  compound,  never  paid  for  the  advertising. 

MR.  CAXTON. — Parr's  Life  Pills  !  a  fine  stroke  of  Genius  !  It 
is  not  every  one  wno  has  a  weak  stomach,  or  time  to  attend  to 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  121 

it,  if  he  have.     But  who  would  not  swallow  a  pill  to  live  to  a 
hundred  and  fifty-two  ? 

PISISTRATUS  (stirring  the  fire  in  great  excitement.)— My 
title  !  my  title  ! — .what  shall  be  my  title  ? 

MR.  CAXTON  (thrusting  his  hand  into  his  waistcoat,  and  in  his 
most  didactic  of  tones). — From  a  remote  period,  the  choice  of  a 
title  has  perplexed  the  scribbling  portion  of  mankind.  We  may 
guess  how  their  invention  has  been  racked  by  the  strange  con- 
tortions it  has  produced.  To  begin  with  the  Hebrews,  "  The 
Lips  of  the  Sleeping  "  (Labia  Dormienfiutii) — what  book  doyou 
suppose  that  title  to  designate  ? — A  Catalogue  of  Rabbinical 
Writers  !  Again,  imagine  some  young  lady  of  old  captivated  by 
the  sentimental  title  of  "  The  Pomegranate  with  its  Flower,"  and 
opening  on  a  Treatise  on  the  Jewish  Ceremonials  !  Let  us  turn 
to  the  Romans.  Aulus  Gellius  commences  his  pleasant  gossip- 
ing "  Noctes  "  with  a  list  of  the  titles  in  fashion  in  his  day. 
For  instance,  "The  Muses  "  and  "The  Veil"  "The  Cornucopia" 
"The  Beehive"  and  "  The  Meadow."  Some  titles,  indeed,  were 
more  truculent,  and  promised  food  to  those  who  love  to  sup  upon 
horrors— such  as  "The  Torch,"  "The  Poniard"  "  The  Stiletto— " 

PISISTRATUS  (impatiently). — Yes,sir;  buttocometoMy  Novel. 

MR.  CAXTON  (unheeding  the  interruption). — You  see  you 
have  a  fine  choice  here,  and  of  a  nature  pleasing  and  not  un- 
familiar, to  a  classical  reader  :  or  you  may  borrow  a  hint  from 
the  early  Dramatic  Writers. 

PISISTRATUS  (more  hopefully). — Ay  !  there  is  something  in 
the  Drama  akin  to  the  Novel.  Now,  perhaps,  I  may  catch  an  idea. 

MR.  CAXTON. — For  instance,  the  author  of  the  Curiosities  o/ 
Literature  (from  whom,  by  the  way,  I  am  plagiarizing  much  of 
the  information  I  bestow  upon  you)  tells  us  of  a  Spanish  gen- 
tleman who  wrote  a  Comedy,  by  which  he  intended  to  serve 
what  he  took  for  Moral  Philosophy. 

PISISTRATUS  (eagerly.) — Well,  sir  ? 

MR.  CAXTON. — And  called  it  "  The  Pain  of  the  Sleep  of  the 
World." 

PISISTRATUS — Very  comic  indeed,  sir. 

MR.  CAXTON. — Grave  things  were  then  called  Comedies,  as 
old  things  are  now  called  Novels.  Then  there  are  all  the  titles 
of  early  Romance  itself  at  your  disposal — "  Theagines  and  Char- 
iclea,"  or  "  The  Ass  "  of  Longus,  or  "  The  Golden  Ass  "  of  Ap- 
uleius  ;  or  the  titles  of  Gothic  Romance,  such  as  "  The  most  ele- 
gant, delicious,  mellifluous,  and  delightful  History  of  Percefor- 
est,Kingof  Great  Britain."— And  therewith  my  father  ran  over  a 
list  of  names  as  long  as  the  Directory,  and  about  as  amusing. 


124  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

"Well,  to  my  taste,"  said  my  mother,  "  the  novels  lused  to  read 
when  agirl  (for  Ihavenot  read  many  since, I  am  ashamed  tosay,) — " 

MR.  CAXTON. — 'No,youneed  not  be  at  all  ashamed  of  it.Kitty. 

My  MOTHER  (proceeding). — Were  much  more  inviting  than 
any  you  mention,  Austin. 

THE  CAPTAIN.— True. 

MR.  SQUILLS. — Certainly.     Nothing  like  them  nowadays  ! 

MY  MOTHER. — "  Says  she  to  her  Neighbor,  What  ?  " 

THE  CAPTAIN. — "  The  Unknown,  or  the  Northern  Gallery — " 

MR.  SQUILLS. — "  Then  is  a  Secret  /  find  it  out !  " 

PISISTRATUS  (pushed  to  the  verge  of  human  endurance,  and 
upsetting  tongs,  poker,  and  fire-shovel). — What  nonsense  you 
are  talking,  all  of  you  !  For  heaven's  sake,  consider  what  an  im- 
portant matter  we  are  called  upon  to  decide.  It  is  not  now- 
the  titles  ofjthose  very  respectable  works'  which  issued  from 
the  Minerva  Press  that  I  ask  you  to  remember — it  is  to  invent 
a  title  for  mhle — My  NoVel  ! 

MR.  CAXTON  (clapping  his  hands  gently). — Excellent — capi- 
tal! Nothing  can  be  better;  simple,  natural,  pertinent,  concise — 

PISISTRATUS. — AVhat  is -it,  sir — what  is  it  ?  Have  you  really 
thought  of  a  title  to  My  Novel  ? 

MR.  CAXT'ON. — You  have  hit  it  yourself — "  My  Nov£l."  It 
is  your  Novel— people  will  know  it  is  your  Novel.  Turn  and 
twist  the  English  language  as  "you  will — '"be  as  allegorical  as  He- 
brew, Greek,  Roman — Fabulist  or  Puritan — still,  after  all,  it  is 
your  Novel,  and  nothing  more  nor  less  than  your  Novel. 

PISISTRATUS  (-thoughtfully,  and  sounding  the  words  various 
ways). — "  My  Novel  " — urn— -urn  !  "  My  Novel  !  "  rather 
bold — and  curt,  eh?. 

MR.  CAXTON. — Add  what  you  say  you  intend  to  depict — 
Varieties  in  English  Life. 

MY  MOTHER. — "  My  Novel ;  or,  Varieties  in  English  Life  " 
— I  don't  think  it  sounds  amiss.  What  say  you,  Roland? 
Would  it  attract  you  in  a  catalogue  ?;:;M  Off 

My  uncle  hesitates,  when  Mr.  Caxton  exclaims  imperiously — 
"  The  thing  is  settled  !  Don't  disturb  Gamarina." 

SQUILLS. — If  it  be  not  too  great  a  liberty,  pray  who  or  what 
is  Camarina  ? 

MR.  CAXTON. — Camarina,  Mr.  Squills,  was  a  lake,  apt  to  be 
low,  and  then  liable  to  be  muddy  !  and  "  Don't  disturb  Camar- 
ina," was  a  Greek  proverb  derived  from  an  Oracle  of  Apollo  ; 
and  from  that  Greek  proverb,  no  doubt,  comes  the  origin  of  the 
injunction,  "  Quieta  non  ntovere"  which  became  the  favorite 
maxim  of  Sir  Robert  Walpole  and  Parson  Dale/  The  Greek 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  123 

line,  Mr.  Squills  (here  my  father's  memory  began  to  warm), 
is  preserved  by  STEPHANUS  BYZANTINUS.  de  Urbibus, 

"  M^  KIVEI  Ka/udpivav,  anivrjToq  yap  afieivuv," 

ZENOBIUS  explains  it  in  his  proverbs  ;  SUIDAS  repeats  ZENO- 
BIUS  :  LUCIAN  alludes  to  it  ;  so  does  VIRGIL  in  the  Third 
Book  of  the  ^ENEID  ;  and  SILIUS  ITALICUS  imitates  Virgil — 

"  Et  cui  non  licitum  fatis  Camarina  moveri." 

Parson  Dale,  as  a  clergyman  and  a  scholar,  had,  no  doubt,  these 
authorities  at  his  fingers'  end.  "And  I  wonder  he  did  not 
quote  them,"  quoth  my  father  :  "  but,  to  be  sure,  he  is  repre- 
sented as  a  mild  man,  and  so  might  not  wish  to  humble  the 
Squire  overmuch  in  the  presence  of  his  family.  Meanwhile,  My 
Novel  "is  My  Novel ;  and  now  that  the  matter  is  settled,  perhaps 
the  tongs,  poker,  and  sliovel  may  be  picked  up,  the  children  may 
go  to  bed,  Blanche  and  Kitty  may  speculate  apart  upon  the  fu- 
ture dignities  of  the  Neogilos, — taking  care,  nevertheless,  to 
finish  the  new  pinbefores  he  requires  for  the  present  ;  Roland 
may  cast  up  his  account-book,  Mr.  Squills  have  his  brandy-and- 
water,  and  all  the  world  be  comfortable,  each  in  his  own  way. 
Blanche,  come  away  from  the  screen,  get  me  my  slippers,  and 
leave.  Pisistratu.s  to  himself.  Mr/  nivei  Kajtdpirav — don't  dis- 
turb Camarina.  You  see,  my  dear,"  added  my  father  kindly, 
as,  after  settling  himself  into  his  slippers,  he  detained  Blanche's, 
hand  in  his  own — "  you  see,  my  dear,  every  house  has  its  Ca- 
marina. Man,  who  is  a  lazy  animal,  is  quite  content  to  let  it 
alone  ;  but  woman,  being  the  more  active,  bustling,  curious 
creature,  is  always  for  giving  it  a  sly  stir." 

BLANCHE  (with  female  dignity). — I  assure  you,  that  if  Pisis- 
tratus had  not  called  me,  I  should  not  have — 

MR.  CAXTON  (interrupting  her,  without  lifting  his  eyes  from 
the  book  he  has  already  taken). — Certainly  you  would  not.  I 
am  now  in  the  midst  of  the  great  Oxford  Controversy.  Mrf 
KIVSI  Ka/Jidpivav — don't  disturb  Camarina. 

A  dead  silence  for  half  an  hour,  at  the  end  of  which 

PISISTRATUS  (from  behind  the  screen). — Blanche,  my  dear, 
I  want  to  consult  you. 

Blanche  does  not  stir. 

PISISTRATUS. — Blanche,  I  say. 

Blanche  glances  in  triumph  toward  Mr.  Caxton. 

MR.  CAXTON  (laying  down  his  theological  tract,  and  rub- 
bing his  spectacles  mournfully).  I  hear  him,  child  ;  I  hear 
him,  I  retract  my  vindication  of  man.  Oracles  warn  in  vain  : 
so  long  as  there  is  a  woman  on  the  other  side  of  the  screen, — 
it  is  all  up  with  Camarina. 


124  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 


CHAPTER   II. 

IT  is  greatly  to  be  regretted  that  Mr.  Stirn  was  not  present  at 
the  Parson's  Discourse — but  that  valuable  functionary  was  far 
otherwise  engaged — indeed,  during  the  summer  months  he  was 
rarely  seen  at  the  afternoon  service.  Not  that  he  cared  for  being 
preached  at — not  he  ;  Mr.  Stirn  would  have  snapped  his  fingers 
at  the  thunders  of  the  Vatican.  But  the  fact  was,  that  Mr.  Stirn 
chose  to  do  a  great  deal  of  gratuitous  business  upon  the  day  of 
rest.  The  Squire  allowed  all  the  persons  who  chose  to  walk  about 
the  park  on  a  Sunday  ;  and  many  came  from  a  distance  to  stroll 
by  the  lake,  or  recline  under  the  elms.  These  visitors  were  ob- 
jects of  great  suspicion,  nay,  of  positive  annoyance,  to  Mr.  Stirn 
— and,  indeed,  not  altogether  withoutreason,  for  we  English  have 
a  natural  love  for  liberty,  which  we  are  even  more  apt  to  display 
in  the  grounds  of  other  people  than  in  those  we  cultivate  our- 
selves. Sometimes,  to  his  inexpressible  and  fierce  satisfaction, 
Mr.  Stirn  fell  upon  a  lot  of  boys  pelting  the  swans  :  sometimes 
he  missed  a  young  sapling,  and  found  it  in  felonious  hands,  con- 
vertedintoa  walking-stick;  sometimes  hecaught  a  hulking  fellow 
scrambling  up  the  ha-ha,  to  gather  a  'nosegay  for  his  sweetheart 
from  one  of  poor. Mrs.  Hazeldean's  pet  parterres  ;  not  unfre- 
quently,  indeed,  when  all  the  family  were  fairly  at  church,  some 
curious  impertinents  forced  or  sneaked  their  way  into  the  gar- 
dens, in  order  to  peep  in  at  the  windows.  For  these,  and  various 
other  offences  of  like  magnitude,  Mr.  Stirn  had  long,  but  vainly, 
sought  to  induce  the  Squire  to  withdraw  a  permission  so  villan- 
ously  abused.  But  though  there  were  times  when  Mr.  Hazeldean 
grunted  and  growled,  and  swore  "  that  he  would  shut  up  the  park 
and  fill  it  (illegally)  with  man-traps  and  spring-guns,"  his  anger 
always  evaporated  in  words.  The  park  was  still  open  to  all  the 
world  on  a  Sunday;  and  that  blessed  day  was  therefore  converted 
into  a  day  of  travail  and  wrath  to  Mr.  Stirn.  But  it  was  from  the 
last  chime  of  the  afternoon  service  bell  until  dusk,  that  the  spirit 
of  this  vjgilant  functionary  was  most  perturbed  ;  for,  amidst  the 
flocks  that  gathered  from  the  little  hamlets  round  to  the  voice  of 
the  Pastor,  there  was  always  some  stray  sheep,  or  rather  climb- 
ing, desultory,  vagabond  goats,  who  struck  off  in  all  perverse 
directions,  as  if  for  the  special  purpose  of  distracting  the  ener- 
getic watchfulness  of  Mr.  Stirn.  As  soon  as  church  was  over,  if 
the  day  were  fine  the  whole  park  became  a  scene  animated  with 
red  cloaks,  or  lively  shawls,  Sunday  waistcoats,  and  hats  stuck 

full  of  wild  flowers — which  last  Mr.  Stirn  often  stoutly  main- 

J 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  125 

tained  to  be  Mrs.  Hazeldean's  newest  geraniums.  Now,  on  this 
Sunday,  especially,  there  was  an  imperative  call  upon  an  extra 
exertion  of  vigilance  on  the  part  of  the  superintendent — he  had 
not  only  to  detect  ordinary  depredators  and  trespassers  ;  but, 
first  to  discover  the  authors  of  the  conspiracy  against  the 
stocks  ;  and,  secondly,  to  "  make  an  example." 

He  had  begun  his  rounds,  therefore,  from  the  early  morning  ; 
and  just  as  the  afternoon  bell  was  sounding  its  final  peal  he 
emerged  upon  the  village-green  from  a  hedgerow,  behind  which 
he  had  been  at  watch  to  observe  who  had  the  most  suspiciously 
gathered  round  the  stocks.  At  that  moment  the  place  was  de- 
serted. At  a  distance,  the  superintendent  saw  the  fast  disappear- 
ing forms  of  some  belated  groups  hastening  toward  the  church  ; 
in  front,  the  stocks  stood  staring  at  him  mournfully  from  its  four 
great  eyes,  which  had  been  cleansed  from  the  mud,  but  still 
looked  bleared  and  stained  with  the  marks  of  the  recent  outrage. 
Here  Mr.  Stirn  paused,  took  off  his  hat,  and  wiped  his  brows. 

"  If  I  had  sum  un  to  watch  here,"  thought  he,-"  while  I  takes 
a  turn  by  the  water- side,  p'r'aps  sumrnat  might  come  out ; 
p'r'aps  them  as  did  it  ben't  gone  to  church,  but  will  come  sneak- 
ing round  to  look  on  their  villany  !  as  they  says  murderers  are 
always  led  back  to  the  place  where  they  ha'  left  the  body.  But 
in  this  here  village  there  ben't  a  man,  woman,  nor  child,  as  has 
any  consarn  for  Squire  or  Parish,  barring  myself."  It^was  just 
as  he  arrived  at  that  misanthropical  conclusion,  that  Mr.  Stirn 
beheld  Leonard  Fairfield  walking  very  fast  from  his  own  home. 
The  superintendent  clapped  on  his  hat,  and  stuck  his  right  arm 
akimbo.  "  Hallo,  you  sir,"  said  he,  as  Lenny  now  came  in 
hearing,  "where  be  you  going  at  that  rate?" 

"  Please,  sir,  I  be  going  to  church." 

"Stop, sir;  stop,MasterLenny.  Goingtochurch — why,thebell's 
done;  and  you  knows  the  Parson  is  very  angry  at  them  as  comes 
in  late,  disturbing  the  congregation.  You  can't  go  to  churchnow ! " 

"  Please,  sir — ' 

"  I  says  you  can't  go  to  church  now.  You  must  learn  to  think 
of  others,  lad.  You  sees  how  I  sweats  to  serve  the  Squire  ! 
and  you  must  serve  him  too.  Why,  your  mother's  got  the  house 
and  premishes  almost  rent  free  ;  you  ought  to  have  a  grateful 
heart,  Leonard  Fairfield,  and  feel  for  his  honor  !  Poor  man  ! 
his  heart  is  well  nigh  bruk,  I  am  sure,  with  the  goings  on." 

Leonard  opened  his  innocent  blue  eyes,  while  Mr.:  Stirn 
dolorously  wiped  his  own. 

"  Look  at  that  'ere  dumb  cretur,"  said  Stirn,  suddenly  point- 
ing to  the  stocks — "  look  at  it.  If  it  could  speak,  what  would 


126  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

it  say,    Leonard    Fairfield?     Answer   me   that!— 'Damn  the 
stocks,'  indeed  !" 

"  It  was  very  bad  in  them  to  write  such  naughty  words," 
said  Lenny,  gravely.  "  Mother  was  quite  shocked  when  she 
heard  of  it  this  morning." 

MR.  STIRN. — I  dare  say  she  was,  considering  what  she  pays 
for  the  premishes  ;  (insinuatingly)  you  does  not  know  who  did 
it — eh,  Lenny  ? 

LENNY. — No,  sir  ;  indeed  I  does  not  ! 

MR.  STIRN. — Well,  you  see,  you  can't  go  to  church — prayers 
half  over  by  this  time.  You  recollex  that  I  put  them  stocks 
under  your  "  sponsibility,"  and  see  the  way  you's  done  your 
duty  by  'em.  I've  half  a  mind  to — 

Mr.  Stirn  cast  his  eyes  on  the  eyes  of  the  stocks. 
.  "  Please,  sir,"  began  Lenny  again,  rather  frightened. 

"  No,  I  won't  please  ;  it  ben't  pleasing  at  all.  But  I  forgives 
you  this  time,  only  keep  a  sharp  lookout,  lad,  in  future.  Now 
you  just  stay  here— no,  there — under  the  hedge,  and  you  watches 
if  any  person  comes  to  loiter  about  or  looks  at  the  stocks,  or 
laughs  to  hisself,  while  I  go  my  rounds.  I  shall  be  back  either 
afore  church  is  over  or  just  arter  ;  so  you  stay  till  I  comes,  and 
give  me  your  report.  Be  sharp,  boy  or  it  will  be  worse  for  you 
and  your  mother;  I  can  let  the  premishes  for  four  pounds  a-year 
more  to-morrow." 

Concluding  with  that  somewhat  menacing  and  very  signifi- 
cant remark,  and  not  staying  for  an  answer,  Mr.  Stirn  waved 
his  hand,  and  walked  off. 

Poor  Lenny  remained  by  the  stocks,  very  much  dejected,  and 
greatly  disliking  the  neighborhood  to  which  he  was  consigned. 
At  length  he  slowly  crept  off  to  the  hedge,  and  sate  himself  down 
in  the  place  of  espionage  pointed  out  to  him.  Now,  philosophers 
tell  us  that  what  is  called  the  point  of  honor  is  a  barbarous  feudal 
prejudice.  Amongst  the  higher  classes,  wherein  those  feudal 
prejudices  may  be  supposed  to  prevail,  Lenny  Fairfield's  occu- 
pation would  not  have  been  considered  peculiarly  honorable  ; 
neither  would  it  have  seemed  so  to  the  more  turbulent  spirits 
among  the  humbler  orders,  who  have  a  point  of  honor  of  their 
own  which  consists  in  the  adherence  to  each  other  in  defiance  of 
all  lawful  authority.  But  to  Lenny  Fairfield,  brought  up  much 
apart  from  other  boys,  and  with  profound  and  grateful  reverence 
for  the  Squire  instilled  into  all  his' habits  of  thought,  notions  of 
honor  bounded  themselves  to  simple  honesty  and  straightforward 
truth  ;  and  as  he  cherished  an  unquestioning  awe  of  order  and 
constitutional  authority,  so  it  did  not  appear  to  him  that -there 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  127 

was  anything  derogatory  and  debasing  in  thus  being  set  to  watch 
an  offender.  On  the  contrary,  as  he  began  to  reconcile  himself 
to  the  loss  of  the  church  service,  and  to  enjoy  the  cool  of  the 
summer  shade,  and  the  occasional  chirp  of  the  birds,  he  got  to 
look  on  the  bright  side  of  the  commission  to  which  he  was  de- 
puted. In  youth,  at  least,  everything  has  its  bright  side — even 
the  appointment  of  Protector  to  the  Parish  Stocks.  For  the 
stocks  itself  Leonard  had  no  affection,  it  is  true  ;  but  he  had  no 
sympathy  with  its  aggressors,  and  he  could  well  conceive  that 
the  Squire  would  be  very  much  hurt  at  the  revolutionary  event 
of  the  night.  "  So,"  thought  poor  Leonard  in  his  simple  heart — 
"  so,  if  I  can  serve  his  honor,  by  keeping  off  mischievous  boys, 
or  letting  him  know  who  did  the  thing,  I'm  sure  it  would  be  a 
proud  day  for  mother."  Then  he  began  to  consider  that,  however 
ungraciously  Mr.  Stirn  had  bestowed  on  him  the  appointment, 
still  it  was  a  compliment  to  him — showed  trust  and  confidence 
in  him,  picked  him  out  from  Iris  contemporaries  as  the  sober 
moral  pattern  boy  :  and  Lenny  had  a  great  deal  of  pride  in 
him,  especially  in  matters  of  repute  and  character. 

All  these  things  considered,  I  say,  Leonard  Fairfield  reclined 
on  his  lurking-place,  if  not  with  positive  delight  and  intoxicating 
rapture,  at  least  with  tolerable  content  and  some  complacency. 

Mr.  Stirn  might  have  been  gone  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  when 
a  boy  came  through  a  little  gate  in  the  park,  just  opposite  to 
Lenny's  retreat  in  the  hedge,  and,  as  if  fatigued  with  walk- 
ing, or  oppressed  by  the  heat  of  the  day,  paused:on  the  green 
for  a  moment  or  so,  and  then  advanced  under  the  shade  of  the 
great  tree  which  overhung  the  stocks. 

Lenny  pricked  up  h-is  ears,  and  peeped  out  jealously. 

He  had  never  seen  the  boy  before;  it  was  a  strange  face  to  him. 

Leonard  Fairfield  was  not  fond  of  strangers  ;  moreover,  he 
had  a  vague  belief  that  strangers  .were  at  the  bottom  of  that 
desecration  of  the  stocks.  The  boy,  then,  was  a  stranger  ;  but 
what  was  his  rank  ?  Was  he  of  that  grade  in  society  in  which 
the  natural  offences  are  or  are  not  consonant  to,  or  harmonious 
Math,  outrages  upon  stocks  ?  On  that  Lenny  Fairfield  did  not 
feel  quite  assured.  According  to  all  the  experience  of  the  vil- 
lager, theboy  was  not  dressedlikeayoung  gentleman.  Leonard's 
notions  of  such  aristocratic  costume  were  naturally  fashioned 
upon  the  model  of  Frank  Hazeldean.  They  represented  to  him 
a  dazzling  vision  of  snow-white  trowsers,  and  beautiful  blue 
coats,  and  incomparable  cravats.  Now  the  dress  of  this  stranger, 
though  not  that  of  a  peasant  nor  of  a  farmer,  did  not  in  any 
way  correspond  with  Lenny's  notions  of  the  costume  of  a  young 


128  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

gentleman  ;  it  looked  to  him  highly  disreputable  :  the  coat  was 
covered  with  mud,  and  the  hat  was  all  manner  of  shapes,  with 
a  gap  between  the  side  and  crown. 

Lenny  was  puzzled,  till  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  the 
gate  through  which  the  boy  had  passed  was  in  the  direct  path 
across  the  park  from  a  small  town,  the  inhabitants  of  which  were 
in  very  bad  order  at  the  Hall— they  had  immemorially  fur- 
nished the  most  daring  poachers  to  the  preserves,  the  most  trou- 
blesome trespassers  on  the  park,  the  most  unprincipled  orchard 
robbers,  and  the  most  disputatious  asserters  of  various  problem- 
atical rights  of  way,  which,  according  to  the  Town,  were  public, 
and,  according  to  the  Hall,  had  been  private  since  the  Conquest. 
It  was  true  that  the  same  path  led  also  directly  from  the  Squire's 
house,  but  it  was  not"  probable  that  the  wearer  of  attire  so  equiv- 
ocal had  been  visiting  there.  All  thing  considered,  Lenny 
had  no  doubt  in  his  mind  but  that  the  stranger  was  a  shop-boy 
or  'prentice  from  the -town  of  Thorndyke;  and  the  notorious  re- 
puteof  that  town,  coupled  with  the  presumption,  made  it  probable 
that  Lenny  now  saw  before  him  oneof  the  midnight  desecrators  of 
the  stocks.  As  if  to  confirm  the  suspicion,  which  passed  through 
Lenny'smindwith  a  rapidity  wholly  disproportionate  to  thenum* 
ber  of  lines  it  costs  me  to  convey  it,  the  boy,  now  standing  right 
before  the  stocks,  bent  down  and  read  that  pithy  anathema  with 
which  it  was  defaced.  And  having  read  it  he  repeated  it  aloud, 
and  Lenny  actually  sawhim  smile — sucha  smile! — sodisagreeable 
and  sinister  !  Lenny  had  never  before  seen  the  smile  Sardonic. 

But  what  were  Lenny's  pious  horror  and  dismay  when  this 
ominous  stranger  fairly  seated  himself  on  the  stocks,  rested  his 
heels  profanely  on  the  lids  of  two  of  the  four  round  eyes, 
and,  taking  out  a  pencil  and  a  pocket-book,  began  to  write. 
Was  this  audacious  Unknown  taking  an  inventory  of  the  church 
and  the  Hall  for  the  purposes  of  conflagration  ?  He  looked  at 
one,  and  at  the  other,  with  a  strange,  fixed  stare  as  he  wrote — 
not  keeping  his  eyes  on  the  paper,  as  Lenny  had  been  taught  to 
do  when  he  sat  down  to  his  copy-book.  The  fact  is,  that  Randal 
Leslie  was  tired  and  faint,  and  he  felt  the  shock  of  his  fall  the  more, 
after  the  few  paces  he  had  walked,  so  that  he  was  glad  to  rest  him- 
self a  few  moments;  and  lie  took  that  opportunity  to  write  a  line 
to  Frank,  to  excuse  himself  for  not  calling  again,  intending  to  tear 
the  leaf  on  which  he  wrote  out  of  his  pocket-book  and  leave  it  at 
at  the  first  cottage  hepassed,  with  instructions  to  take  it  to  the  Hall. 

While  Randal  was  thus  innocently  engaged,  Lenny  came  up 
to  him,  with  the  firm  and  measured  pace  of  one  who  has  re- 
solved, cost  what  it  may,  to  do  his  duty.  And  as  Lenny,  though 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  129 

brave,  was  not  ferocious,  so  the  anger  he  felt,  and  the  suspicions 
he  entertained,  only  exhibited  themselves  in  the  following  sol- 
emn appeal  to  the  offender's  sense  of  propriety, — 

"  Ben't  you  ashamed  of  yourself  ?  Sitting  on  the  Squire's 
new  stocks!  Do  get  up,  and  go  along  with  you!" 

Randal  turned  round  sharply  ;  and  though,  at  .any  other  mo- 
ment, he  would  have  had  sense  enough  to  extricate  himself 
very  easily  from  his  false  position,  yet,  Nemo  mortalium,  etc. 
No  one  is  always  wise.  And  Randal  was  in  an  exceeding  bad 
humor.  The  affability  toward  his  inferiors,  for  which  I  lately 
praised  him,  was  entirely  lost  in  the  contempt  of  impertinent 
snobs  natural  to  an  insulted  Etonian. 

Therefore,  eying  Lenny  with  great  disdain,  Randal  answered 
briefly, — 

"You  are  an  insolent  young  blackguard." 

So  curt  a  rejoinder  made  Lenny's  blood  fly  to  his  face.  Per- 
suaded before  that  the  intruder  was  some  lawless  apprentice  or 
shop-lad,  he  was  now  more  confirmed  in  that  judgment,  not 
only  by  language  so  uncivil,  but  by  the  truculent  glance  which 
accompanied  it,  and  which  certainly  did  not  derive  any  impos- 
ing dignity  from  the  mutilated,  rakish,  hang-dog,  ruinous  hat, 
under  which  it  shot  its  sullen  and  menacing  fire. 

Of  all  the  various  articles  of  which  our  male  Attire  is  com- 
posed, there  is  perhaps  not  one  which  has  so  much  character 
and  expression  as  the  top  covering.  A  neat,  well-brushed, 
short-napped,  gentleman-like  hat,  put  on  with  a  certain  air, 
gives  a  distinction  and  respectability  to  the  whole  .exterior  ; 
whereas,  a  broken,  squashed,  higgledyTpiggledy  sort  of  a.  hat, 
such  as  Randal  Leslie  had  op,  would  go  far  toward  transform- 
ing the  stateliest  gentleman  who  ever  walked  down  St.  James's 
Street  into  the  ideal  of  a  ruffianly  scamp. 

Now,  it  is  well  known  that  there  is  nothing  more  antipathetic 
to  your  peasant-boy  than  a  shop-boy.  Even  .on  grand  political 
occasions,  the  rural  working-class  can  rarely  be  coaxed  into  sym- 
pathy with  the  trading  town-class.  Your  true  English  peasant 
is  always  an  aristocrat.  Moreover,  and  irrespectively  of  this 
immemorial  grudge  of  class,there  is  something  peculiarly  hostile 
in  the  relationship  between  boy  and  boy  when  their  backs  are 
once  up,  and  they  are  alone  on  a  quiet  bit  of  green.  Something  of 
the  game-cock  feeling — something  that  tends  to  keep  alive,  in  the 
population  of  this  island  (otherwise  so  lamb-like  and  peaceful), 
the  martial  propensity  to  double  the  thumb  tightly  over  the  four 
fingers,  and  make  what  is  called  "a  fist  of  it."  Dangerous  symp- 
toms of  these  mingled  and  aggressive  sentiments  were  visible  in 


130  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Lenny  Fairfield  at  the  words  and  the  look  of  the  unprepossessing 
stranger.  And  the  stranger  seemed  aware  of  them ;  for  his  pale 
face  grew  more  pale,  and  his  sullen  eye  more  fixed  and  vigilant. 
"  You  get  off  them  stocks,"  said  Lenny,  disdaining  to  reply  to 
the  coarse  expressions  bestowed  on  him  ;  and,  suiting  the  action 
to  the  word,  he  gave  the  intruder  what  he  meant  for  a  shove, 
but  what  Randal  took  for  a  blow.  The  Etonian  sprang  up,  and 
the  quickness  of  his  movement,  aided  by  a  slight  touch  of  his 
hand,  made  Lenny  lose  his  balance,  and  sent  him  neck  and  crop 
over  the  stocks.  Burning  with  rage,  the  young  villager  arose 
alertly,  and  flying  at  Randal,  struck  out  right  and  left. 

CHAPTER  III. 

AID  me,  O  ye  Nine  !  whom  the  incomparable  Persius  satirized 
his  contemporaries  for  invoking,  and  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  in- 
voked on  his  own  behalf — aid  me  to  describe  that  famous  battle 
by  the  stocks,  and  in  defence  of  the  stocks,  which  was  waged  by 
the  two  representatives  of  Saxon  and  Norman  England.  Here, 
sober  support  of  law  and  duty  and  delegated  trust — -pro  arts  et 
focis;  there,  haughty  invasion,  and  bellicose  spirit  of  knight- 
hood, and  that  respect  for  name  and  person,  which  we  call 
"  honor."  Here,  too,  hardy  physical  force — there,  skilful  disci- 
pline. Here — The  Nine  are  as  deaf  as  a  post,  and  as  cold  as  a 
stone  !  Plague  take  the  jades! — I  can  do  better  without  them. 

Randal  was  a  year  or  two  older  than  Lenny,  but  he  was  not  so 
tall  nor  so  strong,  nor  even  so  active  ;  and  after  the  first  blind 
rush,  when  the  two  boys  paused,  and  drew  back  to  breathe, 
Lenny,  eyeing  the  slight  form  and  hueless  cheek  of  his  opponent, 
and  seeing  blood  trickling  from  Randal's  lip,  was  seized  with  an 
instantaneous  and  generous  remorse.  "It  was  not  fair,"  he 
thought,  "to  fight  one  whom  he  could  beat  so  easily."  So,  retreat- 
ing still  farther,  and  letting' his  arms  fall  to  his  side,  he  said  mild- 
ly— "There,  let's  have  no  more  of  it;  but  go  home  and  be  good." 

Randal  Leslie  had  no  remarkable  degree  of  that  constitutional 
quality  called  physical  courage;  but  he  had  some  of  those 
moral  qualities  which  supply  its  place.  He  was  proud — he  was 
vindictive — he  had  high  self-esteem — hehadthedestructiveorgan 
more  than  the  combative  ; — what  had  once  provoked  his  wrath 
it  became  his  instinct  to  sweep  away.  Therefore,  though  all  his 
nerves  \vere  quivering,  and  hot  tears  were  in  his  eyes,  he  ap- 
proached Lenny  with  thesternnessof  a  gladiator,  and  said,  between 
his  teeth,  which  he  set  hard,  chokingback  the  sob  of  rage  and  pain. 

"You  have  struck  rne — and  you  shall  hot  stir  from  this  ground 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  131 

till  I  have  made  you  repent  it.  Put  up  your  hands — defend 
yourself." 

Lenny  mechanically  obeyed  ;  and  he  had  good  need  of  the 
admonition  ;  for  if  before  he  had  had  the  advantage,  now  that 
Randal  had  recovered  the  surprise  to  his  nerves,  the  battle  was 
not  to  the  strong. 

Though  Leslie  had  not  been  a  fighting  boy  at  Eton,  still  his 
temper  had  involved  him  in  some  conflicts  when  he  was  in  the 
lower  forms,  and  he  had  learned  something  of  the  art  as  well  as 
the  practice  in  pugilism — an  excellent  thing  too,  I  am  barbarous 
enough  to  believe,  and  which  I  hope  will  never  quite  die  out  of 
pur  public  schools.  Ah,  many  a  young  duke  has  been  a  better 
fellow  for  life  from  a  fair  set-to  with  a  trader's  son  ;  and  many  a 
trader's  son  has  learned  to  look  a  lord  more  manfully  in  the  face 
on  the  hustings,  from  the  recollection  of  the  sound  thrashing  he 
once  gave  to  some  little  Lord  Leopold  Dawdle. 

So  Randal  now  brought  his  experience  and  art  to  bear  ;  put 
aside  those  heavy  roundabout  blows,  and  darted  in  his  own, 
quick  and  sharp — supplying  to  the  natural  feebleness  of  his  arm 
the  due  momentum  of  pugilistic  mechanism.  Ay,  and  the  arm, 
too,  was  no  longer  so  feeble  ;  for  strange  is  the  strength  that 
comes  from  passion  and  pluck  ! 

Poor  Lenny,  who  had  never  fought  before,  was  bewildered;  his 
sensations  grew  so  entangled  that  he  could  never  recall  them  dis- 
tinctly; he  had  a  dim  reminiscence  of  some  breathless  impotent 
rush — of  a  sudden  blindnessfollowed  by  quick  flashes  of  intolera- 
able  light — of  a  deadly faintness, from  which  he  was  aroused  by 
sharp  pangs — here — there — everywhere;  andthenallhe  could  re- 
memberwas,  that  he  waslyingontheground,  huddled  up,  and  pant- 
ing hard,  while  his  adversary  bent  over  him  with  a  countenance  as 
dark  and  lividasLara  himself  might  have  bent  Over  the  fallenOtho. 
For  Randal  Leslie  was  not  one  who,  by  impulse  and  nature,  sub- 
scribed to  the  noble  English  maxim — "Never  hit  a  foe  whenhe  is 
down  " ;  and  it  costhim  a  strong  if  brief  self-struggle, not  to  set  his 
heel  on  that  prostratef  orm.  It  was  the  mind,  not  the  heart, that  sub- 
dued thesavagewithinhim,asmutteringsomethinginwardly — cer- 
tainlynotChristian  forgiveness — the  victor  turned  gloomily  away. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

JUST  at  that  precise  moment,  who  should  appear  but  Mr. 
Stirn  !  For,  in  fact,  being  extremely  anxious  to  get  Lenny  into 
disgrace,  he  had  hoped  that  he  should  have  found  the  young 
villager  had  shirked  the  commission  entrusted  to  him  ;  and  the 


.  132  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Right-hand  Man-had  slily  come  back,  to  see  if  that  amiable 
expectation  were  realized.  He  now  beheld  Lenny  risiivg  with 
some  difficulty — still  panting  hard— and  with  hysterical  sounds 
akin  to  what  is  vulgarly  called  blubbering— his  fine  new  waist- 
coat sprinkled  with  his  Own  blood,  which  flowed  from  his  nose- 
nose  that  seemed  to  Lenny  Fairfield's  feelings  to  be  a  nose  no 
more,-  but  a  'swollen,  gigantic,  mountainous  Slawkenbergian 
excrescence  ; — in  fact,  he  felt  all  nose  !  Turning  aghast  from 
this  spectacle,  Mr.  Stirn  surveyed,  with  no  more  respect  than 
Lenny  had  manifested,  the  stranger  boy,  who  had  again  seated 
himself  on  the  stocks  (whether  to  recover  his  breath,  or  whether 
to  show  that  his  victory  was  consummated,  and  that  he  was 
in  his  rights  of  possession).  "  Hollo,"  said  Mr.  Stirn,  "what 
is  all  this  ? — what's  the  matter,  Lenny,  you  blockhead  ?  " 

"  He  will  sit  there,"  answered  Lenny,  in  broken  gasps,  "and 
he  has  beat  me  because  I,  would  not  let  him  ;  but  I  doesn't 
mind  that,"  added  the  villager,  trying  hard  to  suppress  his  tears, 
"and  I'm  ready  again  for  him — that  I  am."  -/X.MJ 

"And  what  do  yotidolollopopingthereon  them  blessed  stocks?" 

"  Looking  at  the  landscape  ;  out  of  my  light,  raan  !  " 

This  tone  instantly  inspired  Mr.  Stirn  with  misgivings  ;  it  was 
a  tone  so  disrespectful  to  him,  that  he  was  seized  with  involun- 
tary respect  ;  who  but  a  gentleman  could  speak  so  to  Mr.  Stirn  ? 

"  And  may  I  ask  who  you  be?  "  said  Stirn,  falteringly,  and 
half  inclined  to  touch  his  hat.  "  What's  your  name,  pray? — • 
what's  your  bizness  ?  " 

"  My  name  is  Randal  Leslie,  and  my  business  was  to  visit 
your  master's  family — that  is,  if  you  are,  as  I  guess  from  your 
manner,  Mr.  Hazeldean's  ploughman  !" 

So  saying,  Randal  rose  ;  and  moving  on  a  few  paces,  turned, 
and  throwing  half-a-cfown  on  the  road,  said  to  Lenny, — "  Let 
that  pay  you  for  your  bruises,  and  remember  another  time  how 
you  speak  to  a  gentleman.  As  for  you,  fellow," — and  he  pointed 
his  scornful  hand  toward  Mr.  Stirn,  who,  with  his  mouth  open 
and  his  hat  now  fairly  off,  stood  bowing,  to  the  earth — "  as  for 
you,  give  my  compliments  to  Mr.  Hazeldean,  and  say  that,  when 
he  does  us -the  honor  to  visit  us  at  Rood  Hall,  I  trust  that  the 
manners  of  our  villagers  will  make  him  ashamed  of  Hazeldean." 

O  my  poor  Squire  !  Rood  Hall  Ashamed  of  Hazeldean  !  If 
that  message  had  been  delivered  to  you,  you  would  never  have 
looked  up  again  ! 

With  those  bitter  words,  Randal  swung  himself  over  the  stile 
that  led  into  the  Parson's  glebe,  and  left  Lenny  Fairfield  still 
feeling  his  nose,  and  Mr.  Stirn  still  bowing  to  the  earth. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  133 


CHAPTER  V. 

RANDAL  LESLIE  had  a  very  long  walk  home  ;  he  was  bruised 
and  sore  from  head  to  foot,  and  his  mind  was  still  more  sore 
and  more  bruised  than  his  body.  But  if  Randal  Leslie  had 
rested  himself  in  the  Squire's  gardens,  without  walking  back- 
ward, and  indulging  in  speculations  suggested  by  Marat,  and 
warranted  by  My  Lord  Bacon,  he  would  have  passed  a  most  agree- 
able evening,  and  really  availed  himself  of  the  Squire's  wealth  by 
going  home  in  the  Squire's  carriage.  But,  because  he  chose  to  take 
so  intellectual  a  view  of  property,  he  tumbled  into  a  ditch;  because 
he  tumbled  intoaditch,  hespoiled  his  clothes;  because  he  spoiled 
his  clothes,  he  gave  up'his  visit;  because  he  gave  up  his  visit,  he 
got  intothe  village-green, and  sat  on  the  stocks  with  a  hatthat gave 
him  the  air  of  a  fugitive  from  the  treadmill;  because  he  sat  on 
the  stocks-'-with  that  hat,and  a  cross  face  under  it — he  had  been 
forced  into  the  most  discreditable  squabble  with  a  clod-hopper, 
and  was  now  limping  home,  at  war  with  gods  and  men;  erg0(this 
is  a  moral  that  will  bear  repetition) — ergo,  when  you  walk  in  a 
a  rich  man's  grounds,  be  contented  to  enjoy  whatis  yours,  namely, 
the  prospect  ;  I  dare  say  you  will  enjoy  it  more  than  he  does  ! 

CHAPTER  VI. 

IF,  in  the  simplicity  of  his  heart,  and  the  crudity  of  his  experi- 
ence, Lenny  Fairfield  had  conceived  it  probable  that  Mr.  Stirn 
would  address  to  him  some  words  in  approbation  of  his  gallan- 
try, and  in  'sympathy  for  his  bruises,  he  soon  found  himself  wo- 
f  ully  mistaken.  That  truly  great  man,  worthy  prime-minister  of 
Hazeldean, might,  perhaps,pardon  a  dereliction  from  his  orders, 
if  such  dereliction  proved  advantageous  to  the  interest  of  the 
service,  or  redounded  to  the  credit  of  the  chief;  but  he  was  in- 
exorable to  that  worst  of  diplomatic  offences — and  ill-timed, 
stupid,  over-zealous  obedience  to  orders,  which,  if  it  established 
the  devotion  of  the  employe,  got  the  employer  into  what  is  popu- 
larly called  a  scrape!  And  though,  by  those  unversed  in  the  in- 
tricacies of  the  human  heart,  and  unacquainted  with  the  especial 
hearts  of  prime-ministers  and  right-hand  men,  it  might  have 
seemed  natural  that  Mr.  Stirn,  as  lie  stood  still,  hat  in  hand,  in 
the  middle  of  the  road,  stung,  humbled,  and  exasperated  by  the 
mortification  he  had  received  from  the  lips  of  Randal  Leslie; 
would  have  felt  that  that  young  gentleman  was  the  proper  ob- 
ject of  his  resentment;  yet  such  a  breach  of  all  the" etiquette  of 


134  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

diplomatic  life  as  resentment  toward  a  superior  power,  was  the 
last  idea  that  would  have  suggested  itself  to  the  profound  intel- 
lect of  the  Premier  of  Hazeldean.  Still,  as  rage,  like  steam,  must 
escape  somewhere,  Mr.  Stirn,  on  feeling — as  he  afterward  ex- 
pressed it  to  his  wife — that  his  "  buzzom  was  a-burstin',M  turned 
with  the  natural  instinct  of  self-preservation  to  the  safety-valve 
provided  for  the  explosion;  and  the  vapors  within  him  rushed 
into  vent  upon  Lenny  Fairfield.  He  clapped  his  hat  on  his  head 
fiercely,  and  thus  relieved  his  "  buzzom." 

"  You  young  willain!  you  howdacious  wiper!  and  so  all  this 
blessed  Sabbath  afternoon,  when  you  ought  to  have  been  in 
church  on  your  marrow-bones,  a-praying  for  your  betters,  you 
has  been  a-fitting  with  that  young  gentleman,  and  a  wisiter  to 
your  master,  on  the  wery  place  of  the  parridge  hinstitution  that 
you  was  to  guard  and  pertect;  and  a-bloodying  it  all  over,  I  de- 
clares, with  your  blackguard  little  nose!  "  Thus  saying,  and  as 
if  to  mend  the  matter,Mr.Stirn  aimed  an  additional  stroke  at  the 
offending  member;  but  Lenny,  mechanically  putting  up  both 
arms  to  defend  his  face,Mr.Stirn  struck  his  knuckles  against  the 
large  brass  buttons  that  adorned  the  cuff  of  the  boy's  coat-sleeve 
— an  incident  which  considerably  aggravated  his  indignation. 
And  Lenny,  whose  spirit  was  fairly  roused  at  what  the  narrow- 
ness of  his  education  conceived  to  be  a  signal  injustice,  placing 
the  trunk  of  the  tree  between  Mr.  Stirn  and  himself,  began  that 
task  of  self-justification  which  it  was  equally  impolitic  to  con- 
ceive and  imprudent  to  execute,  since,  in  such  a  case,  to  justify 
was  to  recriminate. 

"  I  wonder  at  you,  Master  Stirn, — if  mother  could  hear  you! 
You  know  it  was  you  who  would  not  let  me  go  to  church;  it 
was  you  who  told  me  to — " 

"  Fit  a  young  gentleman,  and  break  the  Sabbath,"  said  Mr. 
Stirn,  interrupting  him  with  a  withering  sneer.  "  Oh  yes!  I  told 
you  to  disgrace  his  honor  the  Squire,  and  me,  and  the  parridge, 
and  bring  us  all  into  trouble.  But  the  Squire  told  me  to  make 
an  example,  and  I  will!"  With  those  words,  quick  as  lightning 
flashed  upon  Mr.  Stirn's  mind  the  luminous  idea  of  setting 
Lenny  in  the  very  slocks  which  he  had  too  faithfully  guarded. 
Eureka!  the  "example"  was  before  him!  Here  he  could  gratify 
his  long  grudge  against  the  pattern  boy;  here  by  such  a  selec- 
tion of  the  very  best  lad  in  the  parish,  he  could  strike  terror  into 
the  worst;  here  he  could  appease  the  offended  dignity  of  Randal 
Leslie;  here  was  a  practical  apology  to  the  Squire  for  the  affront 
put  upon  his  young  visitor;  here,  too,  there  was  prompt  obedi- 
ence to  the  Squire's  pwn  wish  that  the  stocks  should  be  provided 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  135 

as  soon  as  possible  with  a  tenant.  Suiting  the  action  to  the 
thought,  Mr.  Stirn  made  a  rapid  plunge  at  his  victim,  caught 
him  by  the  skirt  of  his  jacket,  and,  in  a  few  seconds  more,  the 
jaws  of  the  stocks  had  opened,  and  Lenny  Fairfield  was  thrust 
therein — a  sad  spectacle  of  the  reverse  of  fortune.  This  done, 
and  while  the  boy  was  too  astounded,  too  stupefied  by  the  sud- 
denness of  the  calamity  for  the  resistance  he  might  otherwise 
have  made — nay,  for  more  than  a  few  inaudible  words — Mr. 
Stirn  hurried  from  the  spot,  but  not  without  first  picking  up  and 
pocketing  the  half-crown  designed  for  Lenny,  and  which,  so 
great  had  been  his  first  emotions,  he  had  hitherto  even  almost 
forgotten.  He  then  made  his  way  toward  the  church,  with  the 
intention  to  place  himself  close  by  the  door,  catch  the  Squire  as 
he  came  out,  whisper  to  him  what  had  passed,  and  lead  him, 
with  the  whole  congregation  at  his  heels,  to  gaze  upon  the  sacri- 
fice offered  up  to  the  joint  Powers  of  Nemesis  and  Themis. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

UNAFFECTEDLY  I  say  it — upon  the  honor  of  a  gentleman,  and 
the  reputation  of  an  author,  unaffectedly  I  say  it — no  words  of 
mine  can  do  justice  to  the  sensations  experienced  by  Lenny  Fair- 
field,  as  he  sat  alone  in  that  place  of  penance.  He  felt  no  more 
the  physical  pain  of  his  bruises;  the  anguish  of  his  mind  stifled 
and  overbore  all  corporeal  suffering — an  anguish  as  great  as  the 
childish  breast  is  capable  of  holding.  For  first  and  deepest  of 
all,  and  earliest  felt,was  the  burning  sense  of  injustice.  He  had, 
it  might  be  with  erring  judgment,  but  with  all  honesty,  earnest- 
ness,and  zeal,  executed  the  commission  intrusted  to  him;  he  had 
stood  forth  manfully  in  discharge  of  his  duty:  he  had  fought  for 
it,  suffered  for  it,  bled  for  it.  This  was  his  reward!  Now,  in 
Lenny's  mind  there  was  pre-eminently  that  quality  which  dis- 
tinguishes the  Anglo-Saxon  race — 'the  sense  of  justice.  It  was 
perhaps  the  strongest  principle  in  his  moral  constitution  ;  and 
the  principle  had  never  lost  its  virgin  bloom  and  freshness  by 
any  of  the  minor  acts  of  oppression  and  iniquity  which  boys  of 
higher  birth  often  suffer  from  harsh  parents,  or  in  tyrannical 
schools.  So  that  it  was  for  the  first  time  that  that  iron  entered 
into  his  soul,  and  with  it  came  its  attendant  feeling — the  wrath- 
ful, galling  sense  of  impotence.  He  had  been  wronged,  and  he 
had  no  means  to  right  himself.  Then  came  another  sensation, 
if  not  so  deep,  yet  more  smarting  and  envenomed  for  the  time — 
shame!  He,  the  good  boy  of  all  good  boys — he,  the  pattern  of 
the  school,  and  the  pride  of  the  Parson — he,  whom  the  Squire, 


136  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

in  sight  of  all  his  contemporaries,  had  often  singled  out  to  slap  on 
the  back,  and  the  grand  Squire's  lady  to  pat  on  the  head,  with  a 
smiling  gratulation  on  his  young  and  fair  repute — 'he,- who  had 
already  learned  so  dearly  to  prize  the  sweets  of  an  honorable 
name — he,  to  be  made,  as  it  were,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  a 
mark  for  opprobrium,a  butt  of  scorn,  a  jeer,  and  a  by-word!  The 
streams  of  life  were  poisoned  at  the  fountain.  And  then  came  a 
tenderer  though  t  of  his  moth  er!  of  the  shock  this  would  be  to  her — 
she  who  had  already  begun  tolook  up  to  hi  mas  her  stay  and  support: 
he  bowed  his  head,  and  the  tears,  long  suppressed,  rolled  down. 
Then  he  wrestled  and  struggled, and  strove  to  wrench  his  limbs 
from  that  hateful  bondage; — for  he  heard  steps  approaching. 
And  he  began  to  picture  to  himself  the  arrival  of  all  the  villagers 
from  church,  the  sad  gaze  of  the  Parson,  the  bent  brow  of  the 
Squire,  the  idle  ill-suppressed  titter  of  all  the  boysjealous  of  his 
unspotted  character — a  character  of  which  the  original  whiteness 
could  never,  never  be  restored!  He  would  always  be  the  boy  who 
had  sat  in  the  stocks!  And  the  words  uttered  by  the  Squire  came 
back  on  his  soul,  like  the  voice  of  conscience  in  the  ears  of  some 
doomed  .Macbeth.  "  A  sad  disgrace,  Lenny— you'll  never  be  in 
such  a  quandary."  "  Quandary,"  the  word  was  unfamiliar  to 
him;  it  must  mean  something  awfully  discreditable.  The  poo! 
boy  could  have  prayed  for  the  earth  to  swallow  him. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

. 

"KETTLES  and  frying-pans  I  what  has  us  here?"  cried  the 
Tinker. 

This  time  Mr.  Sprott  was  without  his  donkey  ;  for  it  being 
Sunday,  it  is  to  be. presumed  that  the  donkey  was  enjoying  his 
Sabbath  on  the  Common,  The  Tinker  was  in  his  Sunday's  best, 
clean  and  smart,  about  to  take  his  lounge  in  the  Park. 

Lenny  Fairfield  made  no  answer  to  the  appeal. 

"You  in  the  wood,  my  baby !  Well,  that's  the  last  sight  I  should 
ha'thoughttosee.  Butjweall  lives  to  larn, "added  the  Tinker,  sen- 
tentiously.  "Who  gave  you  them  leggings?  Can'tyou  speak, lad?" 

"Nick  Stirn." 

"  Nick  Stirn  !  Ay,  I'd  ha  ta'en  my  davy  on  that  ;  and  cos  vy?" 

"  'Cause  I  did  as  he  told  me,  and  fought  a  boy  as  was  tres- 
passing on  these  very  stocks  ;  and  he  beat  me — but  I  don't  care 
for  that ;  and  that  boy  was  a  young  gentleman,  and  going  to 
visit  the  Squire  ;  and  so  Nick  Stirn — "Lenny  stopped  short, 
choked  by  rage  and  humiliation. 

"  Augh,"  said  the  Tinker,staring,  "you  fit  with  a  young  gentle- 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  137 

man,  did  you  ?  Sorry  to  hear  you  confess  that,  my  lad  !  Sit 
there,  and  be  thankful  you  ha'  got  off  so  cheap.  'Tis  salt  and 
battery  to  fit  with  your  betters,  and  a  Lunnon  justice  o'  peace 
would  have  given  you  two  months  o*  the  treadmill.  But  vy 
should  you  fit  cos  he  trespassed  on  the  stocks?  It  ben't  your 
natural  side  for  fitting,  I  takes  it." 

Lenny  murmured  something  not  very  distinguishable  about 
serving  the  Squire,  and  doing  as  he  was  bid. 

"  Oh,  I  sees,  Lenny,"  interruped  the  Tinker,  in  a  tone  of 
great  contempt,  "  you  be  one  of  those  who  would  rayther  'unt 
with  the  'ounds  than  run  with  the  'are  !  You  be's  the  good  pattern 
boy,  and  would  peach  agin  your  own  horder  to  curry  favors  with 
the  grand  folks.  Fie,  lad  !  you  be  sarved  right ;  stick  by  your 
horder,  then  you'll  be  'spected  when  you  gets  into  trouble,  and 
not  be  'varsally  'spised — as  you'll  be  arter  church-time  !  Veil, 
I  can't  be  seen  'sorting  with  you,  now  you  .are  in  this  drogotary 
fix  ;  it  might  hurt  my  cracter,  both  with  them  as  built  the  stocks, 
and  them  as  wants,  to  pull  'em  down.  Old  kettles. to  mend  ! 
Vy,  you  makes  me  forgit  the  Sabbath.  Sarvent,  my  lad,  and 
wish  you  well  out  of  it ;  'specks  to  your  mother,  and  say  we  can 
deal  for  the  pan  and  shovel  all  the  same  for  your  misfortin." 

.The  Tinker  went  his  way.  Lenny's  eye  followed  him  with 
the  sullenness  of  despair.  The  Tinker,  like  all  the  tribe  of  hu- 
man comforters,  had  only  watered  the  brambles  to  invigorate 
the  prick  of  the  thorns.  Yes,  if  Lenny  had  been  caught  break- 
ing the  stocks,  some  at  least  would  have  pitied  him  ;  but  to  be  in- 
carcerated for  defending  them,  you  might  as  well  have  expected 
that  the  widows  and  orphans  of  the  Reign  of  Terror  would  have 
pitied  Dr.  Guillotin  when  he  slid  through  the  grooves  of:  his  own 
deadly  machine.  And  even  the  Tinke^  itinerant,  ragamuffin 
vagabond  as  he  was,  felt  ashamed  to  be  found  with  the  pattern 
boy  !  Lenny's  head  sank  again  on  his  breast  heavily,  as  if  it  had 
been  of  lead.  Some  few  minutes  thus  passed,  when  the  unhappy 
prisoner  became  aware  of  the  presence  of  another  spectator  to 
his  shame  :  he  heard  no  step,but  he  saw  a  shadow  thrown  over  the 
sward.  He  held  his  breath,  and  would  not  look  up,  with  some 
vague  idea  that  if  heref  used  to  see  him, he  might  escapebeing  seen. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

" Per Bacco!" said  Dr.Ricc  abocca, putting  his  hand  on  Lenny's 
shoulder,  and  bending  down  to  look  into  his  face— ~"'Pcr  Baccv  ! 
*ny  young  friend  ;  do  you  sit  here  from  choice  or  necessity  ? " 

Lenny  slightly  shuddered,  and  winced  under  the  touch  of  one 


138  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

whom  he  had  hitherto  regarded  with  a  sort  of  superstitious 
abhorrence. 

"  I  fear,"  resumed  Riccabocca,  after  waiting  in  vain  for  an 
answer  to  his  question,  "  that,  though  the  situation  is  charming, 
you  did  not  select  it  yourself.  What  is  this?" — -and  the  irony  of 
the  tone  vanished — "  what  is  this,  my  poor  boy?  You  have  been 
bleeding,  and  I  see  that  those  tears  which  you  try  to  check  come 
from  a  deep  well.  Tell  v&z povero  fanciullo  mio  (the  sweet  Italian 
vowels,  thoughLennydidnotunderstand  them,soundedsoftlyand 
soothingly) — tell  me,  my  child,  how  all  this  happened.  Perhaps  I 
can  help  you — we  have  all  erred;  we  should  all  help  each  other." 
.  Lenny's  heart,that  just  before  had  seemed  bound  in  brass,found 
itself  a  way  as  the  Italian  spoke  thus  kindly,  and  the  tears  rushed 
down  ;  but  he  again  stopped  them,  and  gulped  out  sturdily— 

"  I  have  not  done  no  wrong  ;  it  ben't  my  fault — and  'tis  that 
which  kills  me  !  "  concluded  Lenny,  with  a  burst  of  energy. 

"You  have  not  done  wrong?  Then,"  said  the  philosopher, 
drawing  out  his  pocket-handkerchief  with  great  composure,  and 
spreading  it  on  the  ground—"  then  I  may  sit  beside  you.  I 
could  only  stoop  pityingly  over  sin,  but  I  can  lie  down  on  equal 
terms  with  misfortune." 

Lenny  Fairfield  did  not  quite  comprehend  the  words,  but 
enough  of  their  general  meaning  was  apparent  to  make  him  cast 
a  grateful  glance  on  the  Italian.  Riccabocca  resumed,  as  he 
adjusted  the  pocket-handkerchief,  "  I  have  a  right  to  your  con- 
fidence, my  child,  for  I  have  been  afflicted  in  my  day  ;  yet  I  too 
say  with  thee,  '  I  have  not  done  wrong.'  Cospetto  !  "  and  here 
the  Doctor  seated  himself  deliberately,  resting  one  arm  on  the 
side-column  of  the  stocks,  in  familiar  contact  with  the  captive's 
shoulder,  while  his  eye  wandered  over  the  lovely  scene  around — 
"  Cospetto  !  my  prison,  if  they  had  caught  me,  would  not  havei 
had  so  fair  a  look-out  as  this.  But,  to  be  sure,  it  is  all  one  ; 
there  are  no  ugly  loves,  and  no  handsome  prisons." 

With  that  sententious  maxim,  which,  indeed,  he  uttered  in  his 
native  Italian,  Riccabocca  turned  round,  and  renewed  his  sooth- 
ing invitations  to  confidence.  A  friend  in  need  is  a  friend  in- 
deed, even  if  he  come  in  the  guise  of  a  Papist  and  wizard.  All 
Lenny's  ancient  dislike  to  the  foreigner  had  gone,  and  he  told 
him  his  little  tale. 

Dr.  Riccabocca  was  much  too  shrewd  a  man  not  to  see  ex- 
actly the  motives  which  had  induced  Mr.  Stirn  to  incarcerate 
his  agent  (barring  only  that  of  personal  grudge,  to  which  Lenny's 
account  gave  him  no  clue).  That  a  man  high  in  office  should 
make  a  scape-goat  of  his  watch-dog  for  an  unlucky  snap,  or  even 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  139 

an  indiscreet  bark,  was  nothing  strange  to  the  wisdom  of  the 
student  of  Machiavelli.  However,  he  set  himself  to  the  task  of 
consolation  with  equal  philosophy  and  tenderness.  He  began 
by  reminding,  or  rather  informing,  Leonard  Fairfield  of  all  the 
instances  of  illustrious  men  afflicted  by  the  injustice  of  others 
that  occurred  to  his  own  excellent  memory.  He  told  him  how 
the  great  Epictetus,  when  in  slavery,  had  a  master  whose  favor- 
ite amusement  was  pinching  his  leg,  which,  as  the  amusement 
ended  in  breaking  that  limb,  was  worse  than  the  stocks.  He 
also  told  him  the  anecdote  of  Lenny's  own  gallant  countryman, 
Admiral  Byng,  whose  execution  gave  rise  to  Voltaire's  celebrated 
witticism.  "  En  Angleterre  on  hie  un  amiral pour  encourager  les 
autres  "  ("  In  England  they  execute  one  admiral  in  order  to  en- 
courage the  others").  Many  other  illustrations,  still  more  per- 
tinent to  the  case  in  point,  his  erudition  supplied  from  the  stories 
of  history.  But  on  seeing  that  Lenny  did  not  seem  in  the  slight- 
est degree  consoled  by  these  memorable  examples,  he  shifted  his 
ground,  and  reducing  his  logic  to  the  strict  argumentum  ad  rent, 
began  to  prove,  ist,  that  there  was  no  disgrace  at  all  in  Lenny's 
present  position — that  every  equitable  person  would  recognize 
the  tyranny  of  Stirn,  and  the  innocence  of  its  victim ;  adly,  that 
if  even  here  he  were  mistaken — for  public  opinion  was  not  always 
righteous — what  was  public  opinion,  after  all  ?^— "  A  breath — a 
puff,"  cried  Dr.  Riccabocca — "  a  thing  without  matter — without 
length,  breadth,  or  substance  ;  a  shadow — a  goblin  of  our  own 
creating.  A  man's  own  conscience  is  his  sole  tribunal,  and  he 
should  care  no  more  for  that  phantom  '  opinion  '  than  he  should 
fear  meeting  a  ghost  if  he  cross  the. church-yard  at  dark." 

Now,as  Lenny  did  very  much  fear  meeting  a  ghost  if  he  crossed 
the  church-yard  at  dark,  the  simile  spoiled  the  argument,  and 
he  shook  his  head  very  mournfully.  Dr.  Riccabocca  was  about 
to  enter  into  a  third  course  of  reasoning,  which,  had  it  come  to 
an  end,  would  doubtless  have  settled  the  matter,  and  reconciled 
Lenny  to  sitting  in  the  stocks  till  doomsday,  when  the  captive, 
with  the  quick  ear  and  eye  of  terror  and  calamity,  became  con- 
scious that  church  was  over,  that  the  congregation  in  a  few 
seconds  more  would  be  flocking  thitherwards.  He  saw  vision- 
ary hats  and  bonnets  through  the  trees,  which  Riccabocca  saw 
not,  despite  all  the  excellence  of  his  spectacles — heard  phantas- 
mal rustlings  and  murmurings  which  Riccabocca  heard  not, 
despite  all  that  theoretical  experience  in  plots,  stratagems,  and 
treasons,  which  should  have  made  the  Italian's  ear  as  fine  as  a 
conspirator's  or  a  mole's.  And,  with  another  violent  but  vain 
effort  at  escape,  the  prisoner  exclaimed-** 


I  .J.O  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

"  Ob,  if  I  could  but  get  out  before  they  come  !  Let  me  out — 
let  me  out.  Oh,:kind  sir,  have  pity — let  me  out !  " 

"  Diavolo  !  "  said  the  philosopher,  startled,  "  I  wonder  that  I 
never  thought  of  that  before.  After  all,  I  believe  he  has  hit  the 
right  nail  on  the  head,"  and,  looking  .close,  he  perceived  that 
though  the  partition  of  wood  had  hitched  firmly  into  a  sort  of 
spring-clasp,  which  defied  Lenny's  unaided  struggles,  still  it  was 
not  locked  (for,  indeed,  the  padlock  and  key  were  snug  in  the 
justice-room  of  the  Squire,  who  never  dreamt  that  his  orders 
would  be  executed  so  literally  and  summarily  as  to  dispense  with 
all  formal  appeal  to  himself).  As  soon  as  Dr.  Riceabocca  made 
that  discovery,  it  occurred  to  him  that  all  the  wisdom  of  all  the 
schools  that  ever  existed  can't  reconcile  man  or  boy  to  a  bad  posi- 
tion— themomen  t  there  is  a  fair  opportunity  of  let  ting  him  out  of  it. 
Accordingly,  without  more  ado,  he  lifted  up  the  creaking  board, 
and  LennyFairfield  darted  forth  like  a  bird  from  acage- — halted 
a  moment  as  if  for  breath,  or  in  joy  ;  and  then,  taking  at  once 
to  his  heels,  fled,  as  a  hare  to  its  form— fast  to  his  mother's  home. 

Dr.  Riceabocca  dropped  the  yawning  wood  into  its  place, 
picked  up  his  handkerchief  and  restored  it  to  his  pocket  ;  and 
then,  with  some  curiosity,  began  to  examine  the  nature  of  that 
place  of  duresse  which  had  caused  so  much  painful  emotion  to 
its  rescued  victim.  "  Man  is  a  very  irrational  animal  at  best," 
quoth  the  sage,  soliloquizing,  "and  is  frightened  by  strange  bug- 
aboos !  'Tis  but  a  piece  of  wood  !  how  little  it  really  injures! 
And,  after  all,  the  holes  are  but  rests  to  the  legs,  and  keep  the 
feet  out  of  the  dirt.  And  this  green  bank  to  sit  upon — under  the 
shade  of  the  elm-tree — verily  the  position  must  be  more  pleasant 
than  otherwise  !  I've  a  great  mind — "  Here  the  Doctor  looked 
around,  and  seeing  the  coast  still  clear,  the  oddest  notion  im- 
aginable took  possession  of  him  ;  yet  not  indeed  a  notion  so  odd, 
considered  philosophically — for  all  philosophy  is  based  on  prac- 
tical experiment — and  Dr.  Riceabocca  felt  an  irresistible  desire 
practically  to  experience  what  manner  of  thing  that  punishment 
of  the  stocks  really  was.  "  I  can  but  try  !  only  for  a  moment," 
he  said,  apologetically  to  his  own  expostulating  sense  of  dignity. 
"  1  have  time  to  do  it  before  any  one  comes."  He  lifted  up  the 
partition  again  ;  but  stocks  -are  built  on  the  same  principle  of 
English  law,  and  don't  easily  allow  a  man  to  criminate  himself — 
it  was  hard  to  get  into  them  without  the  help  of  a  friend.  How- 
ever, as  we  before  noticed,  obstacles  only  whetted  Dr.  Ricca- 
bocca's  invention.  He  looked  round  and  saw  a  withered  bit  of 
stick  under  the  tree — this  he  inserted  in  the  division  of  the 
stocks,  somewhat  in  the  manner  in  which  boys  place  a  stick 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  141 

under  a  sieve  for  the  purpose  of  ensnaring  sparrows  :  the  fatal 
wood .  thus  propped;  Dr.  Riccabocca  sat  gravely  down  on  the 
bank,  and  thrust  his  feet  through  the  apertures. 

"  Nothing  in  it  !  "  cried  he  triumphantly,  after  a  moment's 
deliberation.  "  The  evil  is  only  in  idea.  Such  is  the  boasted 
reason  of  mortals'!  "  With  that  reflection,  nevertheless,  he  was 
about  to  withdraw  his  feet  from  their  voluntary  dilemma,  when 
the  crazy  stick  suddenly  gave  way,  and  the  partition  fell  back 
into  its  clasp.  Dr.  Riccabocca  was  fairly  caught — "  Facilis 
descensus — sed  revocart  gradum  !  "  True,  his  hands  were  at  lib- 
erty, but  his  legs  were  so  long  that,  being  thus  fixed,  they  kept 
the  hands  from  the  rescue  ;  and  as  Dr.  Riccabocca's  form  was 
by  no  means  supple,  and  the  twin  parts  of  the  wood  stuck  to- 
gether with  that  firmness  of  adhesion.which  things  newly  painted 
possess,  so,  after  some  vain  twists  and  contortions,  in  which  he 
succeeded  at  length  (not  without  a  stretch  of  the  sinews  that 
made  them  crack  again)  in  finding  the  clasp  and  breaking  his 
nails -thereon,  the  victim  of  his  own  rash  experiment  resigned 
himself  to  his  fate.  Dr.  Riccabocca  was  one  of  those  men  who 
never  do  things  by  halves.  When  I  say  he  resigned  himself,  I 
mean  not  only  Christian  but  philosophical  resignation..  The  posi- 
tion was  not  quite  so  pleasant  as,  theoretically,  he  had  deemed 
it ;  but  he  resolved  to  make  himself  as  comfortable  as  he  could. 
At'first,  as  is  natural  in  all  troubles  to  men  who  have  grown  famil- 
iar with  that  odoriferous  comforter  which  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  is 
said  first  to  have  bestowed  upon  the  Caucasian  races,  the  Doctor 
made  use  of  his  hand  to  extract  from  his  pocket  his  pipe,  match- 
box, and  tobacco-pouch.  After  a  few  whiffs,  he  would  have  been, 
quite^recoiiciled  to  his  situation,  but  for  the  discovery  that  the 
sun  had  shifted  its  place  in  the  heavens,  and  was  no  longer 
shaded  from  his  face  by  the  elm-tree.  The  Doctor  again  looked 
round,  and  perceived  that  his  red  silk  umbrella,  which  he  had  laid 
asidewh^n  hehad-seated  himself  by  Lenny,  was  within  arm's  reach. 
Possessh  g  himself  of  this  treasure,  he  soon  expanded  its  friendly 
folds.  Anc^  thus,  doubly  fortified  within  and  without,  under  shade 
of  the  umbrella,  and  his  pipe  composedly  between  his  lips,  Dr.  Ric- 
caboccagazedonhisown  incarcerated  legs,evenwithcomplacency. 

"  '  He  who  can  despise  all  things,'  "said  he,  in  one  of  his  native 
proverbs,  "  '  possesses  all  things  ! '- — if  one  despises  freedom, one 
is  free  !  This  seat  is  as  soft  as  a  sofa!  I  am  not  sure,"  he 
resumed,  soliloquizing,  after  a  pause — :"  I  am  not  sure  that  there 
is  not  something  more  witty  than  manly  and  philosophical  in 
that  national  proverb  of  mine  which  I  quoted  to  the  fanciullo, 
'  that  there  are  no  handsome  prisons  !  '  Did  not  the  son  of  that 


142  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

celebrated  Frenchman,  surnamed  Bras  de  fer,  write  a  book  not 
only  to  prove  that  adversities  are  more  necessary  than  pros- 
perities, but  that  among  all  adversities  a  prison  is  the  most  pleas- 
ant and  profitable  ?*  But  is  not  this  condition  of  mine,  volun- 
tarily and  experimentally  incurred,  a  type  of  my  life  ?  Is  it  the 
first  time  I  have  thrust  myself  into  a  hobble  ? — and  if  a  hobble 
of  mine  own  choosing,  why  should  I  blame  the  gods  ! " 

Upon  this,  Dr.  Riccabocca  fel  linto  a  train  of  musing  so  remote 
from  time  and  place,  that  in  a  few  minutes  he  no  more  remem- 
bered that  he  was  in  the  parish  stocks  than  a  lover  remembers 
that  flesh  is  grass,  a  miser  that  mammon  is  perishable,  a  philos- 
opher that  wisdom  is  vanity.  Dr.  Riccabocca  was  in  the  clouds. 

CHAPTER  X. 

THE  dullest  dog  that  ever  wrote  a  novel  (and,  entre  nous,  rea- 
der— but  let  it  go  no  farther — we  have  a  good  many  dogs  among 
the  fraternity  that  are  not  Munitosf)  might  have  seen  with  half 
an  eye  that  the  Parson's  discourse  had  produced  a  very  genial 
and  humanizing  effect  upon  his  audience.  When  all  was  over, 
and  the  congregation  stood  up  to  let  Mr.  Hazeldean  and  his 
family  walk  first  down  the  aisle  (for  that  was  the  custom  of  Hazel- 
dean)  moistened  eyes  glanced  at  the  Squire's  sunburned  manly 
face,  with  a  kindness  that  bespoke  revived  memory  of  many  a 
generous  benefit  and  ready  service.  The  head  might  be  wrong 
now  and  then — the  heart  was  in  the  right  place  after  all.  And 
the  lady,  leaning  on  his  arm,  came  in  for  a  large  share  of  that 
gracious  good  feeling.  True,  she  now  and  then  gave  a  little 
offence  when  the  cottages  were  not  so  clean  as  she  fancied  they 
ought  to  be — and  poor  folks  don't  like  a  liberty  taken  with  their 
houses  any  more  than  the  rich  do  ;  true  that  she  was  not  quite 
so  popular  with  the  women  as  the  Squire  was,  for,  if  the  husband 
went  too  often  to  the  ale-house, , she  always  laid  the  fault  on  the 
wife,  and  said,  "  No  man  would  go  out  of  doors  for  his  com- 
forts, if  he  had  a  smiling  face  and  a  clean  hearth  at  his  home  "  ; 
whereas  the  Squire  maintained  the  more  gallant  opinion,  that 
"  if  Gill  was  a  shrew,  it  was  because  Jack  did  not,  as  in  duty 
bound,  stop  her  mouth  with  a  kiss!"  Still,  notwithstanding  these 
more  obnoxious  notions  on  her  part,  and  a  certain  awe  inspired 
by  the  stiff  silk  gown  and  the  handsome  aquiline  nose,  it  was 
impossible,  especially  in  the  softened  tempers  of  that  Sunday 
afternoon,  not  to  associate  the  honest,  comely,  beaming  coun- 

*  "  Kntre  tout,  f^tat  {Tune  forison  est  le  plus  doux,  est  te  plus  profitable  !  " 
t  Muni  to  was  the  name  of  a  dos  famous  for  his  learning  (a  Porion  of  a  dog)  at  the  date  of 
my  childhood.     There  are  no  such  dogs  now-a-days. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  143 

tenance  of  Mrs.  Hazeldean  with  comfortable  recollections  of 
soups,  jellies,  and  wine  in  sickness,  loaves  and  blankets  in  win- 
ter, cheering  words  and  ready  visits  in  every  little  distress,  and 
pretexts  afforded  by  improvements  in  the  grounds  and  gardens 
(improvements  which,  as  the  Squire,  who  preferred  productive 
labor,  justly  complained,  "  would  never  finish  ")  for  little  timely 
jobs  of  work  to  some  veteran  grandsire,  who  still  liked  to  earn  a 
penny,  or  some  ruddy  urchin  in  a  family  that  "  came  too  fast." 
Nor  was  Frank,  as  he  walked  a  little  behind,  in  the  whitest  of 
trousers  and  the  stiffest  of  neckcloths — with  a  look  of  suppressed 
roguery  in  his  bright  hazel  eye,  that  contrasted  his  assumed 
stateliness  of  mien — without  his  portion  of  the  silent  blessing. 
Not  that  he  had  done  anything  yet  to  deserve  it  ;  but  we  ail  give 
youth  so  large  a  credit  in  the  future.  As  for  Miss  Jemima,  her 
trifling  foibles  only  rose  from  too  soft  and  feminine  suscepti- 
bility, too  ivy-like  a  yearning  for  some  masculine  oak  whereon 
to  entwine  her  tendrils  ;  and  so  little  confined  to  self"  was  the 
natural  lovingnessof  her  disposition,  that  she  had  helped  many  a 
village  lass  to  find  a  husband,  by  the  bribe  of  a  marriage  gift 
from  her  own  privy  purse  ;  notwithstanding  the  assurances  with 
which  she  accompanied  the  marriage  gift, — viz.,  that  "  the  bride- 
groom would  turn  out  like  the  rest  of  his  ungrateful  sex  ;  but 
that  it  was  a  comfort  to  think  that  it  would  be  all  one  in  the 
approaching  crash."  So  that -she  had  her  warm  partisans,  espec- 
ially amorigst  the  young  ;  while  the  slim  Captain,  on  whose  arm 
she  rested  her  forefinger,  was  at  least  a.  civil-spoken  gentleman, 
who  had  never  done  any  harm,  and  who  would,  doubtless,  do  a 
deal  of  good  if  he  belonged  to  the  parish.  Nay,  even  the  fat 
footman,  who  came  last,  with  the  family  :Prayer-book,  had  his 
due  share  in  the  general 'association 'of  neighborly  kindness  be- 
tween hall  and  hamlet.  Few  were  there  present  to  whom  he  had 
not  extended  the  right-hand  of  fellowship  with  a  full  horn  of 
October  in  the  clasp  of  it;  and  he  was  a  Hazeldean  man,  too,born 
and  bred,  as  two-thirds  of  the  Squire's  household  (now  letting 
themselves  out  from  their  large  pew  under  the  gallery)  w'ere. 

On  his  part,  too,  you  could  see'that  the  Squire  was  "  moved 
withal,"  and  a  little  humbled  moreover.  Instead  of  walking 
erect,  arrd  taking  bow  and  curtsey  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  of 
no^  meaning,  he  hung  his  head  somewhat,  and  there  was  a  slight 
blush  on  his  cheek  ;  and  as  he  glanced  upward  and  round  him — 
shyly,  as  it  were — and  his  eye  met  those  friendly  looks,  it  re- 
turned them  with  an  earnestness  that  had  in  it  something  touch- 
ing as  well  as  cordial — an  eye  that  said,  as  well  as  eye  could 
say,  "  I  don't  quite  deserve  it,  I  fear,  neighbors  ;  but  I  thank 


1 44  MY   NOVEL  ;    OR, 

you  far  your  good-will  with  my  whole  heart."  And  so  readily 
was  that  glance  of  the  eye  understood,  that  I  think,  if  that  scene 
had  taken  place  out  of  doors  instead  of  in  the  church,  there 
would  have  been  a  hurrah  as  the  Squire  passed  out  of  sight. 

Scarcely  had  Mr.  Hazeldean  got  clear  of  the  church-yard,  ere 
Mr. Stirn  was  whisperinginhisear.  AsStirn whispered, theSquire's 
face  grew  long,  and  his  color  rose.  The  congregation,  now  flocking 
outpf  the  church, exchanged  looks  with  each  other;  thatominous 
con  j unction  between  Squire  and  man  chilled  back  all  the  efforts  of 
the  Parson's  sermon.  The  Squire  struck  his  cane  violently  into  the 
ground.  "I  would  rather  you  had  told  me  Black  Bess  had  got  the 
glanders.  A-young  gentleman,  coming  to  visit  my  son,  struck  and 
insulted  in.Hazeldean;  a  young  gentleman — 'sdeath,  sir,  a  rela- 
tion— J^is  grandmqther  was  a  Hazeldean.  I  do  believe  Jemima's 
right,  and  the  world's  coming  to  an  end!  But  Leonard  Fairfield 
in  the  stocks?  What  will  theParson  say,and  after  such  a  sermon  ! 
'Rich  man,  respect  the  poor!'  ;  And  the  good  widow  too  ; 
and  poor  Mark,  who  almost  died  in  my  arms.  Stirn,  you  have 
a  heart  of  stone  !  You  confounded,  lawless,  merciless  miscre- 
ant, who  the  deuce  gave  you  the  right  to  imprison  man  or  boy 
in  my  parish  of  Hazeldean,  without  trial,  sentence,  or  warrant  ? 
Run  and  let  the  boy  out  before  any  one  sees  him  ;  run,  or  I 
,'shall — "  The  Squire  elevated  the  cane,  and  his  eyes  shot  fire.  Mr. 
Stirn  did  not  run,  but  he  walked  off  very  fast.  The  Squire  drew 
back  a  few  paces,  and  again ,took  his  wife's  arm.  •"  Just  wait  a 
bit  for  the  Parson,  while  I  talk  to  the  congregation.  I  want  to 
stop  'em  all,  if  I  can,  from  going  into  the  village  ;  but  how  ? " 

Frank  heard,  and  replied, readily —    . 

"  Give  'em  some  beer,  sir." 

"Beer!  on  a  Sun  day!  Forshame,  Frank!"  cried  Mrs.  Hazeldean. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Harry.  Thank  you,  Frank,"  said  the 
Squire,  and  his  brow,  grew  as  clear  as  the -blue  sky  above  him. 
I  dou})t  if  Riccabocca  could  have  got  him  out  of  his  dilemma 
with  the. same  ease  as  Frank  had  done. 

"  Halt  there,  my  men — lads  and  lasses  too— rthere,  halt  a  bit. 
JVIrs.  Fairfield,do  you  hear?-— halt.  I  think  his  reverence  has  given 
us  a  capital  sermon.  Go  up  to  the  Great  House  all  of  you,  and 
drink  a  glass  to  his  health.  Frank,  go  withthem,  and  tell  Spruce  to 
tap  one  of  the  casks  kept  for  the  haymakers. — Harry  [this  in  a 
whisper], catch,  the  Parson, and  tell  him  tocome  to  me  instantly." 

'  My  dear  Hazeldean,  what  has  happened  ?    You  are  mad." 

"  Don't  bother — do  what  I  tell  you." 

"  But  where  is  the  Parson  to  find  you  ? " 

"  Where,' gad  zooks,  Mrs.  H.,— at  the  Stocks,  to  be  sure  !  " 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  145 

CHAPTER  XI. 

DR.  RICCABOCCA,  awakened  out  of  his  reverie  by  the  sound 
of  footsteps,  was  still  so  little  sensible  of  the  indignity  of  his  po- 
sition, that  he  enjoyed  exceedingly,  and  with  all  the  malice  of  his 
natural  humor,  the  astonishment  and  stupor  manifested  by 
Stirn,  when  that  functionary  beheld  the  extraordinary  substi- 
tute which  fate  and  philosophy  had  foiind  for  Lenny  Fairfield. 
Instead  of  the  weeping,  crushed,  broken-hearted  captive  whom 
he  had  reluctantly  come  to  deliver,  he  stared,  speechless  and 
aghast,  upon  the  grotesque  but  tranquil  figure  of  the  Doctor, 
enjoying  Ms  pipe,  and  coolirig  himself  under  his  umbrella,  with 
a  sang-froid  that  was  truly  appalling  and  diabolical.  Indeed, 
considering  that  Stirn  always  suspected  the  Papisher  of  having 
had  a  hand  in  the  whole  of  that  black  and  midnight  business, 
in  which  the  stocks  had  been  broken,  bunged  up,  and  consigned 
to  perdition,  and  that  the  Papisher  rVad  the  evil  reputation  of 
dabbling  in  the  Black  Art,  the  hocus-pocus  way  in  which  the 
Lenny  he  had  incarcerated  was  transformed  into  the  Doctor  he 
found,  conjoined  with  the  peculiarly  strange,  eldritch,  and 
Mephistophelean  physiognomy  and  person  of  Riccabocca,  could 
not  but  strike  a  thrill  of  superstitious  dismay  into'the  breast  of 
the  parochial  tyrant.  While  to  his  first  confused  and  stam- 
mered exclamations  and  interrogatories,  Riccabocca  replied  with 
so  tragic  an  air,  such  ominous  shakes  of  the  head,  such  mysteri- 
ous, equivocating,  long-worded  sentences,  that  Stirn  every  mo- 
ment felt  more  and  more  convinced  that  the  boy  had  sold  him- 
self to  the  Powers  of  Darkness  ;  and  that  he  himself  prema- 
turely, and  in  the  flesh,  stood  face  to  face  with  the  Arch-Enefny. 

Mr.  Stirn  had  not  yet  recovered  his  wonted  intelligence, 
which,  to  do  him  justice,  was  usually  prompt  enough— when  the 
'Squire,  followed  hard  by  the  Parson,  arrived  at  the  spot.  In- 
deed, Mrs.  Hazeldean's  report  of  the  Squire's  urgent  message, 
disturbed  manner,  and  most  unparalleled  invitation  to  the  par- 
ishioners, had  given  wings  to  Parson  Dale's  ordinarily  slow  and 
sedate  movements.  And  while  the  Squire,  sharing  Stirn's 
amazement,  beheld  indeed  a  great  pair  of  feet  projecting  from 
the  stocks,  and  saw  behind  them  the  grave  face  of  Doctor 
Riccabocca,  under  the  majestic  shade  of  fh:e  umbrella,  but  not 
a  vestige  of  the  only  being  his  mind  could  identify  with  the 
tenancy  of  the  stocks,  Mr.  Dale  catching  him  by  the  arm,  and 
panting  hard,  exclaimed  with  a  petulance  he  had  never  before 
known  to  display — except  at  the  whist-table,; — 

"Mr.  Hazeldean,  Mr.  Hazeldean,  I  am  scandalized^ — I  am 


146  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

shocked  at  you.  I  can  bear  a  great  deal  from  you,  sir,  as  I 
ought  to  do  ;  but  to  ask  my  whole  congregation,  the  moment 
after  divine  service,  to  go  up  and  guzzle  ale  at  the  Hall,  and 
drink  my  health,  as  if  a  clergyman's  sermon  had  been  a  speech 
at  a  cattle-fair  !  I  am  ashamed  of  you,  and  of  the  parish  ! 
What  on  earth  has  come  to  you  all  ?  " 

"That's  the  very  question  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  could  answer," 
groaned  the  Squire,  quite  mildly  and  pathetically—"  What  on 
earth  has  come  to  us  all  !  Ask  Stirn  :  "  (then  bursting  out) 
"  Stirn,  you  infernal  rascal,  don't  you  hear  ? — what  on  earth 
has  come  to  us  all  ?  " 

,  "  The  Papisher  is  at  the  bottom  of  it,  sir,"  said  Stirn,  pro- 
voked out  of  all  temper.  "  I  does  my  duty,  but  I  is  but  a  mor- 
tal man,  arter  all." 

"  A  mortal  fiddlestick — where's  Leonard  Fairfield,  I  say  ? " 

"Him  knows  best,"  answered  Stirn,  retreating  mechanically, 
for  safety's  sake,  behind  the  parson,  and  pointing  to  Dr.  Ricca- 
bocca.  Hitherto,  though  both  the  Squire  and  Parson  had  in- 
deed recognized  the  Italian,  they  had  merely  supposed  him  to 
be  seated  on  the  bank.  It  never  entered  into  their  heads  that 
so  respectable  and  dignified  a  man  could  by  any  possibility  be 
an  inmate,  compelled  or  voluntary,  of  the  parish  stocks.  No, 
not  even  though,  as  I  before  said,  the  Squire  had  seen,  just  un- 
der his  nose,  a  very  long  pair  of  soles  inserted  in  the  apertures — 
that  sight  had  only  confused  and  bewildered  him,  unaccompa- 
nie,d,  as  it  ought  to  have  been,  with  the  trunk  and  face  of  Lenny 
Fairfield.  Those  soles  seemed  to  him  optical  delusions, phantoms 
of  the  over-heated  brain;  but  now,  catching  hold  of  Stirn,  while 
the  Parson  in  equal  astonishment  caught  hold  of  him— theSquire 
faltered  oat,  "Well,  this  beats  cock-fighting!  The  man's  as  mad  as 
a  March  hare,andhas  taken  Dr.  Rickeybockey  for  little  Lenny !" 

"Perhaps,"  said  the  Doctor,  breaking  silence  with,  a  bland 
smile,  and  attempting  an  inclination  of  the  head  as  courteous 
as  his  position  would  permit — "  perhaps,  if  it  be  quite  the  same 
to  you,  before  you  proceed  to  explanations,  you  will  just  help 
me  out  of  the  stocks." 

The  Parson,  despite  his  perplexity  and  anger,  could  not  re- 
press a  smile,  as  he  approached  his  learned  friend,  and  bent 
down  for  the  purpose  of  extricating  him. 

"  Lord  love  your  reverence,  you'd  better  not  !  "  cried  Mr. 
Stirn.  "  Don't  be  tempted — he  only  wants  to  get  you  into  his 
claws.  I  would  not  go  a-near  him  for  all  the — " 

The  speech  was  interrupted  by.  Dr.  Riccabocca  himself,  who 
BOW,  thanks  to  the  Parson,  had  risen  into  his  full  height,  and 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  147 

half  a  bead  taller  than  all  present — even  than  the  tall  Squire-r- 
approached  Mr.  Stirn,  with  a  gracious  wave  of  the  hand.  Mr. 
Stirn  retreated  rapidly  toward  the  hedge,  amidst  the  branches 
of  which  he  plunged  himself  incontinently. 

"  I  guess  whom  you  take  me  for,  Mr.  Stirn,"  said  the  Italian, 
lifting  his  hat  with  his  characteristic  politeness.  "  It  is  certainly 
a  great  honor  ;  but  you  will  know  better  one  of  these  days, 
when  the  gentleman  in  question  admits  you  to  a  personal  inter- 
view in  another,  and — a  hotter  world." 

CHAPTER  XII. 

"  BUT  how  on  earth  did  you  get  into  my  new  stocks  ? "  asked 
the  Squire,  scratching  his  head. 

"My dear  sir,  Pliny  the  eldergot  into  the  crater  of  MountEtna." 

"  Did  he,  and  what  for  ?  " 

"  To  try  what  it  was  like,  I  suppose,"  answered  Riccabocca. 

The  Squire  burst  out  a-laughing. 

"  And  so  you  got  into  the  stocks  to  try  what  it  was  like.  Well, 
I  can't  wonder — it  is  a  very  handsome  pair  of  stocks,"  continued 
the  Squire,  with  a  loving  look  at  the  object  of  his  praise. 
"  Nobody  need  be  ashamed  of  being  seen  in  those  stocks — I 
should  not  mind  it  myself." 

"  We  had  better  move  on,"  said  the  Parson,  dryly,  "or-we  shall 
have  the  whole  village  here  presently,  gazing  on  the  lord  of  the 
manor  in  the  same  predicament  as  that  from  which  we  have  just 
extricated  the  Doctor.  Now,  pray,  what  is  the  matter  with  Lenny 
Fairfield  ?  I  can't  understand  a  word  of  what  has  passed.  You 
don't  mean  to  say  that  good  Lenny  Fairfield  (who  was  absent  from 
church,  by-the-by)  can  have  done  anything. to  get intodisgrace?" 

"Yes,  he  has  though,"  cried  the  Squire.  "Stirn,  I  say,  Stirn — " 
But  Stirn  had  forced  his  way  through  .the  hedge  and  vanished. 
Thus  left  to  his  own  powers  of  narrative  at  second-handrMr.  Ha- 
zeldean  now  told  all  he  had  to  communicate;  the  assault  upon 
Randal  Leslie,  and  the  prompt  punishment  inflicted  by  Stirn,  his 
own  indignation  at  the ;affront  to  his  young  kinsman, and  hisgood- 
natured,  merciful  desire  to  save  the  culpr  it  frompublic  humiliation. 

The  Parson,  mollified  toward  the  rude  and  hasty  invention  of 
the:  beer-drinking,  took  the  Squire  by  the  hand.  "  Ah,  Mr. 
Hazeldean,  forgive  me,"  he  said  repentantly  ;  "  I  ought  to  have 
known  at  once  that  it  was  only  some  ebullition  of  your  heart  that 
could  stifle  your  sense  of  decorum.  But  this  is  a  sad  story  about 
Lenny,  brawling  and  fighting  on  the  Sabbath-day.  So  unlike 
him,  too — I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  it." 

"  Like  or  unlike,"  said  the  Squire,  "  it  has  been  a  gross  insult 


148  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

to  young  Leslie  ;  and  looks  all  the  worse  because  I  and  Audley 
.are  not  just  the  best  friends  in  the  world.  I  can't  think  what  it 
is,"  continued  Mr.  Hazeldean,  musingly ;  ''but  it  seems  that 
there  must  be  always  some  association  of  fighting  connected  with 
that  prim  half-brother  of  mine.  There  was  I,  son  of  his  own 
mother —who  might  have  been  shot  through  the  lungs,  only  the 
ball  lodged  in  the  shoulder — and  now  his  wife's  kinsman — my 
kinsman,  too — grandmother  a  Hazeldean — a  hard-reading, 
sober  lad,  as  I  am  given  to  understand,  can't  set  his  foot  into  the 
quietest  parish  in  the  three  kingdoms,  but  what  the  mildest  boy 
that  ever  was  seen — makes  a  rush  at  him  like  a  mad  bull.  It  is 
;  NATALITY  !  "  cried  the  Squire,  solemnly.  I 

"Ancient  legends  record  similar  instances  of  fatality  in  cer- 
tain houses,"  observed  Riccabocca.  "  There  was -the  House  of 
Pelops — and  Polynices  and  Eteocles — the  sons  of  OEdipus  !  " 

"  Pshaw  !  "  said  the  Parson  ;  "but  what's  to  be  done  ?  " 

"  Done  ? "  said  the  Squire  ;  "  why,  -reparation  must  be  nlade 
to  young  Leslie.  And  though  I  wished  to  spare  Lenny,  the 
.young  ruffian,  a  public  disgrace1 — for  your  sake,  Parson  Dale,  and 
Mrs.  Fairfield's  ;— yet  a  good  caning  in  private — " 

"  Stop,  sir  !  "  said  Riccabocca,  mildly,  "  and  hear  me."  The 
Italian  then,  with  much  feeling  and  considerable  tact  pleaded 
the  cause  of  his  poor  protegt,  and  explained  how  Lenny's  error 
arose  only  from 'mistaken  zeal  for  the  Squire's  service,  and  in 
the  execution  of  the  orders  received  from  Mr.  Stirn. 

"That  alters  the  matter/' .said  the -Squire,  softened  ;  "and 
all  that  is  necessary -now.  will  be  for  him  to  make  a  proper 
apology  to  my  kinsman." 

"  Yes,  that  is  just,"  rejoined  the  Parson  ;  "but  I  still  don't 
learn  how  he  got  out  of  the  stocks." 

Riccaboicca  then  resumed  his  tale  ;  and,  after  confessing  his 
own  principal  share  in  Lenny's  escape,  drew  a  moving  picture  of 
the  boy's  shame  and  honest  mortification.  "Let  us  march  against 
Philip!"  cried  the  Athenians. when  they  heard  Demosthenes — 

"Let  us  go  at  once  and  comfort  the  child  !  "  cried  the  Par- 
son, before  Riccabocca  could  finish. 

With  that  benevolent  intention  all  three  quickened  their  pace, 
and  soon  arrived  at  the  widow's  cottage.  But  Lenny  had  caught 
sight  of  their  approach  through  the  window;  and  not  doubting 
that,  in  spite  of  Riccabocca's  intercession,  the  Parson  was  com- 
ing to  upbraid,  and  the  Squire  to  re-imprison,  he  darted  out  by 
the  back  way,  got  amongst  the  woods,  and  lay  there  perdu  all 
the  evening.  Nay,  it  was  not  till  after  dark  that  his  mother — 
who  sat  wringing  her  hands  in  the  little  kitchen,  and  trying  in 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  149 

vain  to  listen  to  the  Parson  and  Mrs.  Dale,  who  (after  sending 
in  search  of  the  fugitive)  had  kindly  come  to  console  the  moth- 
er— heard  a  timid  knock  at  the  door  and  a  nervous  fumble  at 
the  latch.  She  started  up,  opened  the  door,  and  Lenny  sprang 
to  her  bosom,  and  there  buried  his  face,,  sobbing  loud. 

"No  harm,  my  boy,"  said  the  Parson  tenderly;  "you  have 
nothing  to  fear — all  is  explained  and  forgiven," 

Lenny  looked  up,  and  the  veins  on  his  forehead  were  much 
swollen.  "Sir,"  said  he  sturdily,  "  I  don't  want  to  be  forgiven — - 
I  aint  done  no  wrong.  And — I've  been  disgraced — and  I  won't 
go  to  school,  never  no  more." 

"  Hush,  Carry  !  "  said  the  Parson  to  his  wife,  who,  with  the 
usual  liveliness  of  her  little  temper,  was  about  to  expostulate. 
"  Good  night,  Mrs.  Fairfield.  I  shall  come  and  talk  to  you  to- 
morrow, Lenny;  by  that  time  you  will  think  better  of  it." 

The  Parson  then  conducted  his  wife  home,  and  went  up  to 
the  Hall  to  report  Lenny's  safe  return;  for  the  Squire  was  very 
uneasy  about  him,  and  had  even  in  person  shared  the  search. 
As  soon  as  he  heard  Lenny  was  safe— --"  Well,"  said  the  Squire, 
"  let  him  go  the  first  thing  in  the  morning  to  Rood  Hall,  to  ask 
Master  Leslie's  pardon,  and  all  will  be  right  and  smooth  again." 

"  A  young  villain  !  "  cried  Frank,  with  his  cheeks  the  color  of 
scarlet;  "  to  strike  a  gentleman  and  an  Etonian,  who  had  just 
been  to  call  on  me!  I  wonder  Randal  let  him  off  so  well — any 
other  boy  in  the  sixth  form  would  have  killed  him  !  " 

"  Frank,"  said  the  Parson  sternly,  "if  we  all  had  our  deserts, 
what  should  be  done  to  him  who  not  only  lets  the  sun  go  down 
on  his  own.  wrath,  but  strives  with  uncharitable  breath  to  fan 
the  dying  embers  of  another's  ?" 

The  clergyman  here  turned  away  from  Frank,  who  bit  his  .lip, 
and  seemed  abashed — while  even  his  mother  said  not  a  word  in 
his  exculpation;  for  when  the  Parson  did  reprove  in  that  stern 
tone,  the  majesty  of  the  Hall  stood  awed  before  the  rebuke  of 
the  Church.  Catching  Riccabocca's  inquisitive  eye,  Mr.  Dale 
drew  aside  the  philosopher,  and  whispered  to  him  his  fears  that 
it  would  be  a  very  hard  matter  to  induce  Lenny  to  beg  Randal 
Leslie's  pardon,  and  that  the  proud  stomach  of  the  pattern  boy 
would  not  digest  the  stocks  with  as  .much  ease  as  a  long  regimen 
of  philosophy  had  enabled  the  sage  to  do.  This  conference 
Miss  Jemima  soon  interrupted  by  a  direct  appeal  to  the  Doctor 
respecting  the  number  of  years  (.even  without  any  previous  and 
more  violent  incident)  that  the  world  could  possibly  withstand 
its  own  wear  and  tear. 

"  Ma'am,"  said  the  Doctor,  reluctantly  summoned  away  to 


150  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

look  at  a  passage  in  some  prophetic  periodical  upon  that  inter- 
esting subject — "  ma'am,  it  is  very  hard  that  you  should  make 
one  remember  the  end  of  the  world,  since,  in  conversing  with 
you,  one's  natural  temptation  is  to  forget  its  existence." 

Miss  Jemima's  cheeks  were  suffused  with  a  deeper  scarlet 
than  Frank's  had  been  a  few  minutes  before.  Certainly  that 
deceitful,  heartless  compliment  justified  all  her  contempt  for 
the  male  sex;  and  yet — such  is  human  blindness — it  went  far 
to  redeem  all  mankind  in  her  credulous  and  too-confiding  soul. 

"  He  is  about  to  propose,"  sighed  Miss  Jemima. 

"Giacomo,"  said  Riccabocca,  as  he  drew  on  his  night-cap, 
and  stepped  majestically  into  the  four- posted  bed,  "  I  think  we 
shall  get  that  boy  for  the  garden  now  !  " 

Thus  each  spurred  his  hobby,  or  drove  her  car,  round  the 
Hazeldean  whirligig. 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

WHATEVER  may  be  the  ultimate  success  of  Miss  Jemima 
Hazeldean's  designs  upon  Dr.  Riccabocca,  the  Machiavellian 
sagacity  with  which  the  Italian  had  counted  upon  securing  the 
services  of  Lenny  Fairfield  was  speedily  and  triumphantly  estab- 
lished by  the  result.  No  voice  of  the  Parson's,  charmed  he 
ever  so  wisely,  could  persuade  the  peasant-boy  to  go  and  ask 
pardon  of  the  young  gentleman,  to  whom,  because  he  had  done 
as  he  was  bid,  he  owed  an  agonizing  defeat,  and  a  shameful  in- 
carceration. And,  to  Mrs.  Dale's  vexation,  the  widow  took  the 
boy's  part.  She  was  deeply  offended  at  the  unjust  disgrace 
Lenny  had  undergone  in  being  put  in  the  stocks  ;  she  shared 
his  pride,  and  openly  approved  his  spirit.  Nor  was  it  without 
great  difficulty  that  Lenny  could  be  induced  to  resume  his  les- 
sons at  school;  nay,  even  to  set  foot  beyond  the  precincts  of 
his  mother's  holding.  The  point  of  the  school  at  last  he  yielded, 
though  sullenly;  and  the  Parson  thought  it  better  to  temporize 
as  to  the  more  unpalatable  demand.  Unluckily,  Lenny's  ap- 
prehensions of  the  mockery  that  awaited  him  in  the  merciless 
world  of  his  village  were  realized.  Though  Stirn  at  first  kept 
his  own  counsel,  the  Tinker  blabbed  the  whole  affair.  And 
after  the  search  instituted  for  Lenny  on  the  fatal  night,  all  at- 
tempts to  hush  up  what  had  passed  would  have  been  impossible. 
So  then  Stirn  told  his  story,  as  the  Tinker  had  told  his  own  ; 
both  tales  were  very  unfavorable  to  Leonard  Fairchild.  The 
pattern  boy  had  broken  the  Sabbath,  fought  his  betters,  and 
been  well  mauled  into  the  bargain  ;  the  village  lad  had  sided 
with  Stirn  and  the  authorities  in  spying  out  the  misdemeanors 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  151 

of  his  equals  :  therefore  Leonard  Fairchild,  in  both  capacities 
of  degraded  pattern  boy  and  baffled  spy,  could  expect  no 
mercy;  he  was  ridiculed  in  the  one,  and  hated  in  the  other. 

It  is  true  that,  in  the  presence  of  the  schoolmaster,  and  under 
the  eye  of  Mr.  Dale,  no  one  openly  gave  vent  to  malignant  feel- 
ings ;  but  the  moment  those  checks  were  removed,  popular  per- 
secution began. 

Some  pointed  and  mowed  at  him;  some  cursed  him  for  a  sneak, 
and  all  shunned  his  society;  voices  were  heard  in  the  hedgerows, 
as  he  passed  through  the  village  at  dusk,  "  Who  was  put  in  the 
stocks  ?- — baa  !  "  "  Who  got  a  bloody  nob  for  playing  spy  to  Nick 
Stirn  ? — baa  !  "  To  resist  this  species  of  aggression  would  have 
teen  a  vain  attempt  for  a  wiser  head  and  a  colder  temper  than 
our  poor  pattern-boy's.  He  took  his  resolution  at  once,  and  his 
mother  approved  it ;  and  the  second  or  third  day  after  Dr.  Ric- 
cabocca's  return  to  the  Casino,  Lenny  Fairfield  presented  him- 
self on  the  terrace  with  a  little  bundle  in  his  hand.  "  Please, 
sir,"  said  he  to  the  Doctor,  who  was  sitting  cross-legged  on  the 
balustrade,  with  his  red  silk  umbrella  over  his  head — "  please, 
sir,  if  you'll  be  good  enough  to  take  me  now,  and  give  me  any 
hole  to  sleep  in,  I'll  work  for  your  honor  night  and  day;  and 'as 
for  the  wages,  mother  says,  '  just  suit  yourself,  sir.'  " 

"  My  child,"  said  the  Doctor,  taking  Lenny  by  the  hand,  and 
looking  at  him  with  the  sagacious  eye  of  a  wizard^  "  I  knew  you 
would  come  !  and  Giacomo  is  already  prepared  for  you  !  As  to 
wages,  we'll  talk  of  them  by  and  by."  '. 

Lenny  being  thus  settled,  his  mother  looked  for  some  even- 
ings on  the  vacant  chair,  where  he  had  so  long  sate  in  the  place 
of  her  beloved  Mark  ;  and  the  chair  seemed  so  comfortless  and 
desolate,  thus  left  all  to  itself,  that  she  could  bear  it  no  longer. 

Indeed  the  village  had  grown  as  distasteful  to  her  as  to  Lenny — 
perhaps  more  so;  and  one  morning  she  hailed  the  Steward  as  he 
was  trotting  his  hog-maned  cob  beside  the  door,  and  bade  him 
tell  the  Squire  that  "  she  would  take  it  very  kind  if  he  would  let 
her  off  the  six  months'notice  for  the  land  and  premises  she  held — 
there  were  plenty  to  step  into  the  place  at  a  much  better  rent." 

"  You're  a  fool,"  said  the  good-natured  Steward  ;  "  and  I'm 
very  glad  you  did  not  speak  to  that  fellow  Stirn  instead  of  to  me. 
You've  been  doing  extremely  well  here  and  have  the  place,!  may 
say,  for  nothing." 

"  Nothin'  as  to  rent,  sir,  but  a  great  deal  as  to  feelin',  "  said 
the  widow  ;  "  and  now  Lenny  has  gone  to  work  with  the  foreign 
gentleman,  I  should  like  to  go  and  live  near  him/' 

"  Ah,  yes — I  heard  Lenny  had  taken  himself  off  to  the  Cas- 


152  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

ino — more  fool  he  ;  but,  bless  your  heart,  'tis  no  distance — two 
miles  or  so.  Can't  he  come  every  night  after  work  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  exclaimed  the  widow,  almost  fiercely  ;  "  he  shan't 
come  home  here,to  be  called  bad  names  and  jeered  at! — he  whom 
my  dead  good-man  was  so  fond  and  proud  of.  No,  sir;  we  poor 
folks  have  our  feelings,  as  I  said  to  Mrs.  Dale,  and  as  I  will  say 
to  the  Squire  hisself.  Not  that  I  don't  thank  him  for  all  favors — 
he  be  a  good  gentleman  if  let  alone  ;  but  he  says  he  won't  come 
near  us  till  Lenny  goes  and  axes  pardin.  Pardin  for  what,  I 
should  like  to  know  !  Poor  lamb  !  .1  wish  you  could  ha' seen 
his  nose,  sir — as  big  as  your  two  fists.  Ax  pardin!  if  the  Squire 
had  had  such  a  nose  as  that,  I  don't  think  it's  pardin  he'd  been 
ha'  axing.  But  I  let  the  passion  get  the  better  of  me — I  humbly 
beg  you'll  excuse  it,  sir.  I'm  no  scholard  as  poor  Mark  was,  and 
Lenny  would  have  been,  if  the  Lord  had  not  visited  usotherways. 
Therefore  just  get  the  Squire  to  let  me  go  as  soon  as  may  be  ; 
and  as  for  the  bit  o'  hay  and  what's  on  the  grounds  and  orchard, 
the  new  comer  will  no  doubt  settle  that." 

The  Steward,  finding  no  eloquence  of  his  could  induce  the 
widow  to  relinquish  her  resolution,  took  her  message  .to  the 
Squire.  Mr.  Hazeldean,  who  was  indeed  really  offended  at  the 
boy's  obstinate  refusal  to  make  the  amende  honorable  to  Randal 
Leslie,  at  first  only  bestowed  a  hearty  curse  or  two  on  the  pride 
and  ingratitude  both  of  mother  and  son.  It  may  be.  supposed, 
however,  that  his  second  thoughts  were  more  gentle,  since  that 
evening,  though  he  did  not  go  himself  to  the  widow,  he  sent  his 
"  Harry."  Now,  though  Harry  was  sometimes  austere  and 
brusque  enough  on  her  own  account,  and  in  such  business  as 
might  especially  be  transacted  between  herself  and  the  cottag- 
ers, yet  she  never  appeared  as  the  delegate  of  her  lord  except 
in  the  capacity  of  a  herald  of  peace  and  mediating  angel.  It 
was  with  good  heart,  too,  that  she  undertook  this  mission,  since, 
as  we  have  seen,  both  mother  and  son  were  great  favorites  of 
hers.  She  entered  the  cottage  with  the  friendliest  beam  in  her 
bright  blue  eye,  and  it  Avas  with  the  softest  tone  of  her  frank, 
cordial  voice  that  she  accosted  the  widow.  But  she  was  no 
more  successful  than  the  Steward  had  been.  The  truth  is,  that 
I  don't  believe  the  haughtiest  duke  in  the  three  kingdoms  is 
really  so  proud  as  your  plain  English  rural  peasant,  nor  half  so 
hard  to  propitiate  and  deal  with  when  his  sense  of  dignity  is 
ruffled.  Nor  are  there  many  of  my  own  literary  brethren  (thin- 
skinned  creatures  though  we  are)  so  sensitively  alive  to  the 
Public  Opinion,  wisely  despised  by  Dr.  Riccabocca,  as  that  same 
peasant.  He  can  endure  a  good  deal  of  contumely  sometimes, 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  153 

it  is  true,  from  his  superiors  (though,  thank  Heaven  !  that  he 
rarely  meets  with  unjustly);  but  to  be  looked  down  upon,  and 
mocked,  and  pointed  at  by  his  own  equals — his  own  little  world 
— cuts  him  to  the  soul.  And  if  you  can  succeed  in  breaking 
this  pride,  and  destroying  this  sensitiveness,  then  he  is  a  lost 
being.  He  can  never  recover  his  self-esteem,  and  you  have 
chucked  him  half-way — a  stolid,  inert,  sullen  victim — to  the 
perdition  of  the  prison  or  the  convict-ship. 

Of  this  stuff  was  the  nature  both  of  the  widow  and  her  son. 
Hadthehoney  of  Plato  flowed  from  thetongue  of  Mrs.  Hazeldean, 
it  could  not  have  turned  into  sweetness  the  bitter  spirit  upon 
which  it  descended.  Biit  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  though  an  excellent 
woman,  was  rather  a  bluff,  plain-spoken  one — and,  after  all,  she 
had'  some  little  feeling  for  the  son  of  a  gentleman,  and  a  de- 
cayed; fallen  gentleman,  who,  even  by  Lenny's  account,  had 
been  assailed  without  any  intelligible  provocation:  nor  could 
she,  with  her  strong  common  sense,  attach  all  the  importance 
which  Mrs.  Fairfield  did  to  the  unmannerly  impertinence  of  a 
few  young  cubs,  which  she  said  truly,  "  would  soon  die  away  if 
no  notice  was  taken  of  it."  The  widow's  mind  was  made  up, 
and  Mrs.  Hazeldean  departed — with  much  chagrin  and  some 
displeasure. 

Mrs.  Fairfield,  however,  tacitly  understood  that  the  request 
she  had  made  was  granted,  and  early  one  morning  her  door  was 
found  locked — the  key  left  at  a  neighbor's  to  be  given  to  the 
Steward:  and,  on  further  inquiry,  it  was  ascertained  that  her 
furniture  and  effects  had  been  removed  by  the  errand-cart,  in 
the  dead  of  the  night.  Lenny  had  succeeded  in  finding  a  cot- 
tage on  the  roadside,  not  far  from  the  Casino;  and  there,  with 
a  joyous  face,  he  waited  to  welcome  his  mother  to  breakfast, 
and  show  how  he  had  spent  the  night  in  arranging  her  furniture. 

"Parson  !  "  cried  the  Squire  when  all  this  news  came  upon 
him,  as  he  was  walking  arm-in-arm  with  Mr.  Dale,  to  inspect 
some  proposed  improvement  in  the  Alms-house,  "  this  is  all  your 
fault.  Why  did  not  you  go  and  talk,  to  that  brute  of  a  boy,  and 
that  dolt  of  a  woman?  You've  got  'soft  sawder  enough,'  as 
Frank  calls  it  in  his  new-fashioned  slang." 

"As  if  I  had  not  talked  myself  hoarse  to  both  !"  said  the 
Parson,  in  a  tone  of  reproachful  surprise  at  the  accusation. 
"  But  it  was  in  vain  !,  O  Squire,  if  you  had  taken  my  advice 
about  the  stocks — quieta  rton  movere  !  " 

"  Bother  !  "  said  the:  Squire.  "  I  suppose  I  am  to  be  held 
up  as  a  tyrant,  a  Nero,  a  Richard  the. Third,  or  a  Grand  Inquis- 
itor, merely  for  having  things  smart  and  tidy!  Stocks  indeed! 


154  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

—your  friend  Rickeybockey  said  he  was  never  more  comforta- 
ble in  his  life — quite  enjoyed  sitting  there.  And  what  did  not 
hurt  Rickeybockey's  dignity  (a  very  gentleman-like  man  he  is, 
when  he  pleases)  ought  to  be  no  such  great  matter  to  Master 
Leonard  Fairfield.  But  'tis  no  use  talking!  What's  to  be  done 
now?  The  woman  must  not  starve;  and  I'm  sure  she  can't  live 
out  of  Rickeybockey's  wages  to  Lenny — (by  the  way,  I  hope  he 
don't  board  the  boy  upon  his  and  Jackeymo's  leavings:  I  hear 
they  dine  upon  newts  and  sticklebacks — faugh  !)• — I'll  tell  you 
what,  Parson,  now  I  think  of  it — at  the  back  of  the  cottage 
which  she  had  taken  there  are  some  fields  of  capital  land  just 
vacant.  Rickeybockey  wants  to  have  'em,  and  sounded  me  as 
to  the  rent  when  he  was  at  the  Hall.  I  only  half-promised  him 
the  refusal.  And  he  must  give  up  four  or  five  acres  of  the  best 
land  round  the  cottage  to  the  widow — just  enough  for  her  to 
manage — and  she  can  keep  a  dairy.  If  she  wants  capital,  I'll 
lend  her  some  in  your  name — only  don't  tell  Stirn;  and  as  for 
the  rent — we'll  talk  of  that  when  we  see' how  she  gets  on,  thank- 
less, obstinate  jade  that  she  is  !  You  see,"  added  the  Squire,' 
as  if  he  felt  there  was  some  apology  due  for  this  generosity  to 
an  object  whom  he  professed  to  consider  so  ungrateful,  "  her 
husband  was  a  faithful  servant,  and  so — I  wish  you  would  not 
stand  there  staring  me  out  of  countenance,  but  go  down  to  the 
woman  at  once,  or  Stirn  will  have  let  the  land  to  Rickeybockey, 
as  sure  as  a  gun.  And  harkye,  Dale,  perhaps  you  can  contrive, 
if  the  woman  is  so  cursedly  stiff-backed,  not  to  say  the  land  is 
mine,  or  that  it  is  any  favor  I  want  to  do  her — or,  in  short, 
manage  it  as  you  can  for  the  best."  Still  even  this  charitable 
message  failed.  The  widow  knew  that  the  land  was  the  Squire's, 
and  worth  a  good  ^"3  an  acre.  "  She  thanked  him  humbly  for 
that  and  all  favors;  but  she  could  not  afford  to  buy  cows,  and 
she  did  not  wish  to  be  beholden  to  anyone  for  her  living.  And 
Lenny  was  welToff  at  Mr.  Rickeybockey's,  and  coming  on  won- 
derfully in  the  garden  way — and  she  did  not  doubt  she  could 
get  some  washing;  at  all  events,  her  haystack  would  bring  in  a 
good  bit  of  money,  and  she  should  do  nicely,  thank  their  honors." 
Nothing  farther  could  be  done  in  the  direct  way,  but  the  remark 
about  the  washing  suggested  some  mode  of  indirectly  benefiting 
the  widow.  And  a  little  time  afterward,  the  sole  laundress  in 
that  immediate  neighborhood  happening  to  die,  a  hint  from  the 
Squire  obtained  from  the  landlady  of  the  inn  opposite  the  Casino 
such  custom  as  she  had  to  bestow,  which  at  times  was  not  incon- 
siderable. And  what  with  Lenny's  wages  (whateve-r  that  mys- 
terious item  might  be),  the  mother  and  son  contrived  to  live  with- 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  .155 

out  exhibiting  any  of  those  physical  signs  of  fast  and  abstinence 
which  Riccabocca  and  his  valet  gratuitously  afforded  to  the  stu- 
dent in  animal  anatomy. 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

OF  all  the  wares  and  commodities  in  exchange  and  .barter, 
wherein  so  mainly  consists  the  civilization  of  our  modern  world, 
there  is  not  one  which  is  so  carefully  weighed — so  accurately 
measured — so  plumbed  and  gauged — so  doled  and  scraped — so 
poured  out  in  minima  and  balanced  with  scruples — as  that  neces- 
sity of  social  commerce  called  "  an  apology  !  "  If  the  chemists 
were  half  so  careful  in  vending  their  poisons,  there  would  be  a 
notable  diminution  in  the  yearly  average  of  victims  to  arsenic 
and  oxalic  acid.  But,  alas,  in  the  matter  of  apology,  it  is  not 
from  the  excess  of  the  dose,  but  the  timid,  niggardly,  miserly 
manner  in  which  it  is  dispensed,  that  poor  Humanity  is  hurried 
off  to  the  Styx  !  How  many  times  does  a  life  depend  on  the  ex- 
act proportions  of  an  apology  !  It  is  a  hair-breadth  too  short  to 
cover  the  scratch  for  which  you  want  it  ?  Make  your  will — you 
are  a  dead  man  !  A  life,  do  I  say  ? — a  hecatomb  of  lives  !  How 
many  wars  would  have  been  prevented,  how  many  thrones  would 
be  standing,  dynasties  flourishing — commonwealths  brawling 
round  a  be  ma,  or  fitting  out  galleys  for  corn  and  cotton — if  an 
inch  or  two  more  of  apology  had  been  added  to  the  proffered 
ell !  But  then  that  plaguy,  jealous,  suspicious,  old  vinegar-faced 
Honor,  and  her  partner  Pride — as  penny-wise  and  pound-foolish 
a  she-skinflint  as  herself — have  the  monopoly  of  the  article.  And 
what  with  the  time  they  lose  in  adjusting  their  spectacles,  hunt- 
ing in  the  precise  shelf  for  the  precise  quality  demanded,  then 
(quality  found)  the  haggling  as  to  quantum — considering  whether 
it  should  be  Apothecary's  weight  or  Avoirdupois,  or  English 
measure  or  Flemish — and,  finally,  the  hullabaloo  they  make  if 
the  customer  is  not  perfectly  satisfied  with  the  monstrous  little 
he  gets  for  his  money — I  don't  wonder,  for  my  part,  how  one  loses 
temper  and  patience,  and  sends  Pride,  Honor,  and  Apology,  all 
to  the  devil.  Aristophanes,  in  his  comedy  of  "  Peace"  insinuates 
a  beautiful  allegory  by  only  suffering  that  goddess,  though  in  fact 
she  is  his  heroine,  to  appear  as  a  mute.  She  takes  care  never  to 
open  her  lips.  The  shrewd  Greek  knew  very  well  that  she  would 
cease  to  be  Peace,  if  she  once  began  to  chatter.  Wherefore,  O 
reader,  if  ever  you  find  your  pump  under  the  iron  heel  of  another 
man's  boot,  heaven  grant  that  you  may  hold  your  tongue,  and 
not  make  things  past  all  endurance  and  forgiveness  by  bawling 
out  for  an  apology  ! 


156  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 


CHAPTER  XV. 

BUT  the  Squire  and  his  son,  Frank,  were  large-hearted,  gen« 
erous  creatures  in  the  article  of  apology,  as  in  all  things  less 
skimpdngly  dealt  out.  And  seeing  that  Leonard  Fairfield  would 
offer  no  plaster  to  Randal  Leslie,  they  made  amends  for  his 
stinginess- by  their  own  prodigality.  The  Squire  accompanied 
his  son  to  Rood  Hall,  and  none  of  the  family  choosing  to  be  at 
home,the  Squire  in  his  own  hand, and  from  his  own  head,  indited 
and  composed  an  epistle  which  might  have  satisfied  all  the 
wounds  which  the  dignity  of  the  Leslies  had  ever1  received. 

This  letter  of  apology  ended  with  a  hearty  request  tllatRandal 
would  come  and  spend  a  few  days  with  his  son.  Frank's  epistle 
was  to  the  same  purport,  only  more  Etonian  and  less  legible. 

It  was  some  days  before  Randal's  replies  tothese  epistleswere 
received.  The  replies  bore  the  address  of  a  village  near  Lon- 
don, and  stated  that  the  writer  was  now  reading  with  a  tutor 
preparatory  to  entrance  at  Oxford,  and  could  riot,  therefore, 
accept  the  invitation  extended  to  him. 

For  the  rest,  Randal  expressed  himself  with  good  sense, 
though  not  with  much  generosity.  He  excused  his  participation 
in  the  vulgarity  of  such  a  conflict  by  a  bitter  but  short  allusion 
to  the  obstinacy  and  ignorance  of  the  village  boor;  and  did  not 
do  what  you,  my  kind  reader,  certainly  would  have  done  under 
similar  circumstances-— viz.,  intercede  in  behalf  of  a  brave  and 
unfortunate  antagonist.  Most  of  us  like  a  foe  better  after  we 
have  fought  him — that  is,  if  we  are  the  conquering  party  ;  this 
was  not  the  case  with  Randal  Leslie.  There,  so  far  as  the 
Etonian  was  concerned,  the  matter  rested.  And  the  Squire, 
irritated  that  he  could  not  repair  whatever  wrong  that  young 
gentleman  had  sustained,  no  longer  felt  a  pang  of  regret  as  he 
passed  by  Mrs.  Fairfield's  deserted  cottage. 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

LENNY  FAIRFIELD  continued  to  give  great  satisfaction  to  his 
new  employers,  and  to  profit  in  many  respects  by  the  familiar 
kindness  with  which  he  was  treated.  Riccabocca,  who  valued 
himself  on  penetrating  into  character,had,frbm  ihe  first, seen  that 
much  stuff  of  no  common  quality  and  texture  was  to  be  found  in 
the  disposition  and  mind  of  the  English  village  boy.  On  farther 
acquaintance,  he  perceived  that,  under  a  child's  innocent  simpli- 
city, there  were  the  workings  of  an  acuteness  that  required  but 
development  and  direction.  He  ascertained  that  the  pattern 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  157 

boy'sprogress  at  the  villageschoolproceededfrom  something  more 
than  mechanical  docility  and  readiness  of  comprehension.  Lenny 
had  a  keen  thirst  for  knowledge,  and  through  all  the  disadvantages 
of  birth  and  circumstances,  there  were  the  indications  of  that 
natural  genius  which  convertsdisadvantages  themselvesintostim- 
ulants.  Still,  with  the  germs  of  good  qualities  lay  the  embryos  of 
those  which,  difficult  to  separate,  and  hard  to  destroy, often  mar 
the  produce  of  the  soil.  With  a  remarkable  and  generous  pride 
in  self-repute,  there  was. some  stubbornness;  with  great  sensibil- 
lity  to  kindness,  there  was  also  strong  reluctance'to  forgive  affront. 
This  mixed  nature  in  an  uncultivated  peasant's  breast  inter- 
ested Riccabocca,  who,  though  long  secluded  from  the  com- 
merce of  mankind,  still  looked  upon  man  as  the  most -various 
and  entertaining  volume  which  philosophical  research  can  ex- 
plore. He  soon  accustomed  the  boy  to  the  tone  of  a  conversa- 
tion generally  subtle  and  suggestive;  and  Lenny's  language  and 
ideas  became  insensibly  less  rustic  and  more  refined.  Then 
Riccabocca  selected  from,  his  library,small  as  it  was,books  that, 
though  elementary,  were  of  a  higher  class  than  Lenny  could  have 
found  within  his  reach  at  Hazeldean.  Riccabocca  knew  the  Eng- 
lish language  well — better  in  grammar,  construction,  and  genius 
than  many  a  not  ill-educated  Englishman;  for  he  had  studied 
it  with  the  minuteness  with  which  a  scholar  studies  a  dead  lan- 
guage, and  amidst  his  collection  he  had  many  of  the  books 
which  had  formerly  served  him  for  that  purpose.  These  were 
the  first  works  he  lent  to  Lenny.  Meanwhile  Jackeymo  im- 
parted to  the  boy  many  secrets  in  practical  gardening  and  mi- 
nute husbandry,  for  at  that  day  farming  in  England  (some  fav- 
ored counties  and  estates  excepted)  was  far  below  the  nicety  (o 
which  the  art  has  been  immemorially  carried  in  the  north  of 
Italy — where,indeed,you  may  travel  for  miles  as  through  a  series 
of  market-gardens — so  that,  all  these  things  considered?Leonard 
Fajrfield  might  be  said  to  have  made  a  change  for  the  better. 
Yet,  in  truth/ and  looking  below  the  surface,  that  might  be  fair 
matter  of  doubt.  For  the  same  reason  which  had  induced  the 
boy  to  fly  his  native  village,  he  no  longer  repaired  to  the  church 
of  Hazeldean.  The  old,intirnate  intercourse  between  him  and  the 
Parson  became  necessarily  suspended,  or  bounded  to  an  occa- 
sional kindly  visit  from  the  latter — visits  which  grew  more  rare, 
and  less  familiar,  as  he  found  his  former  pupil  in  no  want  of  his 
services,and  wholly  deaf  to  his  mild  entreaties  to  forget  and  for- 
give the  past,  and  come  at  least  to  his  old  seat  in  the  parish 
church.  Lenny  still  went  to  church — a  chur,ch  a  long  way  off  in 
another  parish — but  the  sermons  did  not  do  him  the  same  good 


158  MY    NOVEL  ,-    OR, 

as  Parson  Dale's  had  done;  and  the  clergy  man, who  had  his  own 
flock  to  attend  to,did  not  condescend, as  Parson  Dale  would  have 
done,to  explain  what  seemed  obscure,and  enforce  what  was  pro- 
fitable, in  private  talk,  with  that  stray  lamb  from  another's  fold. 

Now  I  question  much  if  all  Dr.  Riccabocca's  maxims,  though 
they  were  often  very  moral,  and  generally  very  wise,  served  to 
expand  the  peasant  boy's  native  good  qualities,  and  correct  his 
bad,  half  so  well  as  the  few  simple  words,  not  at  all  indebted  to 
Machiavelli,which  Leonard  had  once  reverently  listened  to  when 
he  stood  by  Mark's  elbow-chair,  yielded  up  for  the  moment  to 
the  good  Parson,  worthy  to  sit  in  it  ;  for  Mr.  Dale  had  a  heart 
in  which  all  the  fatherless  of  the  parish  found  their  place.  Nor 
was  this  loss  of  tender,  intimate,  spiritual  lore  so  counterbal- 
anced by  the  greater  facilities  for  purely  intellectual  instruction, 
as  modern  enlightenment  might  presume.  For,  without  dis- 
puting the  advantage  of  knowledge  in  a  general  way,  knowledge, 
in  itself,  is  not  friendly  to  content.  Its  tendency,  of  course,  is 
to  increase  the  desires,  to  dissatisfy  us  with  what  is,  in  order  to 
urge  progress  to  what  may  be  ;  and,  in  that  progress,  what  un- 
noticed martyrs  among  the  many  must  fall,  baffled  and  crushed 
by  the  way  !  To  how  large  a  number  will  be  given  desires  they 
will  never  realize,  dissatisfaction  of  the  lot  from  which  they  will 
never  rise  !  Allans  !  one  is  viewing  the  dark  side  of  the  question. 
It  is  all  the  fault  of  that  confounded  Riccabocca,  who  had  already 
caused  Lenny  Fairchild  to  lean  gloomily  on  his  spade,  and,  after 
looking  round  and  seeingno  onenearhim, groan  out  querulously — 

"  And  am  I  born  to  dig  a  potato-ground  ?  " 
,  PardieujKiy  friend  Lenny,if  you  live  to  be  seventy,  and  ride  in 
your  carriage,  and  by  the  help  of  a  dinner-pill  digest  a  spoonful 
of  curry, you  may  sigh  to  think  what  a  relish  there  was  in  potatoes 
roasted  in  ashes  after  you  had  digged  them  out  of  that  ground 
with  your  own  stout  young  hands.  Dig  on,  Lenny  Fairchild,  dig 
on!  Dr.  Riccabocca  will  tell  you  that  there  was  once  an  illustri- 
ous personage*  who  made  experience  of  two  very  different  occu- 
pations— one  was  ruling  men,  the  other  was  planting  cabbages  ; 
he  thought  planting  cabbages  much  the  pleasanter  of  the  two  ! 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

DR.  RICCABOCCA  had  secured  Lenny  Fairfield,  and  might 
therefore  be  considered  to  have  ridden  his  hobby  in  the  great 
whirligig  with  adroitness  and  success.  But  Miss  Jemima  was 
still  driving  round  in  her  car,  handling  the  reins,  and  flourishing 
the  whip,  without  apparently  having  got  an  inch  nearer  to  the 
flying  form  of  Dr.  Riccabocca. 

*  The  Emperor  Diocletian. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  159 

Indeed,  that  excellent  and  only  too  susceptible  spinster,  with 
all  her  experience  of  the  villany  of  man,  had  never  conceived  the 
wretch  to  be  so  thoroughly  beyond  the  reach  of  redemption  as 
when  Dr.  Riccabocca  took  his  leave,  and  once  more  interred 
himself  amid  the  solitudes  of  the  Casino,  without  having  made 
any  formal  renunciation  of  his  criminal  celibacy.  For  some  days 
she  shut  herself  up  in  her  own  chamber,  and  brooded  with  more 
than  her  usual  gloomy  satisfaction  on  the  certainty  of  the  ap- 
proaching crash.  Indeed,  many  signs  of  that  universal  calamity, 
which,  while  the  visit  of  Riccabocca  lasted,  she  had  permitted 
herself  to  consider  ambiguous,  now  became  luminously  apparent. 
Even  the  newspaper,  which  during  that  credulous  and  happy 
period  had  given  half  a  column  to  Births  and  Marriages,  now  bore 
an  ominously  long  catalogue  of  Deaths;  so  that  it  seemed  as  if 
the  whole  population  had  lost  heart,  and  had  no  chance  of  repair- 
ing its  daily  losses.  The  leading  articles  spoke,  with  the  obscurity 
of  a  Pythian,  of  an  impending  CRISIS.  Monstrous  turnips  sprouted 
out  from  the  paragraphs  devoted  to  General  News.  Cows  bore 
calves  with  two  heads,  whales  were  stranded  in  the  Humber, 
showers  of  frogs  descended  in  the  High  Street  of  Cheltenham. 

All  these  symptoms  of  the  world's  decrepitude  and  consum- 
mation, which  by  the  side  of  the  fascinating  Riccabocca  might 
admit  of  some  doubt  as  to  their  origin  and  cause,  now  conjoined 
with  the  worst  of  all,  viz.,  the  frightfully  progressive  wickedness 
of  man — left  to  Miss  Jemima  no  ray  of  hope  save  that  afforded 
by  the  reflection  that  she  could  contemplate  the  wreck  of  mat- 
ter without  a  single  sentiment  of  regret. 

Mrs.  Dale,  however,  by  no  means,  shared  the  despondency  of 
her  fair  friend,and,having  gained  access  to  Miss  Jemima's  cham- 
ber, succeeded,  though  not  without  difficulty,  in  her  kindly  at- 
tempts to  cheer  the  droopingspirits  of  that  female  misanthropist. 
Nor,  in  her  benevolent  desire  to  speed  the  ear  of  Miss  Jemima  to 
its  hymeneal,goal,was  Mrs.  Dale  so  cruel  toward  her  male  friend, 
Dr.  Riccabocca,  as  she  seemed  to  her  husband.  For  Mrs.  Dale 
was  a  woman  of  shrewdness  and  penetration,  as  most  quick-tem- 
pered women  are;  and  she  knew  that  Miss  Jemima  was  one'of 
those  excellent  young  ladies  who  are  likely  to  value  a  husband 
in  pro-portion  to  the  difficulty  of  obtaining  him.  In  fact,  my 
readers  of  both  sexes  must  often  have  met,  in  the  course  of  their 
experience,  with  that  peculiar  sort  of  feminine  disposition, which 
requires  the  warmth  of  the  conjugal  hearth  to  develop  all  its 
native  good  qualities;  nor  is  it  to  be  blamed  overmuch  if,  inno- 
cently aware  of  this  tendency  in  its  nature,  it  turns  towa-rd  what 
is  best  fitted  for  its  growth  and  improvement,  by  laws  akin  to 


l6o  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

those  which  make  the  sunflower  turn  to  the  sun,  or  the  willow 
to  the  stream.  Ladies  of  this  disposition,  permanently  thwarted 
in  their  affectionate  bias,  gradually  languish  away  into  intellec- 
tual inanition,  or  sprout  out  into  those  abnormal  eccentricities 
which  are  classed  under  the  general  name  of  "oddity,"  or  "char- 
acter." But,  once  admitted  to  their  proper  soil,  it  is  astonishing 
what  healthful  improvement  takes  place — how  the  poor  heart, 
before  starved  and  stinted  of  nourishment,  thows  out  its  suckers, 
and  bursts  into  bloom  and  fruit.  And  thus  many  a  belle,  from 
whom  the  beaux  have  stood  aloof,  only  because  the  puppies 
think  she  could  be  had  for  the  asking,  they  see  afterward  settled 
down  into  true  wife  and  fond  mother,  with  amaze  at  their  former 
disparagement,  and  a  sigh  at  their  blind  hardness  of  heart. 

In  all  probability, Mrs.  Dale  took  this  view  of  the  subject;  and 
certainly,  in  addition  to  all  the  hitherto  dormant  virtues  which 
would  be  awakened  in  Miss  Jemima  when  fairly  Mrs.Riccabocca, 
she  counted  somewhat  upon  the  mere  worldly  advantage  which 
such  a  match  would  bestow  upon  the  exile.  So  respectable  a  con- 
nection with  one  of  the  oldest,  wealthiest,  and  most  popular  fam- 
ilies in  the  shire,  would  in  itself  give:him  a  position  not  to  be  des- 
pised by  a  poor  stranger  in  the  land;  and  though  the  interest  in 
Miss  Jemima's  dowry  might  not  be  much,  regarded  in  the  light 
of  English  pounds  (not  Milanese  lire), still  it  would  suffice  to  pre- 
vent that  gradual  process  of  dematerialization  which  the  length- 
ened diet  upon  minnows  and  sticklebacks  had  already  made  ap- 
parent in  the  fine  and  slow-evanishing  form  of  the  philosopher. 

Like  all  persons  convinced  of  the  expediency  of  a  thing,  Mrs. 
Dale  saw  nothing  wanting  but  opportunities  to  insure  its  suc- 
cess. And  that  these  might  be  forthcoming,  she  not. only  re- 
newed with  greater  frequency,  and  more  urgent  instance  than 
ever,  her  friendly  invitations  to  Riccabocca  to  drink  tea  and 
spend  the  evening,  but  she  so  artfully  chafed  the  Squire  on  his 
sore  point  of  hospitality,  that  the  Doctor  received  weekly  a 
pressing  solicitation  to  dine  and  sleep  ,at  the  Hall. 

At  first  the  Italian  pished  and  grunted,  and  said  Cospeito,  and 
Per  Bacco,  and  Diavolo,  and  tried  to  creep  out  of  so  much  prof- 
fered courtesy.  But,  like  all  single  gentlemen,  he  was  a  "little 
under  the  tyrannical  influence  of  his  faithful  servant:  and  Jack- 
eymo,  though  he  could  bear  starving  as  well  as  his  master,  when 
necessary,  still^when  he  had  the  option,  preferred  roast-beef  and 
plum-pudding.  Moreover,that  vain  and  incautious  confidence  of 
Riccabocca,  touching  the  vast  sum  at  his  command, .and  with  no 
heavier  drawback  than  that  of  so  amiable  a  lady  as  Miss  Jemima 
— who  had  already  shown  him  (Jackeymo)  many  little  delicate 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  l6l 

attentions — had  greatly  whetted  the  cupidity  which  was  in  the 
servant's  Italian  nature;  a  cupidity  the  more  keen  because,  long 
debarred  its  legitimate  exercise  on  his  own  mercenary  interests, 
he  carried  it  all  to  the  account  of  his  master's  ! 

Thus  tempted  by  his  enemy,  and  betrayed  by  his  servant,  the 
unfortunate  Riccabocca  fell,  though  with  eyes  not  blinded,  into 
the  hospitable  snares  extended  for  the  destruction  of  his— celi- 
bacy !  He  went  often  to  the  Parsonage,  often  to  the  Hall,  and 
by  degrees  the  sweets  of  the  social  domestic  life,  long  denied 
him,  began  to  exercise  their  enervating  charm  upon  the  stoicism 
of  our  poor  exile.  Frank  had  now  returned  to  Eton.  An  unex- 
pected invitation  had  carried  off  Captain  Higginbotham  to  pass 
a  few  weeks  at  Bath  with  a  distant  relation,  who  had'  lately  re- 
turned from  India,  and  who,  as  rich  as  Croesus,  felt  so  estranged 
and  solitary  in  his  native  isle,-that,  when  the  Captain  "  claimed 
kindred  there,"  to  his  own  amaze,  "  he  had  his  claims  allow.ed"; 
while  a  very  protracted  sitting  of  Parliament  still  delayed  in  Lon- 
don the  Squire's  habitualvisitors  during  the  later  summer;  so  that 
— a  chasm  thus  made  in  his  society — Mr.  Hazeldean  welcomed 
with  no  hollow  cordiality  the  diversion  or  distraction  he  found  in 
the  foreigner's  companionship.  Thus,wilh  pleasure  to  all  parties, 
and  strong  hopes  to  the  two  female  conspirators,  the  intimacy 
between  the  Casino  and  Hall  rapidly  thickened;  but  still  not  a 
word  resembling  a  distinct  proposal  did  Dr.  Riccabocca  breathe. 
And  still,  if  such  an  idea  obtruded  itself  on  his  mind,  it  was 
chased  therefrom  with  so  determined  a:  Diavolo,  that  perhaps, 
if  not  the  end  of  the  world,  at  least  the  end  of  Miss  Jemima's 
tenure  of  it,  might  have  approached,  and  seen  her  still  Miss 
Jemima,  but  for  "a  certain  letter  with  a  foreign  post-mark  that 
reached  the  Doctor  one  Tuesday  morning. 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE. servant  saw  that  something  had  gone  wrong,  and,  under 
pretence  of  syringing  the  orange-trees,  he  lingered  near  his  mas- 
ter, and  peered  through  the  sunny  leaves  upon  Riccabocca's 
melancholy  brows. 

The  doctor  sighed  heavily.  Nor  did  he,  as  was  his  wont, 
after  some  such  sighs,  mechanically  take  up  that  dear  comforter 
the  pipe.  But  though  the  tobacco-pouch  lay  by  his  side  on  the 
balustrade,  and  the  pipe  stood  against  the  wall  between  his  knees, 
childlike  lifting  up  its  lips  to  the  customary  caress — he  heeded 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  but  laid  the  letter  silently  on  his 
lap,  and  fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  ground. 

"  I.t  must  be  bad  news,  indeed  !  "  thought  Jackeymo,  and  de- 


162  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

sisted  from  his  work.  Approaching  his  master,  he  took  up  the 
pipe  and  the  tobacco-pouch,  and  filled  the  bowl  slowly,  glanc- 
ing all  the  while  toward  that  dark  musing  face,  on  which,  when 
abandoned  by  the  .expression  of  intellectual  vivacity  or  the  ex- 
quisite smile  of  Italian  courtesy,  the  deep  .downward  lines  re- 
vealed the  characters  of  sorrow.  Jackeymo  did  not  venture  to 
speak  ;  but  the  continued  silence  of  his  master  disturbed  him 
much.  He  laid  that  peculiar  tinder  which  your  smokers  use 
upon  the  steel,  and  struck  the  spark — still  not  a  word,  nor  did 
Riccabocca  stretch  forth  his  hand. 

"  I  never  knew  him  in  this  taking  before,"  thought  Jackeymo  ; 
and  delicately  he  insinuated  the  neck  of  the  pipe  into  the  nerve- 
less fingers  of  the  hand  that  lay  supine  on  those  quiet  knees. 
The  pipe  fell  to  the  ground. 

Jackeymo  crossed  himself,  and  began  praying  to  his  sainted 
.namesake  with  great  fervor. 

The  doctor  rose  slowly,  and  as  if  with  an  effort  ;  he  walked 
once  or  twice  to  and  fro  the  terrace  ;  and  then  he  halted  ab- 
ruptly, and  said — 

"  Friend  !  " 

"  Blessed  Monsignore  San  Giacomo,  I  know  thou  wouldst  hear 
me  !  "  cried  the  servant  ;  ard  he  raised  his  master's  hand  to 
his  lips,  then  abruptly  turned  away  and  wiped  his  eyes. 

*'  Friend,"  repeated  Riccabocca,and  this  time  with  a  tremulous 
emphasis,  and  in  the  softest  tone  of  a  voice  never  wholly  without 
the  music  of  the  sweet  South,  "I  would  talk  to  thee  of  my  child." 

I 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  THE  letter,  then,  relates  to  the  Signorina.     She  is  well  ? " 

"  Yes,  she  is  well  now.     She  is  in  our  native  Italy." 

Jackeymo  raised  his  eyes  involuntarily  toward  the  orange- 
trees,  and  the  morning  breeze  swept  by  and  bore  to  him  the 
odor  of  their  blossoms. 

"Those  are  sweet  even  here,  with  care,"  said  he  pointing  to 
the  trees.  "  I  think  I  have  said  that  before  to  the  Padrone." 

But  Riccabocca  was  now  looking  again  at  the  letter,  and  did 
not  notice  either  the  gesture  or  the  remark  of  his  servant. 

"  My  aunt  is  no  more  !  "  said  he,  after  a  pause. 

"  We  will  pray  for  her  soul  !  "  answered  Jackeymo  solemnly. 
"  But  she  was  very  old,  and  had  been  a  long  time  ailing.  Let 
it  not  grieve  the  Padrone  too  keenly  ;  at  that  age,  and  with 
those  infirmities,  death  comes  as  a  friend." 

"  Peace  be  to  her  dust  !  "  returned  the  Italian.     "  If  she  had 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  163 

her  faults,  be  they  now  forgotten  ;  and  in  the  hour  of  my  danger 
and  distress  she  sheltered  my  infant!  That  shelter  is  destroyed. 
This  letter  is  from  the  priest  her  confessor.  And  the  home  of 
which  my  child  is  bereaved  falls  to  the  inheritance  of  my  enemy." 

"Traitor  !  "  muttered  Jackeymo  ;  and  his  right  hand  seemed 
to  feel  for  the  weapon  which  the  Italians  of  the  lower  rank  often 
openly  wear  in  their  girdles. 

"The  priest,"  resumed  Riccabocca,  calmly,  "  has  rightly 
judged  in  removing  my  child  as  a  guest  from  the  house  in  which 
that  traitor  enters  as  lord." 

"  And  where  is  the  Signorina  ?" 

"With  the  poor  priest.  See,  Giacomo — here,  here — this  is 
her  handwriting  at  the  end  of  the  letter — the  first  lines  she  ever 
traced  to  me." 

Jackeymo  took  off  his  hat,  and  looked  reverently  on  the 
large  characters  of  a  child's  writing.  But  large  as  they  were, 
they  seemed  indistinct,  for  the  paper  was  blistered  with  the 
child's  tears  ;  and  on  the  place  where  they  had  not  fallen,  there 
was  a  round,  fresh, moist  stain  of  the  tear  that  had  dropped  from 
the  lids  of  the  father.  Riccabocca  renewed — "  The  priest 
recommends  a  convent." 

"To  the  devil  with  the  priest!"  cried  the  servant;  then 
crossing  himself  rapidly,  he  added,  "  I  did  not  mean  that,  Mon- 
signore-San  Giacomo — forgive  me  !  But  your  Excellency  *  does 
not  think  of  making  a  nun  of  his  only  child  !  " 

"  And  yet  why  not  ?  "  said  Riccabocca,  mournfully  ;  "what 
can  I  give  her  in  the  world  ?  Is  the  land  of  the  stranger  a  better 
refuge  than  the  home  of  peace  in  her  native  clime  ?" 

"  In  the  land  of  the  stranger  beats  her  father's  heart  !  " 

"  And  if  that  beat  were  stifled,  what  then  ?  Ill  fares  the  life 
that  a  single  death  can  bereave  of  all.  In  a  convent  at  least 
(and  the  priest's  influence  can  obtain  her  that  asylum  amongst 
her  equals  and  amidst  her  sex)  she  is  safe  from  trial  and  from 
penury — to  her  grave." 

"  Penury  !  Just  see  how  rich  we  shall  be  when  we  take  those 
fields  at  Michaelmas." 

"Pazzief"  (follies)  said  Riccabocca,  listlessly.  "Are  these 
suns  more  serene  than  ours,  or  the  soil  more  fertile  ?  Yet  in  our 
own  Italy,  saith  the  proverb,  '  he  who  sows  land  reaps  more  care 
than  corn.'  It  were  different,"  continued  the  father,  after  a 
pause,  aind  in  a  more  resolute  tone,  "  if  I  had  some  independence, 
however  small,to  count  on — nay,  if  among  all  my  tribe  of  dainty 

*  The  title  of  Excellency  does  not,  in  Italian,  necessarily  express  any  exalted  rank  ;  but  is 
often  given  by  servants  to  their  masters. 


I'6'4  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

relatives  there  were  but  one  female  who  would  accompany  Vio- 
lante  to  the  exile's  hearth — Ishmael  had  his  Hagar.  But  how 
can  we  two  rough-bearded  men 'provide  for  all  the  nameless 
wants  and  cares  of  a  frail  female  child  ?  And  she  has  been  so 
delicately  reared- — the  woman  child  heeds  the  fostering  hand 
and  tender  eye  of  a  woman." 

"  And  with  a  word,"  said  Jackeymo,  resolutely,  "  the  Padrone 
might  secure  to  his  child  all  that  he  needs  to  save  her  from  the 
sepulchre  of  a  convent ;  and  ere  the  autumn  leaves  fall,  she 
might  be  sitting  on  his  knee.  Padrone,  do  not  think  that  you 
can  conceal  from  me  the  truth,  that  you  love  your  child  better 
than  all  things  in  the  world — now  the  Patria  is  as  dead  to  you 
as  the  dust  of  your  fathers- — and  your  heart-strings  would  crack 
with  the  effort  to  tear  her  from  them,  and  consign  her  to  a  eon- 
vent.  Padrone,  never  again  to  hear  her  voice-~never  again  to 
see  her  face  !  Those  little  arms  that  twined  round  your  neck 
that  dark  night,  when  we  fled  fast  for  life  and  freedom, ;a-nd  you 
said,  as  you  felt  their  clasp,  '  Friend,  all  5s  not  yet  lost/'" 

*'  Giacomo  ! "  exclaimed  the  father  reproachfully,  and  his 
voice  seemed  to  choke  him.  Riccabocca  turned  away,  and 
walked  restlessly  to  and  fro  the  terrace  ;  then,  lifting  his  arms 
with  a  wild  gesture, as  he  still  continued  his  long,irrggular  Strides, 
he  muttered,  "  Yes, heaven  is  my  witness  that  I  could  have  borne 
reverse  and  banishment  without  a  murmur;  had  I  permitted 
myself  that  young  partner  in  exile  and  privation.  Heaven  is 
my  witness  that,  if  I  hesitate  no\v,it  is  because  I  would  nbt  listen 
to  my  own  selfish  heart.  Yet  never,  never  to  see  her  again — my 
child  !  And  it  was  but  as  the  infant  that  I  beheld  her  !  O  friend, 
friend — "  (and  stopping  short  with  a  burst  of  uncontrollable 
emotion, he  bowed  his  head  upoh  his  servant's  shoulder)-1—^  thou 
knowest  what  I  have  endured  and  suffered  at  my  hearth,  as  in  my 
country;  thewrong,theperfidy,the — ;the— "  His  voice  again  failed 
him;  he  clung  to  his  servant's  breast,  and  his  whole  frame  shook, 

"But  your  child,  the  innocent  one — think  now  only  of;her!  " 
faltered  Giacomo,  struggling  with  his  own  sobs. 

"  True,  only  of  her,"  replied  the  exile,  raising  his  face—"  only 
of  her.  Put  aside  thy  thoughts  for  thyself,  friend — counsel  me. 
If  I  were  to  send  for  Violante,  and  if,  transplanted  to  these  keen 
airs,  she  drooped  and  died — look,  look — the  priest  says  that  she 
needs  such  tender  care;  or  if  I  myself  were  summoned  from  the 
world,'  to  leave  her  in  it  alone,  friendless,  homeless,  breaddess  per- 
haps, at  the  age  of  woman's  sharpest  trial  against  temptation, 
would  she  not  live  to  mourn  the  cruel  egotism  that  closed  OH  her 
infant  innocence  the  gates  of  the  House  of  God  ?  " 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  165 

Jackeymo  was  appalled  by  this  appeal;  and  indeed, Riccabocca 
had  never  before  thus  reverently  spoken  of  the  cloister.  In  his 
hours  of  philosophy,  he  was  want  to  sneer  at  monks  and  nuns, 
priesthood  and  superstition. 

But  now,  inrthat  hour  of  emotion,  the  Old  Religion  reclaimed 
her  empire;  and  the  sceptical  world-wise  man,  thinking  only  of 
his  child,  sp9ke  and  felt  with  a  child's  .simple  faith. 

CHAPTER  XX. 

"'Bur  again  I  say,"murmered  Jackeymo,  scarce  audibly,  and 
after  a  kmg  silence,  "if  the  Padrone  would  make  up  his  mind — 
to  marry ! " 

He  expected  that  his  master  would  start  up  in  his  customary 
indignation  at  such  a  suggestion— nay,  he  might  not  have,  been 
sorry  so  to  have  changed  the  current  of  feeling;  but  the  poor 
Italian  only  winced  slightly,and  mildly  withdrawing  himself  from 
his  servant's  supporting  arm;again  paced  the  terrace, but  this  time 
quietly  and  in  silence.'  A  quarter  of  an  hour  thus  passed.  "  Give 
me  the  pipe,"  said  Dr.Riccabc-cca,  passing  into  the  belvidere. 

Jackeymo  again  struck  the  spark,  and',  wonderfully  relieved  at 
the  Padrone's  return  to  the  habitual  adviser,  mentally  besought 
his  sainted  namesake  to  bestow  a  double  portion  of  soothing 
wisdom  on  the  benignant  influences  of  the  weed. 

CHAPTER   XXI 

•,  .       .  _         '  i... 

DR.  RICCABOCCA  had  been  some  time  in  the  solitude  of  the  bel- 
videre,when  Lenny  Fairfield,  not  .knowing  that  his  employer  was 
therein,  entered  to  lay  down  a  book  which  the  Doctor  had  lent 
him, with  injunctions  to  leave  it  on  a  certain  table  when  done  with. 
Riccabocca  looked  upat  the  sound  of  the  young  peasant'ssteps. 

"  I  beg  your  honor's  pardon— I  did  not  know — " 

"  Never  mind;  lay  the. book  there.  I  wish  to  speak  with  you. 
You  look  well,  my  child  ;  this  air  agrees  with  you  as  well  as 
that  of  Hazeldean  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir  !" 

"  Yet  it  is  higher  ground — more  exposed  ?  " 

"  That  cap  hardly  be,  sir,"  said  Lenny;  "  there  are  many  plants 
grow  here  which  don't  flourish  at  the  Squire's.  The  hill  yonder 
keeps  off  the  east  wind,  and  the  place  lays  to  the  south." 

"  Lies,  not  lays,  Lenny.  What  are  the  principal  complaints 
in  these  parts  ?  " 

"Eh,  sir?" 

"  I  mean  what  maladies,  what  diseases  !  " 


1 66  MY   NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  I  never  heard  tell  of  any,  sir,  except  the  rheumatism." 

"  Now  low  fevers? — no  consumption  ?" 

"Never  heard  of  them,  sir." 

Riccabocca  draw  a  long  breath,  as  if  relieved. 

"  That  seems  a  very  kindly  family  at  the  Hall." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say  against  it,"  answered  Lenny,  bluntly. 
"  I  have  notbeen  treated  justly.  But  as  that  book  says,  sir,  '  It 
is  not  every  one  who  comes  into  the  world  with  a  silver  spoon 
in  his  mouth.'  " 

Little  thought  the  Doctor  that,  those  wise  maxims  may  leave 
sore  thoughts  behind  them.  He  was  too  occupied  with  the  sub- 
ject most  at  his  own  heart  to  think  then  of  what  was  in  Lenny 
Fairfield's. 

"  Yes;  a  kind,  English  domestic  family.  Did  you  see  much 
of  Miss  Hazeldean  ?  " 

"  Not  so  much  as  the  Lady." 

"'Is. she  liked  in  the  village,  think  you  ?" 

"Miss  Jemima  ?  Yes.  She  never  did  harm.  Her  little  dog 
bit  .me  once — she  did  not  ask  me  to  beg  its  pardon,  she  asked 
mine  !  She's  a  very  nice  young  lady  ;  .the  girls  say  she  is  very 
affable  ;  and,"  added  Lenny  with  a  smile,  "  there  are  always 
more  weddings  going  on  when  she  is  down  at  the  Hall." 

"Oh  !  "  said  Riccabocca.  Then,  after  a  long  whiff,  "  Did 
you  ever  see  her  play  with  the  little  children  ?  Is  she  fond  of 
children,  do  you  think  ?"  sTM  t 

"  Lord,  sir,  you  guess  everything  !  She's  never  so  pleased  as 
when  she's  playing  with  the  babies." 

•"  Humph  !  "  grunted  Riccabocca.  "  Babies — well,  that's 
woman-like.  I  don't  mean  exactly  babies,  but  when  they're 
Older — little  girls  ?" 

"  Indeed,  sir,  I  dare  say;  but,"  said  Lenny,  primly,  "  I  never 
as  yet  kept  company  with  the  little  girls." 

"  Quite  right,  Lenny  ;  be  equally  discreet  all  your  life.  Mrs. 
Dale  is  very  intimate  with  Miss  Hazeldean — more  than  with 
the  Squire's  lady.  Why  is  that,  think  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  Leonard,  shrewdly,  "  Mrs.  Dale  has  her  little 
tempers,  though  she's  a  very  good  lady  ;  and  Madam  Hazel- 
dean  is  rather  high,  and  has  a  spirit.  But  Miss  Jemima  is  so 
soft ;  any  one  could  live  with  Miss  Jemima,  as  Joe  and  the 
servants  say  at  the  Hall  !  " 

'  :"  Indeed  !     Get  my  hat  out  of  the  parlor,  and — just  bring  a 
clothes-brush,  Lenny.     A  fine  sunny  day  for  a  walk." 

After  this  most  mean  and  dishonorable  inquisition  into  the 
character  and  popular  repute  of  Miss  Hazeldean,  Signor  Ricca- 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  167 

bocca  seemed  as  much  cheered  up  and  elated  as  if  he  had  com- 
mitted some  very  noble  action  ;  and  he  walked  forth  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  Hall  with  a  far  lighter  and  livelier  step  than  that 
with  which  he  had  paced  the  terrace. 

"  Monsignore  San  Giacomo,  by  thy  help  and  the  pipe's,  the 
Padrone  shall  have  his  child  !  "  muttered  the  servant,  looking 
up  from  the  garden. 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

YET  Dr.  Riccabocca  was  not  rash.  The  man  who  wants  his 
wedding  garment  to  fit  him  must  allow  plenty  of  time  for  the 
measure.  But,  from  that  day,  the  Italian  notably  changed  his 
manner  toward  Miss  Hazeldeah.  He  ceased  that  profusion  of 
compliment  in  which  he  had  hitherto  carried  off  in  safety  all 
serious  meaning.  For  indeed  the  Doctor  considered  that  com- 
pliments to  a  single  gentleman  were  what  the  inky  liquid  it  dis- 
penses is  to  the  cuttle-fish,  that  by  obscuring  the  water  sails 
away  from  its  enemy.  Neither  did  he,  as  before,  avoid  pro- 
longed conversations  with  the  young  lady,  and  contrive  to  es- 
cape from  all  solitary  rambles  by  her  side.  On  the  contrary,  he 
now  sought  every  occasion  to  be  in  her  society  ;  and,  entirely 
dropping  the  language  of  gallantry,  he  assumed  something  of 
the  earnest  tone  of  friendship.  He  bent  down  his  intellect  to 
examine  and  plumb  her  own.  To  use  a  very  homely  simile,  he 
blew  away  that  froth  which  there  is  on  the  surface  of  mere  ac- 
quaintanceships, especially  -with  the  opposite  sex  ;  and  which, 
while  it  lasts,  scarce  'allows  you  to  distinguish  between  small 
beer  and  double  X.  Apparently  Dr.  Riccabocca  was  satisfied 
with  his  scrutiny — -at  all  events,  under  that  froth  there  was  no 
taste  of  bitter.  The  Italian  might  not  find  any  great  strength 
of  intellect  in  Miss  Jemima,  but  he  found  that,  disentangled 
from  many  little  whims  and 'foibles — which  he  had  himself  the 
sense  to  perceive  were  harmless  enough  if  they  lasted,  and  not 
so-  absolutely  constitutional  but  what  they  might  be  removed  by 
a  tender  hand — Miss  Hazeldean  had  quite  enough  sense  to  com- 
prehend the  plain  duties  of  married  life  ;  and  if  the  sense  could 
fail,  it  found  a  substitute  in  good  old  homely  English  princi- 
ples, and  the  instincts  of  amiable,  kindly  feelings. 

I  know  not  how  it  is,  but  your  very  clever  man  never  seems 
to  care  as  much  as  your  less  gifted  mortals  for  cleverness  in  his 
helpmate.  Your  scholars,  and  poets,  and  ministers  of  state,  are 
more  often  than  not  found  assorted  with  exceedingly  humdrum, 
good  sort  of  women,  and  apparently  like  them  all  the  better  for 
their  deficiencies,  just  see  how  happily  Racine  lived  with  his 


1 68  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR 

wife,  and  what  an  angel  he  thought  her,  and  yet  she  had  never 
read  his  plays.  Certainly  Goethe  never  troubled  the  lady  who 
called  him  "  Mr.  Privy  Councillor  "  with  whims  about  "  mo- 
nads," and  speculations  on  color,  nor  those  stiff  metaphysical 
problems  on  which  one  breaks  one's  shins  in  the  Second  Part  of 
.the  Faust.  Probably  it  may  be  that  such  great  geniuses — know- 
ing that,  as  compared  with  themselves,  there  is  little  difference 
between  your  clever  woman  and  your  humdrum  woman — merge 
at  once  all  minor  distinctions,  relinquish  all  attempts  at  sympa- 
thy in  hard  intellectual  pursuits,  and  are  quite  satisfied  to  estab- 
lish that  tie  which,  after  all,  best  resists  wear  and  tear — viz.,  the 
tough  household  bond  between  one  human  heart  and  another. 
At  all  events  this,  I  suspect,  was  the  reasoning  of  Dr.  Ric- 
cabocca,  when  one  morning,  after  a  long  walk  with  Miss 
Hazeldean,  he  muttered  to  himself — 

i;  ji:d  "  Buro  con  duro 
•      Non  fece  mai  buon  muro." 

Which  may  bear  the  paraphrase, "  Bricks  without  mortar  would 
make  a  very  bad  wall."  There  was  quite  enough  in  Miss 
•Jemima's  disposition  to,  make  excellent  mortar;,  the  Doctor 
took  the  bricks  to  himself.  ;t  ^<j  pj  «Q. 

When  his  examination  was  concluded,  our  philosopher  sym- 
bolically evinced  the  result  he  had  arrived  at  by  a  very  simple 
proceeding  on  his  part,  which  would  have  puzzled  you  greatly  if 
you  had  nor  paused,  and  meditated  thereon,  till  you  saw  all  that 
it  implied.  Dt\  Riccabocca  took  off  his  spectacles  !  He  wiped  them 
.carefully,  put  them,  into  their. .shagreen  case,,  and  locked  them 
inhis-bureau;  that  is  to  say,  he  left  off  wearing  his  spectacles. 

You  will  observe  that  thejre  was  a  wonderful  depth  of  mean- 
ing in  that  critical  symptom,  whether  it  be  regarded  as  a  sign 
outward,  positive,  and  explicit ;  or  a  sign  metaphysical,  mys- 
tical, and  esoteric.  For,  as  to  the  last,  it  denoted  that  the  task 
of  tlie  spectacles  was  over  ;  that,  when  a  philosopher  has  made  up 
his  mind  to  marry,  it  is  better  henceforth  to  be  short-sighted — 
nay,  even  somewhat  purblind — than  to  be  always  scrutinizing  the 
domestic  felicity,  to  which  he  is  about  to  resign  himself  through 
a  pair  of  cold,  unillusofy  barnacles.  And  for  the  things  be- 
yond the  hearth,  if  he  cannot  see  without  spectacles,  is  he  not 
about  to  ally  to  his  own  defective  vision  a  good,  sharp  pair  of 
eyes,  never  at  fault  where  his  interests  are  concerned  ?  On  the 
other  hand,  regarded  positively,  categorically,  and  explicitly, 
Dr.  Riccabocca,  by  laying  aside  those  spectacles,  signified  that 
he  was  about  to  commence  that  happy  imitation  of  courtship 
when  every  man,  be  he  ever  so  much  of  a  philosopher,  wishes 


VARIETIES   iN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  169 

to  look  as  young  and  handsome  as  time  and  nature  will  allow. 
Vain  task  to  speed  the  soft  language  of  the  eyes  through  the 
medium  of  those  glassy  interpreters  !  I  remember,  for  my  own 
part,  that  once,  on  a  visit  to  the  town  of  Adelaide,  I — Pisistra- 
tus  Caxton — was  in  great  danger  of  falling  in  lOve — with  a  young 
lady,  too,  who  would  have  brought  me  a  very  good  fortune,  when 
she  suddenly  produced  from  her  reticule  a  very  neat  pair  of  No.  4, 
set  in  tortoise-shell,  and  fixing  upon  me  their  Gorgon  gaze,  froze 
the  astonished  Cupid  into  stone  !  And  I  hold  it  a  great  proof  of 
the  wisdom  of  Riccabocca,  and  of  his  vast  experience  in  man- 
kind, that  he  was  not  above  the  consideration  of  what  your 
pseudo  sages  would  have  regarded  as  foppish  and  ridiculous 
trifles.  It  argued  all  the  better  for  that  happiness  which  is  our 
being's  end  and  aim,  thatin  condescending  to  play  the  lover,  he 
put  those  unbecoming  petrifiers  under  lock  and  key. 

And  certainly,  now  the  spectacles  were  abandoned,  it  was 
impossible  to  deny  that  the  Italian  had  remarkably  handsome 
eyes.  Even  through  the  spectacles,  or  lifted  a  little  above 
them,  they  were  always  bright  and  expressive,  but  with- 
out those  adjuncts,  the  blaze  was  softer  and  more  tempered  ; 
they  had  that  look  which  the  French  call  veloutc,  or  velvety  ; 
and  he  appeared  altogether  ten  years  younger.  If  our  Ulysses, 
thus  rejuvenated  by  his  Minerva,  has  not  fully  made  up  his  mind 
to  make  a  Penelope  of  Miss  Jemima,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  he  is 
worse  than  Polyphemus,  who  was  only  an  Anthropophagos  ; — 

He  preys  upon  the  Weaker  sex,  and  is  a  Gynopophagite  ! 

- 

r'TTAPTTTT?    "VVTTT 

CHAPIER  XXIII. 

"  AND  you  commission  me,  then,  to  speak  to  our  dear 
Jemima?"  said  Mrs.  Dale,  joyfully,  and  without  any  bitterness 
whatever  in  that  "  dear." 

DR.  RiccABOCCA.---Nay,  before  speaking  to  Miss  Hazeldean, 
it  would  surely  be  proper  to  know  how  far  my  addresses  would 
be  acceptable  to  the  family. 

MRS.  DALE.— Ah  ! 

DR.  RICCABOCCA. — The  Squire  is,  of  course,  the  head  of  the 
family. 

MRS.  DALE  (absent  and  distraite}. — The  Squire — yes,  very 
true — quite  proper  (then  looking  up,  and  with  naivete}  can  you 
believe  me,  I  never  thought  of  the  Squire  !  And  he  is  such  an 
odd  man,  and  has  so  many  English  prejudices,  that  really — dear 
me,  how  vexatious  that  it  should  never  once  have  occurred  to  me 
that  Mr.  Hazeldean  had  a  voice  in  the  matter !  Indeed  the  rela- 


IJO  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

tionship  is  so  distant; — it  is  not  like  beingher  father;  and  Jemima 
is  of  age,  and  can  do  as  she  pleases;  and—but,  as  you  say,  it  is 
quite  proper  that  hejshould  be  consulted, as  the  headof  thefamily. 

DR.  RICCABOCCA. — And  you  think  that  the  Squire  of  Hazel- 
dean  might  reject  my  alliance  ? — Pshaw  !  that's  a  grand  word, 
indeed  ; — I  mean,  that  he  might  object  very  reasonably  to  his 
cousin's  marriage  with  a  foreigner,  of  whom  he  can  know  noth- 
ing, except  that  which  in  all  countries  is  disreputable,  and  is 
said  in  this  to  be  criminal — poverty  ? 

MRS.  DALE  (kindly). — You  misjudge  us  poor  English  people, 
and  you  wrong  the  Squire,  Heaven  bless  him  !  for  we  were  poor 
enough  when  he  singled  out  my  husband  from  a  hundred  for  the 
minister  of  his  parish,  for  his  neighbor  and  his  friend.  I  will 
speak  to  him  fearlessly — 

DR.  RICCABOCCA. — And  frankly.  And  now  I  have  used  that 
word,  let  me  go  on  with  the  confession  which  your  kindly  read- 
iness, my  fair  friend,  somewhat  interrupted.  I  said  that  if  I 
might  presume  to  think  my  addresses  would  be  acceptable  to 
Miss  Hazeldean  and  her  family,  I  was  too  sensible  of  her 
amiable  qualities  not  to — not  to — 

MRS.  DALE  (with  demure  archness).— Not  to  be  the  happiest 
of  men  ;  that's  the  customary  English  phrase,  Doctor. 

RICCABOCCA  (gallantly). — There  can  not  be  a  better.  But, 
continued  he,  seriously,  I  wish  it  first  to  be  understood  that  I 
have — been  married  before. 

MRS.  DALE  (astonished). — Married  before  ! 

RICCABOCCA. — And  that  I  have  an  only  child,  dear  to  me — in- 
expressibly dear.  That  child,  a  daughter,  has  hitherto  lived 
abroad  ;  circumstances  now  render  it  desirable  that  she  should 
make  her  home  with  me.  And  I  own  fairly  that  nothing  has  so 
attached  me  to  Miss  Hazeldean,nor  so  induced  my  desire  for  our 
matrimonial  connection,  as  my  belief  that  she  has  the  heart  and 
the  temper  to  become  a  kind  mother  to  my  little  one. 

MRS.  DALE  (with  feeling  and  warmth). — You  judge  her 
rightly  there. 

RICCABOCCA. — Now  in  pecuniary  matters,  as  you  may  conjec- 
ture from  my  mode  of  life,  I  have  nothing  to  offer  to  Miss  Hazel- 
dean  corresponding  with  her  own  fortune,  whatever  that  may  be  ! 

MRS.  DALE.- — That  difficulty  is  obviated  by  settling  Miss  Ha- 
zeldean's  fortune  on  herself,  which  is  customary  in  such  cases. 

Dr.  Riccabocca's  face  lengthened.  "  And  my  child,  then?" 
said  he,  feelingly.  There  was  something  in  that  appeal  so  alien 
from  all  sordid  and  merely  personal  mercenary  motives,  that 
Mrs.  Dale  could  not  have  had  the  heart  to  make  the  very  rational 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  171 

suggestion, — "  But  that  child  is  not  Jemima's,  and  you  may  have 
children  by  her." 

She  was  touched,  and  replied,  hesitatingly, — "But,  from  what 
you  and  Jemima  may  jointly  possess,  you  can  save  something 
annually, — you  can  insure  your  life  for  your  child.  We  did  so 
when  our  poor  child  whom  we  lost  was  born  (the  tears  rushed  into 
Mrs.  Dale's  eyes),  and  I  fear  that  Charles  still  insures  his  life 
for  my  sake,  though  Heaven  knows  that — that--—" 

The  tears  burst  out.  That  little  heart,  quick  and  petulant 
though  it  was,  had  not  a  fibre  of  the  elastic  muscular  tissues 
which  are  mercifully  bestowed  on  the  hearts  of  predestined 
widows.  Dr.  Riccabocca  could  not  pursue  the  subject  of  life 
insurances  further.  But  the  idea — which  had  never  occurred 
to  the  foreigner  before,  though  so  familiar  to  us  English  people 
when  only  possessed  of  a  life  income — pleased  him  greatly.  I 
will  do  him  the  justice  to  say  that  he  preferred  it  to  the  thought 
of  actually  appropriating  to  himself  and  to  his  child  a  portion 
of  Miss  Hazeldean's  dower. 

Shortly  afterward  he  took  his  leave,  and  Mrs.  Dale  hastened 
to  seek  her  husband  in  his  study,  inform  him  of  the  success  of 
her  matrimonial  scheme,  and  consult  him  as  to  the  chance  of 
the  Squire's  acquiescence  therein.  "  You  see,"  she  said,  hesi- 
tatingly) "  though  the  Squire  might  be  glad  to  see  Jemima  mar- 
ried to  some  Englishman,  yet  if  he  asks  who  and  what  is  this 
Dr.  Riccabocca,  how  am  I  to  answer  him  ?  " 

"  You  should  have  thought  of  that  before,"  said  Mr.  Dale, 
with  unwonted  asperity  ;  "and,  indeed,  if  I  had  ever  believed 
anything  serious  could  come  out  of  what  seemed  to  me  so  absurd, 
I  should  long  since  have  requested  you  not  to  interfere  in  such 
matters.  Good  heavens!  "  continued  the  Parson,  changing  color, 
"  if  we  should  have  assisted,  underhand,  as  it  were,  to  introduce 
into  the  family  of  a  man  to  whom  we  owe  so  much,  a  connection 
that  he  would  dislike!  how  base  we  should  be! — how  ungrateful!" 

Poor  Mrs.  Dale  was  frightened  .by  this  speech,  and  still  more 
by  her  husband's  consternation  and  displeasure.  To  do  Mrs. 
Dale  justice,  whenever  her  mild  partner  was  really  either  grieved 
or  offended,  her  little  temper  vanished — she  became  as  meek  as 
a  lamb.  As  soon  as  she  recovered  the  first  shock  she  experi- 
enced, she  hastened  to  dissipate  the  Parson's  apprehensions.  She 
assured  him  that  she  was  convinced  that,  if  the  Squire  disap- 
proved of  Riccabocca's  pretensions,  the  Italian  would  withdraw 
them. at  once,  and  Miss  Hazeldean  would  never  know  of  his  pro- 
posals. Therefore,  in  that  case,  no  harm  would  be  done. 

This  assurance,  coinciding  with  Mr.  Dale's  convictions  as  to 


172  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Riccabocca's  scruples  on  the  point  of  honor,  tended  much  to 
compose  the  good  man  ;  and  if  he  did  not,  as  my  reader  of  the 
gentler  sex  would  expect  from  him,  feel  alarm  lest  Miss  Jemima's 
affections  should  have  been  irretrievably  engaged,  and  her  hap- 
piness thus  put  in  jeopardy  by  the  Squire's  refusal,  it  was  not  that 
the  Parson  wanted  tenderness  of  heart,  but  experience  in 
womankind  ;  and  he  believed,  very  erroneously,  that  Miss  Jem- 
ima Hazeldean  was  not  one  upon  whom  a  disappointment  of 
that  kind  would  produce  a  lasting  impression.  Therefore  Mr, 
Dale,  after  a  pause  of  consideration,  said  kindly — 

"  Well,  don't  vex  yourself — and  I  was  to  blame  quite  as  much 
as  you.  But,  indeed,  I  should  have  thought  it  easier  for  the 
Squire  to  have  transplanted  one  of  his  tall  cedars  into  hiskitchen- 
garden,  than  for  you  to  inveigle  Dr.  Riccabocca  into  matrimo- 
nial intentions.  But  a  man  who  could  voluntarily  put  himself 
into  the  parish  stocks  for  the  sake  of  experiment,  must  be  capa- 
ble of  anything  !  However,  I  think  it  better  that  I,  rather  than 
yourself,  should  speak  to  the  Squire,  and  I  will  go  at  once." 

; 

'      ' 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  Parson  put  on  the  shovel-hat  which — conjoined  with 
other  details  in  his  dress  peculiarly  clerical,  and  already,  even 
then, 'beginning  to  be  out  of  fashion  with  churchmen — had  served 
to  fix  upon  him,  emphatically,  the  dignified  but  antiquated  style 
and  cognomen  of  "  Parson,"  and  took  his  way  toward  thellome 
Farm,  at  which  he  expected  to  find  the  Squire.  But  he'  had 
scarcely  entered  upon  the  village-green  when  he  beheld  Mr. 
Hazeldean,  leaning  both  hands  on  his  stick,  and  gazing  intently 
upon  the  parish  stocks;  Now,  sorry  am  I  to  say  that,  ever  since 
the  Hegira  of  Lenny  and  his  mother,  the  Anti-Stockian  and 
Revolutionary  spirit  in  Hazeldean,  which  the  memorable  ho'mily 
of  our  Parson  had  awhile  averted  or  suspended,  had  broken 
forth  afresh.  For  though,  while  Lenny  was  present  to  be  mowed 
and  jeered  at,  there  had  been  no  pity  for  him,  yet  no  sooner  was 
he  removed  from  the  scene  of  trial,  than  a  universal  compassion 
for  the  barbarous  usage  he  had  received'  produced  what  is  called 
"  the  reaction  of  public  opinion."  Not  that  those  who,  had 
mowed  and  jeered  repented  them  of  their  mockery,  or  con- 
sidered themselves  in  the  slightest  degree  the  cause  of  his  expa- 
triation. No  ;  they,  with  the  rest  of  the  villagers,  laid  all  the 
blame  upon  the  stocks.  It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  a  i'ad  of 
such  exemplary  character  could  be  thrust  into  that  place  of  ig- 
nominy, and  not  be  sensible  of  the  affront.  And  who,  in  the 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  173 

whole  village,  was  safe,  if  such  goings-on  and  puttings-in  were  to 
be  tolerated  in  silence,  and  at  the  expense  of  the  very  best  and 
quietest  lad  the  village  had  ever  known  ?  Thus,  a  few  days  after 
the  widow's  departure,  the  stocks  was  again  the  object  of  mid- 
night desecration;  it  was  bedaubed  and  bescratched— it  was 
hacked  and  hewed — it  was  scrawled  over  with  pithy  lamentations 
for  Lenny,  and  laconic  execrations. on  tyrants.  Night  after  night 
new  inscriptions  appeared, testifying  the  sarcastic  wit  and  the  vin- 
dictive sentiment  of  the  parish.  And  perhaps  the  stocks  was  only 
spared  from  axe  and  bonfire  by  the  convenience  it  afforded  to  the 
malice  of  the  disaffected  ;  it  became  the  Pasquin  of  Hazeldean. 
jtA-s  dissatisfaction  naturally  produces  a  correspondent  vigor  in 
authority,  so  affairs  had  been  lately  administered  with  greater 
severity  than  had  been  hitherto  wont  in  the  easy  rule  of  the 
Squire  and  his  predecessors.  Suspected  persons  were  naturally 
marked  out  by  Mr.  Stirn,  and  reported  to  his  employer,  who,  too 
proud  or  too  pained  to  charge  them  openly  with  ingratitude,  at 
first  only  passed  them  by  in  his  walks  with  a  silent  and  stiff  in- 
clination of  his  head  ;  and  afterward,  gradually  yielding  to  the 
baleful  influence  of  :Stirn,  the  Squire  grumbled  forth  "  that  he 
did  not  see  why  he  should  be  always  putting  himself  out  of  his 
way  to  show  kindness  to  those  who  made  such  a  return.  There 
ought  to  be  a  difference  between  the  good  and  the  bad."  En- 
couraged by  this  admission,  Stirn  had  conducted  himself  toward 
the  suspected  parties,  and  their  whole  kith  and  kin,  with  the  iron- 
handed  justice  that  belonged  to  his  character.  For  some,  ha- 
tyitutal  donations  of  milk  from  the  dairy,  and  vegetables  from  the 
gardens,  were  surlily  suspended  ;  others  were  informed  that 
their  pigs  were  always  trespassing  on  the  woods  in  search  of 
acorns  ;  or  that  they  were  violating  the  Game  Laws  in  keeping 
lurchers.  A  beer-house,  popular  in  the  neighborhood,  but  of 
late -resorted  to  overmuch  by  the  grievance-mongers  (and  no 
wonder,  since  they  had  become  the  popular  party),  was  threat- 
ened with  an  application  to  the  magistrates  for  the  withdrawal 
of  its  license.  Sundry  old  women,  whose  grandsovis  were  notori- 
ously ill-disposed  toward  the  stocks,  were  interdicted  from  gath- 
ering dead  sticks  under  the  avenues,  on  pretence  that  they  broke 
d$wn  the  live  boughs  ;  and,  what  was  more  obnoxious  to  the 
younger  members  of  the  parish  than  most  other  retaliatory  meas- 
ures, three  chestnut  trees,one  walnut,  and  two  cherry  trees,  stand- 
ing at  the  bottom  of  the  Park,  and  which  had,!  from  time  im- 
memorial, been  given  up  to  the  youth  of  Hazeldean,  were  now 
solemnly  placed  under  the  general  defence  of  "private  property." 
And  the  crier  had  announced  that,  henceforth,  all  depredators 


174  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

on  the  fruit  trees  of  Copse  Hollow  would  be  punished  with 
the  utmost  rigor  of  the  law. 

Stirn,  indeed,  recommended  much  more  stringent  proceed- 
ings than  all  these  indications  of  a  change  of  policy,  which,  he 
averred,  would  soon  bring  the  parish  to  its  senses — such  as  dis- 
continuing many  little  jobs  of  unprofitable  work  that  employed 
the  surplus  labor  of  the  village.  But  there  the  Squire,  falling 
into  the  department,  and  under  the  benigner  influence  of  his 
Harry,  was  as  yet  not  properly  hardened.  When  it  came  to  a 
question  that  affected  the  absolute  quantity  of  loaves  to  be  con- 
sumed by  the  graceless  mouths  that  fed  upon  him,  the  milk  of 
human  kindness — with  which  Providence  has  so  bountifully  sup- 
plied that  class  of  the  mammalia  called  the  "  Bucolic,"  and  of 
which  our  Squire  had  an  extra  "yield" — burst  forth,  and  washed 
away  all  the  indignation  of  the  harsher  Adam. 

Still  your  policy  of  half  measures,  which  irritates  without 
crushing  its  victims,  which  flaps  an  exasperated  wasp-nest  with 
a  silk  pocket-handerchief,  instead  of  blowing  it  up  with  a  match 
and  train,  is  rarely  successful ;  and,  after  three  or  four  other 
and  much  guiltier  victims  than  Lenny  had  been  incarcerated  in 
the  stocks,  the  parish  of  Hazeldean  was  ripe  for  any  enormity. 
Pestilent  Jacobinical  tracts,'  conceived  and  composed  in  the 
siriks  of  manufacturing  towns— found  their  way  into  the  popu- 
lar beer-house — heaven  knows  how,  though  the  Tinker  was  sus- 
pected of  being  the  disseminator  by  all  but  Stirn,  who  still,  in  a 
whisper,  accused  the  Papishers.  •  And,  finally,  there  appeared 
amongst  the  other  graphic  embellishments  which  the  poor  stocks 
had  received,  the  rude  gravure  of  a  gentleman  in  a  broad- 
brimmed  hat  and  top-boots,  suspended  from  a  gibbet,  with 
the  inscription  beneath — "A  warniiv  to  hall  tirans — mind  your 
'hi  !— -sighnde  Captin  sTraw." 

•  It  was  upon  this  significant   and  emblematic  portraiture  that 
the  Squire  was  gazing  when  the  Parson  joined  him. 

"Well,  Parson/' said  Mr.  Hazeldean,  with  a  smile  which  he 
meant  to  be  pleasant  and  easy,  but  which  was  exceedin gly  bitter 
and  grim, :"  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  flock — you  see  they  have 
just  hanged  me  in  effigy  !  " 

The  Parson  stared,  and  though  greatly  shocked,  smothered 
his  emotions;  and  attempted, with  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent  and 
the  mildness  of  the  dove,  to  find  another  original  for  the  effigy. 

"It  is  very  bad,  but  not  so  bad  as  all  that,  Squire  ;  that's  not 
the  shape  of  your  hat.  It  is  evidently  meant  for  Mr.  Stirn." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?"  said  the  Squire,  softened.  "Yet  the 
top-boots-r-Stirn  never  wears  top-boots." 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH   LIFE.  175 

"  No  more  do  you,  except  in  the  hunting-field.  If  you  look 
again,  those  are  not  tops — they  are  leggings— Stirn  wears  leg- 
gings. Besides,  that  flourish,  which  is  meant  for  a  nose,  is  a  kind 
of  a  hook,  like  Stirn's;  whereas  your  nose — though  by  no  means 
a  snub — rather  turns  up  than  not,  as  the  Apollo's  does,  accord- 
ing to  the  plaster  cast  in  Riccabocca's  parlor." 

"  Poor  Stirn  !  "  said  the  Squire,  in  a  tone  that  evinced  com- 
placency, not  unmingled  with  compassion,  "that's  what  a  man 
gets  in  this  world  by  being  a  faithful  servant,  and  doing  his  duty 
with  zeal  for  his  employer.  But  you  see  that  things  have  come 
to  a  strange  pass,  and  the  question  now  is,  what  course  to  pur- 
sue. The  miscreants  hitherto  have  defied  all  vigilance,and  Stirn 
recommends  the  employment  of  a  regular  night-watch,  with  a 
lanthorn  and  blijdgeon." 

"  That  may  protect  the  stocks,  certainly  ;  but  will  it  keep 
those  detestable  tracts  out  of  the  beer-house  ?"' 

"We  shall  shut  the  beer-house  up  the  next  sessions." 

"Thetractswillbreakoutelsewhere,the  humor's  in  the  blood!" 

"  I've  half  a  mind  to  run  off  to  Brighton  or  Leamington — for 
a  year,  just  to  let  the  rogues  see  how  they  can  get  on  without  me!" 

The  Squire's  lip  trembled. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Hazeldean,"  said  the  Parson, taking  his  friend's 
hand,  "  I  don't  want  to  parade  my  superior  wisdom  ;  but,  if  you 
had  taken  my  advice,  quiata  non  moi>ere  !  Was  there  ever  a  par- 
ish so  peaceable  as  this,  or  a  country-gentleman  so  beloved  as 
you  were,  before  you  undertook  the  task  which  has  dethroned 
kings  and  ruined  states? — that  of  wantonly  meddling  with  an- 
tiquity, whether  for  the  purpose  of  uncalled-for  repairs,  or  the 
revival  of  obsolete  uses  ?  " 

At  this  rebuke,  the  Squire  did  not  manifest  his  constitutional 
tendencies  to  choler;  but  he  replied  almost  meekly,  "If  it  were  to 
do  again,  faith,  I  would  leave  the  parish  to  the  enjoyment  of  the 
shabbiest  pair  of  stocks  that  ever  disgraced  a  village.  Certainly  I 
meant  it  for  the  best — an  ornament  to  the  green;  however,  now 
the  stocks  is  rebuilt,  the  stocks  must  be  supported.  Will  Hazel- 
dean  is  not  the  man  to  give  way  to  a  set  of  thankless  rapscallions.'' 

"I  think,"  said  the  Parson,  "that  you  will  allow  that  the  House 
of  Tudor,  whatever  its  faults,  was  a  determined,  resolute  dynasty 
enough^— high-hearted  and  strong-headed.  A  Tudor  would  never 
have  fallen  into  the  same  calamities  as  the  poor  Stuart  did  !  " 

"What  the  plague  has  the  House  of  Tudor  got  to  do  with  my 
stocks  ? " 

"A  great  deal.  Henry  VIII.  found  a  subsidy  so  unpopular  that 
he  gave  it  up  ;  and  the  people,  in  return,  allowed  him  to  cut  off 


-1,76  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

as  many  heads  as  he  pleased,  besides  those  in  his  own  family. 
Good  Queen  Bess,  who,  I  know,  is  your  idol  in  history — 
"  To  be  sure  ! — she  knighted  my  ancestor  at  Tilbury  Fort." 
"Good  Queen  Bess  struggled  hard  to  maintain  a  certain  mo- 
nopoly ;  she  saw  it  would  not  do,  and  she  surrendered  it  with 
that  frank  heartiness,  which  becomes  a  sovereign,  and  makes 
surrender  a  grace.." 

"  Ha  !  and  you  would  have  me  give  up  the  stocks  ? " 
"  I  would  much  rather  the  stocks  had  remained  as  it  was  be- 
fore you  touched  it  ;  but,  as  it  is,  if  you  could  find  a  good  plausi- 
ble pretext — and  there  is  an  excellent  ;one  at  hand  : — the  stern- 
est kings  open  prisons,  and  grant  favors,  upon  joyful  occasions — 
now  a  marriage  in  the  royal  family  is  of  course  a  joyful  occa- 
sion ! — and  so  it  should  be  in  that  of  the  King  of  Hazeldean." 
Admire  that  artful  turn  in  the  Parson's  eloquence!  it  was  worthy 
'of  Riccabocca  himself.     Indeed,  Mr.  Dale  had  profited  much 
by  his  companionship  witl^that  Machiavellian  intellect. 
.  "  A  marriage— yes  j  but  Frank,  has  only  just  got  into  coat-tails!" 
"  I  did  not  allude  to  Frank,  but  to  your  cousin  Jemima  !  " 
• 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

j 

:  THE  Squire  staggered  as  if  the  breath  had  been  knocked  out 
of  him,  and,  for  want  of  a  better  seat,  sat  down  on  the  stocks. 

All  the  female  heads  in  the  neighboring  cottages  peered, 
themselves  unseen,  through  the  casements.  What  could  the 
Squire  .be  about  ? — what  new  mischief  did  he  meditate  ?  Did  he 
mean  to  fortify. the  stocks?  Old  Gaffer  Solomons,  who  had  an 
indefinite  idea  of  the  lawful  power  of  squires,  and  who  had  been 
for  the  last  ten  minutes  at  watch  on  his  threshold,  shook  his  head 
and  said — "  Them  as  a  cut  out  the  mon  a-hanging,  as  a  put  it 
in  the  Squire's  head  !  •"  ;  ..a  i>dj  z 

"  Put  what  ?  "  asked,  his  granddaughter. 

"  The  gallus  !  "  answered  Solomons — "  he  be  a-going  to  have 
it  hung  from  the  great  elm-tree.  And  the  Parson,  good  mon, 
is  a-quoting  Scripture  agin  it — you  see  he's  a  taking  off  his 
gloves,  and  a-putting  his  two  han's  together,  as  he  do  when  he 
pray  for  the  sick,  Jeany." 

That  description  of  the  Parson's  mien  and  manner,  which, 
with  his  usual  niceness  of  observation,  Gaffer  Solomons  thus 
sketched  off,  will  convey  to  you  some  idea  of  the  earnestness 
with  which  the  Parson  pleaded  the  cause  he  had  undertaken  to 
advocate.  He  dwelt  much  upon  the  sense  of  propriety  which 
the  foreigner  had  evinced  in  requesting  that  the  Squire  might 


.      VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  177 

be  consulted  before  any  forinal  communication  to  his  cousin  . 
and  he  repeated  Mrs.  Dale's  assurance,  that  such  were  Ricca- 
bocca's  high  standard  of  honor  and  belief  in  the  sacred  rights  of 
hospitality,  that,  if  the  Squire  withheld  his  consent  to  his  pro- 
posals, the  Parson  was  convinced  that  the  Italian  would  instant- 
ly retract  them.  Now,  considering  that  Miss  Hazcldean  was, 
to  say  the  least,  come  to  years  of  discretion,  and -the  Squire  had 
long  since  placed  her  property  entirely  at  her  own  disposal,  Mr. 
Hazeldean  was  forced  to  acquiesce  in  the  Parson's  corollary 
remark,  "  That  this  was  a  delicacy  which  could  not  be  expected 
from  every  English  pretender  to  the  lady's  hand."  Seeing  that 
he  had  so  far  cleared  ground,  the  Parson  went  on  to  intimate, 
though  with  great  tact,  that  since  Miss  Jemima  would  probably 
marry  sooner  or  later  (and,  indeed,  that  the  Squire  could  not 
wish  to  prevent  her),  it  might  be  better  for  all  parties  concerned 
that  it  should  be  with  some  one  who,  though  a  foreigner,  was  set- 
tled in  the  neighborhood,  and  of  whose  character  what  was 
known  was  certainly  favorable,  rather  than  run  the  hazard  of  her 
being  married  for  her  money  by  some  adventurer,  or  Irish  for- 
tune-hunter, at  the  watering-places  she  yearly  visited.  Then  he 
touched  lightly  on  Riccabocca's  agreeable  and  companionable 
qualities  ;  and  concluded  with  a  skilful  peroration  upon  the  ex- 
cellent occasion  the  wedding  would  afford  to  reconcile  Hall  and 
Parish,  by  making  a  voluntary  holocaust  of  the  stocks. 

As  he  concluded,  the  Squire's  brow,:before  thoughtful, though 
not  sullen,  cleared  up  benignly.  To  say  truth,,  the  Squire  was 
dying  to  get  rid  of  the  stocks,  if  he  could  but  do  so  handsome- 
ly and  with  dignity  ;  and  had  all  the  stars  in  the  astrological 
horoscope  conjoined  together  to  give  Miss  Jemima  "assurance 
of  a  husband,"  they  could  not  so  have  served  her  with  the 
Squire,  as  that  conjunction  between  the  altar  and  the  stocks 
•which  the  Parson  had  effected  t  • 

Accordingly,  when  Mr.  Dale  had  come  to  an  end,  the  Squire 
replied,  with  great  placidity  and  good  sense,  "  That  Mr.  Rick- 
eybockey  had  behaved  very  much  like  a  gentleman,  ami  that  he 
was  very  much  obliged  to  him  ;  that  he  (the  Squire)  had  no  right 
to  interfere  in  the  matter,  farther  than  with  his  advice  ;  that 
Jemima  was  old  enough  to  choose  for  herself,and  that, as  the  Par- 
son had  implied,  after  ail,  she  might  go  farther  and  fare  worse — 
indeed,  the  farther  she  went  (that  is  the  longer  she  waited),  the 
worse  she  was  likely  to  fare.  -I  own,  for  my  part,"  continued 
the  Squire,  "  that  though  I  like  Rickeybockey  very  much,  I 
never  suspected  that  Jemima  was  caught  with  his  long  face  ;  but 
-  there's  no  accounting  for  tastes.  My  Harry,  indeed,  was  more 


178  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

shrewd,  and  gave  me  many  a  hint,  for  which  I  only  laughed  at 
her.  Still  I  ought  to  have  thought  it  looked  queer  when  Moun- 
seer  took  to  disguising  himself  by  leaving  off  his  glasses,  ha — 
ha  ?  I  wonder  what  Harry  will  say  ;  let's  go  and  talk  to  her." 

The  Parson,  rejoiced  at  this  easy  way  of  taking  the  matter, 
hooked  his  arm  into  the  Squire's,.and  they  walked  amicably  tow- 
ard the  Hall.  But  on  coming  first  into  the  gardens  they  found  Mrs. 
Hazeldean  herself,  clipping  dead  leaves  or  fading  flowers  from 
her  rose-trees.  The  Squire  stole  slyly  behind  her,and  startled  her 
in  her  turn  by  putting  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  saluting  her 
smooth  cheek  with  one  of  his  hearty  kisses  ;  which,  by  the  way, 
from  some  association  of  ideas,  was  a  conjugal  freedom  that  he 
usually  indulged  whenever  a  wedding  was  going  on  in  the  village. 

"  Fie,  William  !  "  said  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  coyly, and  blushing  as 
she  saw  the  Parson.  "  Well,  who's  going  to  be  married  now  ? " 

"  Lord, was  there  ever  such  a  woman? — she's  guessed  it! "cried 
the  Squire,  in  great  admiration.  "  Tell  her  all  about  it,Parson." 

The  Parson  obeyed. 

Mrs.  Hazeldean,  as  the  reader  may  suppose,  showed  much 
less  surprise  than  her  husband  had  done  ;  but  she  took  the  news 
graciously,  and  made  much  the  same  answer  as  that  which  had 
occurred  to  the  Squire,  only  with  somewhat  more  qualification 
and  reserve.  "  Signer  Riccabocca  had  behaved  very  handsome- 
ly ;  and  though  a  daughter  of  the  Hazeldeans  of  Hazeldean 
might  expect  a  much  better  marriage  in  a  worldly  point  of  view, 
yet  as  the  lady  in  questiomhad  deferred  finding  one  so  long,  it 
would  be  equally  idle  and  impertinent  now  to  quarrel  witlv  her 
choice-?— if  indeed  she  should  decide  on  accepting  Signpr  Ric- 
cabocca. As  for  fortune,  that  was  a  consideration  for  the  two 
contracting  parties.  Still,  it  ought  to  be  pointed  out  to  Miss 
Jemima  that  the  interest  of  her  fortune  would  afford  but  a  very 
small  income.  That  Dr.  Riccabocca  was  a  widower  was  an- 
other matter  for  deliberation  ;  and  it  seemed  rather  suspicious 
thiat  he  should  have  been  hitherto  so  close  upon  all  matters  con- 
nected with  his  former  life.  Certainly  his  manners  were  in  his 
favor,  and  as  long  as  he  was  merely  an  acquaintance,  and  at 
most  a  tenant,  no  one  had  a  right  to  institute  inquiries  of  a 
strictly  private  nature  ;  but  that,  when  he  was'about-to  marry  a 
Hazeldean  of  Hazeldean,  it  became  the  Squire  at  least  to  know 
a  little  more  about  him— who  and  what  he  was.  Why  did  he 
leave  his  own  country  ?  English  people  went  abroad  to  save  ; 
no  foreigner  would  choose  England  as  a  country  in  which  to  save 
money  !  She  supposed  that . a  foreign  doctor  was  no  very  great 
things  ;  probably  he  had  :been  a  professor  in  soirte  Italian  uni- 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  179 

versity.  At  all  events,  if  the  Squire  interfered  at  all,  it  was  on 
such  points  that  he  should  request  information." 

"  My  dear  madam,"  said  the  Parson,  "  what  you  say  is  ex- 
tremely just.  As  to  the  causes  which  have  induced  our  friend 
to  expatriate  himself,  I  think  we  need  not  look  far  for  them. 
He  is  evidently  one  of  the  many  Italian  refugees  whom  political 
disturbances  have  driven  to  a  land  of  which  it  is  the  boast  to  re- 
ceive all  exiles  of  whatever  party.  For  his  respectability  of  birth 
and  family,  he  certainly  ought  to  obtain  some  vouchers.  And  if 
that  be  the  only  objection,  I  trust  we  may  soon  congratulate  Miss 
Hazeldean  on  a  marriage  with  a  man  who,  though  certainly  very 
poor,  has  borne  privations  without  a  murmur;  has  preferred  all 
hardship  to  debt;  has  scorned  to  attempt  betraying  the  young 
lady  into  any  clandestine  connection;  who,  in  short,  has  shown 
himself  souprightand  honest,  that  I  hope  my  dear  Mr.  Hazeldean 
will  forgive  him  if  he  is  only  a  doctor — probably  of  Laws — and 
not,  as  most  foreigners  pretend  to  be,  a  marquis  or!i  baron  at  least." 

"As  to  that,"  cried  the  Squire,  "  'tis  the  best  thing  I  know 
about  Rickeybockey,  that  he  don't  attempt  to  humbug  us  by 
any  such  foreign  trumpery.  Thank  heaven,  the  Hazeldean.s  of 
Hazeldean  were  never  tuft-hunters  and  title-mongers;  and  if  I 
•never  ran  after  an  English  lord,  I  should  certainly  be  devilish 
ashamed  of  a  brother-in-law  whom  I  was  forced  to  call  markee 
or  count  !  I  should  feel  sure  he  was  a  courier,  or  runaway  val- 
ley-de-sham. Turn  up  your  nose  at  a  doctor,  indeed,  Harry; 
pshaw,  good  English  style  that !  Doctor  !  my  aunt  married  a 
Doctor  of  Divinity — excellent  man — wore  a  wig,  and  was  made 
a  dean  !  So  long  as  Rickeybockey  is  not  a  doctor  of  physic,  I 
don't  care  a  button.  If  he's  that,  indeed,  it  would  be  suspicious; 
because,  you  see,  those  foreign  doctors  of  physic  are  quacks,  and 
tell  fortunes,  and  go  about  on  a  stage  with  a  Merry-Andrew." 

"  Lord,  Hazeldean  !  where  on  earth  did  you  pick  up  that 
idea?"  said  Harry^  laughing. 

"  Pick  it  up  !— why,  I  saw  a  fellow  myself  at  the  cattle-fair  last 
year — when  I  was  buying  short-horns- — with  a  red  waistcoat  and 
a  cocked-hat,  a  little  like  the  Parson's  shoVel.  He  called  himself 
Doctor  Phoscophornio- — and  sold  pills  !  The  Merry-Andrew  was 
the  funniest  creature — in  salmon-colored  tights- — turned  head 
over  heels,  and  said  he  came  from  Timbuctoo.  No,  no  ;  if 
Rickeybockey's  a  physic  doctor,  we  shall  have  Jemima  in  a  pink 
tinsel  dress,  tramping  about  the  country  in  a  caratan  !  " 

At' this  notion  both  the  Squire  and  his  wife  laughed  soheart- 
-  ily,  that  the  Parson  felt  the  thing  was  settled,  and  slipped  away, 
with  the  intention  of  making  his1  report  to  Riccabocca. 


l8o  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 

IT  was  with  a  slight  disturbance  of  his  ordinary  suave  and 
well-bred  equanimity  that  the  Italian  received  the  information, 
that  he  need  apprehend :iio  obstacle  to  his  suit  from  the  insular 
prejudices  or  the  worldly  views  of  the  lady's  family.  Not  that 
he  was  mean  and  cowardly  enough  to  recoil  from  the  near  and 
unclouded  prospect  of  that  felicity  which  he  had  left  off  his 
glasses  to  behold  with  unblinking  .naked  eyes  ; — no,  there  his 
mind  was  made  up  ;  but  he  had  met  in  life  with  much  that  in- 
clines a  man  toward  misanthropy,  and  he  was  touched  not  only 
.  by  the  interest  in  his  welfare  testified  by  an  heretical  priest,  but 
jbyjthe  generosity  with  which  he  was  admitted  "into  a  well-born 
.  ;and  wealthy  family,  despite  his  notorious  poverty  and  his  foreign 
.[descent.  He  conceded .,, the  propriety  of  the  only  stipulation, 
;. which  was  conveyed  to  him  by  the  Parson  with  all  the  delicacy 
that  became  one  long  professionally  habituated  to  deal  with  the 
subtler  susceptibilities  of  mankind — viz.,  that  amongst  Ricca- 
bocca's  friends  or  kindred,  some  person  should  be  found  whose 
report  would  conform  the  persuasion  of  his  respectability  enter- 
•  tained  by  his  neighbors  ;  he  assented,  I  say,  to  the  propriety  of 
this  condition  ;  but  it  was  not  with  alacrity  and  eagerness.  His 
brow  became  clouded.  The  Parson  hastened  toiassu-re  him  that 
the  Squire  was  not  a  man •  qui  stupet  in  tUfdis  (who  was  besotted 
with  Jitles,),.  that  he  neither  expected  nor  desired  to  find  an  ori- 
gin and  rank  for  his  brother-in-law  above  that  decent  mediocrity 
of  condition  to  which  it  was  evident,  from  Riccabocca's  breed- 
ing and  accomplishments,  he  could  easily  establish  his  claim. 
V  And  though,"  said  he,  smiling,  "  the  Squire  is  a  warm  politi- 
cian in  his  own  country,  and  would  never  see  his  sister  again,  I 
fear,  if  she  married  some  convicted  enemy  of  our  happy  consti- 
tution, yet  for  foreign  politics,  he  does  not  care  a  straw;  so  that 
if,  as  I  suspect,  your  exile  arises  from  some  qu'arrel  with  your 
Government— which,  being  foreign,  he  takes  for  granted  must  be 
insupportable — he  would  but  consider  you  as  he  would  a  Saxon 
who  fled  from  the  iron  hand  of  William  the  Conqueror,  or  a 
Lancastrian  expelled  by  the  Yorkists  in  our  Wars  of  the  Roses." 
;  The  Italian  smiled.  "Mr.  Hazeldean  shall  be  satisfied, "said 
he  simply.  "  I  see,  by  the  Squire's  newspaper,  that  an  English 
gentleman  who  knew  me  in  my  own  country  has  just  arrived  in 
London.  I  will  wr.ite.to  him  for  a  testimonial,  at  least  to  my 
probity  and  character;  Probably  he  may  be  known  to  you  by 
numq— nay,  he  must  be,  for  he  was  a  distinguished  officer  in  the 
late  war.  I  allude  to  Lord  L'Estrange/' 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  l8l  ' 

The  Parson  started. 

"  You  know  Lord  L'Estrange? — a  profligate, bad  man,  I  fear." 

"  Profligate! — bad!  "  exclaimed  Riccabocca.  "  Well, calumni- 
ous as  the  world  is,  I  should  never  have  thought -that  such  ex- 
pressions would  be  applied  to  one  who,  though  I  knew  him  biit 
little — knew  him  chiefly  by  the  service  he  once  rendered  me — 
first  taught  me  to  love  and  revere  the  English  name  !  " 

"  He  may  be  changed  since — "     The  Parson  paused. 

"  Since  when  ?"  asked  Riccabocca-,  with  evident  curiosity. 

Mr.  Dale  seemed  embarrassed.  "  Excuse  me,"  said  he,  "it  is 
many  years  ago  ;  and,  in  short,  the  opinion  I  then  formed  of 
the  nobleman  you  named  was  based  upon  circumstances  which 
I  cannot  communicate." 

The  punctilious  Italian  bowed  in  silence,  but  he  still  looked 
as  if  he  should  have  liked  to  prosecute  inquiry. 

After  a  pause  he  said,  "  Whatever  your  impression  respecting 
Lord  L'Estrange,  there  is  nothing,  I  suppose,,  which  would  lead 
you  to  doubt  his  honor,  or  reject  his  testimonial  in  my  favor  ?" 

"According  to  fashionable  morality,"  said  Mr.  Dale,  rather 
precisely,"  I  know  of  nothing  that  could  induce  me  to  suppose 
that  Lord  L'Estrange  would  not,  in  this  instance,  speak  the 
truth.  And  he  has  unquestionably  a  high  reputation  as  a  soldier 
and  a  considerable  position  in  the  world."  Therewith  the  Par- 
son took  his  leave.  A  few  days  afterward,  Dr.  Riccabocca  en- 
closed to  the  Squire,in  a  blank  envelope,  a  letter  he  had  received 
from  Harley  L'Estrange.  It  was  evidently  intended  for  the 
Squire's  eye,  and  to  serve  as  a  voucher  for  the  Italian's  respecta- 
bility ;  but  this  object  was  fulfilled,  not  in  the  coarse  form  of  a 
direct  testimonial,but  with  a  tact  and  delicacy  which  seemed  to 
show  more  than  the  fine  breeding  to  be  expected  from  one  in 
Lord  L'Estrange's  station.  It  evinced  that  most  exquisite  of  all 
politeness  which  comes  from  the  heart';  a  certain  tone  of  affec- 
tionate respect  (which  even  the  homely  sense  of  the  Squire  felt, 
intuitively,proved  far  more  in  favor  of  Riccabocca  than  the  most 
elaborate  certificate  of  his  qualities  and  antecedents)  pervaded 
the  whole,and  would  have  sufficed  in  itself  to  remove  all  scruples 
from  a.  mind  much  more  suspicious  and  exacting  than  that  of 
the  Squire  of  Hazeldean.  But  lo,  and  behold!  an  obstacle  no\v; 
occurred  to  the  Parson,  of  which  he  ought  to  have  thought  long 
before — viz., the  Papistical  religion  of  the  Italian.  Dr.  Riccaboc- 
ca was  professedly  a  Roman  Catholic.  He  so  little  obtruded  that 
fact — and,  indeed,  had  assented  so  readily  to  any  animadver- 
sions upon  the  superstition  and  priestcraft  which,  according  to' 
Protestants,  are  the  essential  characteristics  of  Papistical  com- 


182  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

munities — that  it  was  not  till  the  hymeneal  torch,  which -brings 
all  faults  to  light,  was  fairly  illumined  for  the  altar,  that  the 
remembrance  of  a  faith  so  cast  into  a  shade  burst  upon  the  con- 
science of  the  Parson.  The  first  idea  that  then  occurred  to  him 
was  the  proper  and  professional  one — viz.,  the  conversion  of  Dr. 
Riccabocca.  He  hastened  to  his  study,  took  down  from  his 
shelves  long-neglected  volumes  of  controversial  divinity,  armed 
himself  with  an  arsenal  of  authorities,  arguments,  and  texts  ; 
then,  seizing  the  shovel-hat,  posted  off  to  the  Casino. 

CHAPTER   XXVII. 

THE  Parson  burst  upon  the  philosopher  like  an  avalanche  ! 
He  was  so  full  of  his  subject  that  he  could  not  let  it  out  in  prudent 
driblets.  No,  he  went  souse  upon  the  astounded  Riccabocca — 

"Tremendo 
Jupiter  ipse  ruens  tumultu." 

The  sage— shrinking  deeper  into  his  arm-chair,  and  drawing 
his  dressing-robe  more  closely  round  him— suffered  the  Parson 
to  talk  for  three-quarters  of  an  hour,till,  indeed,  he  had  thorough- 
ly proved  his  case;  and,  like  Brutus,  "  paused  for  a  reply." 

Then  said  Riccabocca,  mildly,  "  In  much  of  what  you  have 
urged  so  ably,  and  so  suddenly, Tarn  inclined  to  agree.  But  base 
is  the  man  who  formally  forswears  the  creed  he  has  inherited 
from  his  fathers,  and  professed  since  the  cradle  up  to  years  of 
maturity,  when  the  change  presents  itself  in  the  guise  of  a  bribe; 
when,  for  such  is  human  nature,  he  can  hardly  distinguish  or 
disentangle  the  appeal  to  his  reason  from  the  lure  lo  his  interest 
— here  a  text,  and. there  a  dowry! — here  Protestantism,  there 
Jemima!  Own,  my  friend,  that  the  spberest  casuist  would  see 
double  under  the  inebriating  effects  produced  by  so  mixing  his 
polemical  liquors.  Appeal, my  good  Mr.Dale,from  Philip  drunken 
to  Philip  sober! — from  Riccabocca  intoxicated  with  the  assur- 
ance of  your  excellent  lady,  that  he  is  about  to  be  '  the  happiest 
of  men,'  to  Riccabocca  accustomed  to  his  happiness,  and  carry- 
ing it  off  with  the  seasoned  equability  of  one  growing  familiar 
with  stimulants — in  a  word,  appeal  from  Riccabocca  the  wooer 
to  Riccabocca  the  spouse.  I  may  be  convertible,  but  conversion 
is  a  slow  process;  courtship  should  be  a  quick  one— ask  Miss 
Jemima.  Fttialnietite^^ry  me  first, and  convert  me  afterwards!" 

"  You  take  this  too  jestingly,"  began  the  Parson;  "  and  I  don't 
see  why,  with  your  excellent  understanding,  truths  so  plain  and 
obvious  should  not  strike  you  at  once." 

"Truths,"  broke  in  Riccabocca,  profoundly,  "  are  the  slowest- 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  183 

growing  things  in  the  world!  It  took  fifteen  hundred  years  from 
the  date  of  the  Christian  era  to  produce  your  own  Luther,  and 
then  he  flung  his  Bible  at  Satan  (I  have  seen  the  mark  made  by 
the  book  on  the  wall  of  his  prison  in  Germany),  besides  running 
off  with  a  nun,  which  no  Protestant  clergyman  would  think  it 
proper  and  right  to  do  now-a-days."  Then  he  added,  with  seri- 
ousness, "Look  you,  my  dear  sir, — I  should  lose  my  own  esteem 
if  I  were  even  to  listen  to  you  now  with  becoming  attention, — 
now,  I  say,  when  you  hint  that  the  creed  I  have  professed  may 
be  in  the  way  of  my  advantage.  If  so,  I  must  keep  the  creed 
and  resign  the  advantage.  But  if,  as  I  trust^-not  only  as  a 
Christian,  but  a  man  of  honor — you  will  defer  this  discussion,  I 
will  promise  to  listen  to  you  hereafter;  and  though,  to  say  the 
truth,  I  believe  that  you  will  not  convert  me,  I  will  promise  you 
faithfully  never  to  interfere  with  my  wife's  religion." 

"  And  any  children  you  may  have  ?" 

"  Children  !  "  said  Dr.  Riccabocca,  recoiling — "  you  are  not 
contented  with  firing  your  pocket-pistol  right  in  my  face;  you 
must  also  pepper  me  all  over  with  small-shot.  Children!  well,  if 
they  are  girls,  let  tham  follow  the  faith  of  their  mother  ;  and  if 
boys,  while  in  childhood,  let  them  be  contented  with  learning  to 
be  Christians;  and  when  they  grow  into  men,  let  them  choose  for 
themselves  which  is  the  best  form  for  the  practice  of  the  great 
principles  which  all  sects  have  in  common." 

."  But,"  began  Mr.  Dale  again,  pulling  a  large  book  from  his 
pocket. 

Dr.  Riccabocca  flung  open  the  window,  and  jumped  out  of  it. 

It  was  the  rapidest  and  most  dastardly  flight  you  could  pos- 
sibly conceive:  but  it  was  a  great  compliment  to  the  argumenta- 
tive powers  of  the  Parson,  and  he  felt  it  as  such.  Nevertheless, 
Mr.  Dale  thought  it  right  to  have  a  long  conversation,  both  with 
the  Squire  and  Miss  Jemima  herself,  upon  the  subject  which  his 
intended  convert  had  so  ignominiously  escaped. 

The  Squire,  though  a  great  foe  to  Popery,  politically  consid- 
ered, had  also  quite  as  great  a  hatred  to  renegades  and  apos- 
tates. And  in  his  heart  he  would  have  despised  Riccabocca  if 
he  could  have  thrown  off  his  religion  as  easily  as  he  had  done 
his  spectacles.  Therefore  he  said  simply — ".YVell,  it  is  certainly 
a  great  pity  that  Rickeybockey  is  not  of,  the.Chu.rch  of  Eng- 
land, though,  I  take  it,  that  would  be  unreasonable  to  expect  in 
a  man  born  and  bred  under  the  nose  of  the  Inquisition  "  (the 
Squire  firmly  believed  that  the  Inquisition  was  in  full  force  in 
all  the  Italian  states,  with  whips,  racks,  and  thumb-screws  ;  and, 
indeed,  his  chief  information  of  Italy  was  gathered  from  a  pe- 


184  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

rusal  he  had  given  in  early  youth  to  The  One- Handed  Monk)  ; 
"but  I  think  he  speaks  very  fairly,  on  the  whole,  as  to  his  wife  and 
children.  And  the  thing's  gone  too  far  now  to  retract.  It's  all 
ydur  fault  for  not  thinking  of  it  before;  and  I've  now  just  made  up 
my  mind  as  to  the  course  to  pursue  respecting  the — d — d  stocks ! " 
As  for  Miss  Jemima,  the  Parson  left  her  with  a  pious  thanks- 
giving that  Riccabocca  at  least  was  a  Christian,  and  not  a 
Pagan,  Mahometan,  or  Jew  ! 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THERE  is  that  in  a  wedding  which  appeals  to  a  universal  sym- 
pathy. No  other  event  in  the  lives  of  their  superiors  in  rank 
creates  an  equal  sensation  amongst  the  humbler  classes. 

From  the  moment  the  news  that  Miss  Jemima  was  to  be  mar- 
ried had  spread  throughout  the  village,  all  the  old  affection  for 
the  Squire  and  his  House  burst  forth  the  stronger  for  its  tem- 
porary suspension.  Who  could  think  of  the  stocks  in  such  a 
season?  The  stocks  was  swept  out  of  fashion — hunted  from 
remembrance  as  completely  as  the  question  of  Repeal  or  the 
thought  of  Rebellion  from  the  warm  Irish  heart,  when  the  fair 
young  face  of  the  Royal  Wife  beamed  on  the  sister  isle. 

Again  cordial  curtseys  were  dropped  at  the  thresholds  by 
which  the  Squire  passed  to  his  own  farm  ;  again  the  sun-burnt 
brows  uncovered — no  'more  with  sullen  ceremony — were 
smoothed  into  cheerful  gladness  at  hisnod.  Nay,  the  little  onesbe- 
gan  again  to  assembleat  theirancientrendezvousbythestocks,as 
if  either  familiarized  with  the  phenomenon,  or  convinced  that,in 
the  general  sentiment  of  good- will, its  powers  of  evil  were  annulled. 

The  Squire  tasted  Once  more  the  sweets  of  the  only  popu- 
larity which  is  much  worth  having,  and  the  loss  of  which  a  wise 
mam  would  reasonably  deplore — viz.,  the  popularity  which  arises 
from  a  persuasion  of  our  goodness,  and  a  reluctance  to  recall 
our  faults.  Like  all  blessings,  the  more  sensibly  felt  from  pre- 
vious interruption,  the  Squire  enjoyed  this  restored  popularity 
with  an  exhilarated  sense  of  existence  ;  his  stout  heart  beat 
more  vigorously  ;  his  stalwart  step  trod  more  lightly  ;  his 
couiely  English  face  looked  comelier  and  more  English  than 
ever  • — you  would  have  been  a  merrier  man  for  a  week,  to  have 
come'- within  hearing  of  his  jovial  laugh. 

He  felt  grateful  to  Jemima  and  to  Riccabocca  as  the  special 
agents  of  Providence  in  this  general  integratio  amoris.  To  have 
looked  at  him,  you  would  suppose  that  it  was  the  Squire  who 
was  going  to  be  married  a  second  time  to  his  Harry  ! 

One  may  well  conceive  that  such  would  have  been  an  inau- 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  185 

spicio.us  moment  for  Parson  Dale's  theological  scruples.  To 
have  stopped  that  marriage — chilled  all  the  sunshine  it  diffused 
over  the  village — seen  himself  surrounded  again  by  long  sulky 
visages, — -I  verily  believe,  though  a  better  friend  of -Church  and 
State  never  stood  on  a  hustings,  that,  rather  than  court  such  a 
revulsion,  the  Squire  would  have  found  Jesuitical  excuses  for  the 
marriage  if  Riccabocca  had  been  discovered  to  be  the  Pope  in 
disguise  !  As  for  the  stocks,  its  fate  was  now  irrevocably 
sealed.  In  short,  the  marriage  was  concluded — first  privately, 
according  to  the  bridegroom's  creed,  by  a  Roman  Catholic 
clergyman,  who  lived  in  a  town  some  miles  offhand  next  pub- 
licly in  the  village  church  of  Hazeldean. 

It  was  the  heartiest  rural  wedding!.  Village  girls  strewed 
flowers  on  the  way  ; — a  booth  was  placed  amidst  the  prettiest 
scenery  of  the  Park  on  the  margin  of  the  lake — for  there  was  to 
be  a  dance  later  in  the  day  ; — an  ox  was  roasted  whole.  Even 
Mr.  Stirn — no,  Mr.  Stirn  was  not  present,  so  much  happiness 
would  have  been  the  death  of  him  !  And  the  Papisher  too, 
who  had  conjured  Lenny  out  of  the  stocks  ;  nay,  who  had  him- 
self sat  in  the  stocks  for  the  very  purpose  of  bringing  them  into 
.contempt — the  Papisher  !  he  had  as  lief  Miss  Jemima  had  mar- 
ried the  devil !  Indeed  he  was  persuaded  that,  in  point  of  fact, 
it  was  all  one  and  the  same.  Therefore  Mr.  Stirn  had  asked 
leave  to  go  and  attend  his  uncle  the  pawnbroker,  about  to  un- 
dergo a  torturing  operation  for  the  stone  !  Frank  was  there, 
summoned  from  Eton  for  the  occasion — having  grown  two 
.inches  taller  since  he  left — for  the  one  inch  of  which  nature 
was  to  be  thanked,  for  the  other  a  new  pair  of:  resplendent 
Wellingtons.  But  the  boy's  joy  was  less  apparent  than  that  of 
others.  For  Jemima  was.  a  special  favorite  with  him,  as  she 
would  have  been  with  all  boys — for  she  was  always  kind  and 
gentle,  and  made  him  many  pretty  presents  whenever  she  came 
from  the  watering-places.  And  Frank  knew  that  he  should 
miss  her  sadly,  and  thought  she  had  made  a  very  queer  choice. 

Captain  Higginbotham  had  been  invited  ;  but, to  the  astonish- 
ment of  Jemima,  he  had  replied  to  the  invitation  by  a  letter  to 
herself,  marked  "private  and  confidential."  "  She  must  have 
long  known,"  said  the  letter,  "  of  his  devoted  attachment  to  her! 
motives  of  delicacy,  arising  from  the  narrowness  of  his  income, 
and  the  magnanimity  of  his  sentiments,  had  alone  prevented,  his 
formal  proposals  but  now  that  he  was  informed  (he  could  scarce- 
ly believe  his  senses  or  command  his  passions)  that  her  relations 
wished  to  force  her  into  a  BARBAROUS  marriage  with  a  foreigner 
of  MOST  FORBIDDING  APPEARANCE,  and  most  abject circums tancc* 


1 86  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

he  lost  not  a  moment  inlaying  at  her  feet  his  own  hand  and 
fortune.  And  he  did  this  the  more  confidently,  inasnruch  as 
he  could  not  but  be  aware  of  Miss  Jemima's  SECRET  feelings 
toward  him,  while  he  vizs  proud  and  happy  to  say,  that  his  dear 
and  distinguished  cousin,  Mr.  Sharpe  Currie,  had  honored  him 
with  a  warmth  of  regard,  which  justified  the  most  brilliant  EX- 
PECTATIONS— likely  to  be  soon  realized — as  his  eminent  relative 
had  contracted  a  very  bad  liver  complaint  in  the  service  of  his 
country,  and  could  not  last  long  !  " 

In  all  the  years  they  had  known  each  other,  Miss  Jemima, 
strange  as  it  may  appear,  had  never  once  suspected  the  Captain 
of  any  other  feelings  to  her  than  those  of  a  brother.  To  say  that 
she  was  not  gratified  by  learning  her  mistake,  would  be  to  say 
that  she  was  more  than  woman.  Indeed,  it  must  have  been  a 
source  of  no  ignoble  triumph  to  think  that  she  could  prove  her 
disinterested  affection  to  her  dear  Riccabocca,  by  a  prompt  re- 
jection of  this  more  brilliant  offer.  She  couched  the  rejection, 
it  is  true,  in  the  most  soothing  terms.  But  the  Captain  evident- 
ly considered  himself  ill  used  ;  he  did  not  reply  to  the  letter, 
and  did  not  come  to  the  wedding. 

To  let  the  reader  into  a  secret,  never  known  to  Miss  Jemima, 
Captain  Higgtnbotham  was  much  less  influenced  by  Cupid  than 
by  Plutus  in  the  offer  he  had  made.  The  Captain  was  one  of 
that  class  of  gentlemen  who  read  their  accounts  by  those  corpse- 
lights,  or  will-o'-the-wisps,  called  expectations.  Ever  since  the 
Squire's  grandfather  had  left  him — then  in  short  clothes — a  leg- 
acy of  ^500,  the  Captain  had  peopled  the  future  with  expec- 
tations !  He  talked  of  his  expectations  as  a  man  talks  of  shares 
in  a  Tontine  ;  they  might  fluctuate  a  little — be  now  up  and  now 
down — but  it  was  morally  impossible,  if  he  lived  on,  but  that 
he  should  be  a  millionaire  one  of  these  days.  Now,  though  Miss 
Jemima  was  a  good  fifteen  years  younger  than  himself,  yet  she 
always  stood  fora  good  round  sum  in  the  ghostly  books  of 
the  Captain.  She  was  an  expectation  to  the  full  amount  of  her 
^4000,  seeing  that  Frank  was  an  only  child,  and  it  would  be 
carrying  coals  to  Newcastle  to  leave  him  anything. 

Rather  than  see  so  considerable  a  cipher  suddenly  spunged 
out  of  his  visionary  ledger — rather  than  so  much  money  should 
vanish  clear  out  of  the  family,  Captain  Higginbotham  had  taken 
what  he  conceived,  if  a  desperate,  at  least  a  certain,  step  for  the 
preservation  of  his  property.  If  the  golden  horn  could  not  be 
had  without  the  heifer,  why,  he  must  take  the  heifer  into  the 
bargain.  He  had  never  formed  to  himself  an  idea  that  a  heifer 
so  gentle  would  toss  and  fling  him  over.  The  blow  was  stunning. 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  187 

But  no  one  compassionates  the  misfortunes  of  the  covetous, 
though  few  perhaps  are  in  greater  need  of  compassion.  And 
leaving  poor  Captain  Higginbotham  to  retrieve  his  illusory  for- 
tunes as  he  best  may  among  "  the  expectations  "  which  gathered 
round  the  form  of  Mr.  Sharpe  Currie,  who  was  the  Grossest  old 
tyrant  imaginable,  and  never  allowed  at  his  table  any  dishes  not 
compounded  with  rice, which  played  Old  Nick  with  the  Captain's 
constitutional  functions, — I  return  to  the  wedding  at  Hazeldean, 
just  in  time  to  see  the  bridegroom — who  looked  singularly  well 
on  the  occasion — hand  the  bride  (who,  between  sunshiny  tears 
and  affectionate  smiles,  was  really  a  very  interesting  and  even 
a  pretty  bride,  as  brides  go)  into  a  carriage  which  the  Squire 
had  presented  to  them,  and  depart  on  the  orthodox  nuptial  ex- 
cursion amidst  the  blessings  of  the  assembled  crowd. 

It  may  be  thought  strange  by  the  unreflective  that  these  rural 
spectators  should  so  have  approved  and  blessed  the  marriage  of 
a  Hazeldean  of  Hazeldean  with  a  poor,  outlandish,  long-haired 
foreigner;  but,  besides  that  Riccabocca,  after  all,  had  become 
one  of  the  neighborhood,  and  was  proverbially  "  a  civil-spoken 
gentleman,"  it  is  generally  noticeable  that  on  wedding  occasions 
the  bride  so  monopolizes  interest, curiosity,  and  admiration,  that 
the  bridegroom  himself  goes  for  little  or  nothing.  He  is  merely 
the  passive  agent  in  the  affair — the  unregarded  cause  of  the  gen- 
eral satisfaction.  It  was  not  Riccabocca  himself  that  they  ap- 
proved and  blessed — it  was  the  gentleman  in  the  white  waist- 
coat who  had  made  Miss  Jemima — Madam  Rickeybockey  ! 

Leaning  on  his  wife's  arm  (for  it  was  a  habit  of  the  Squire  to 
lean  on  his  wife's  arm  rather  than  she  on  his,  when  he  was  spe- 
cially pleased  ;  and  there  was  something  touching  in  the  sight 
of  that  strong,  sturdy  frame  thus  insensibly,  in  hours  of  happi- 
ness, seeking  dependence  on  the  frail  arm  of  woman) — leaning, 
I  say,  on  his  wife's  arm,  the  Squire,  about  the  hour  of  sunset, 
walked  down  to  the  booth  by  the  lake. 

All  the  parish — young  and  old,  woman  arid  child — were  as- 
sembled there,  and  their  faces  seemed  to  bear  one  family  like- 
ness, in  the  common  emotion  which  animated  all,  as  they  turned 
to  his  frank,  fatherly  smile.  Squire  Hazeldean  stood  at  the  head 
of  the  long  table;  he  filled  a  horn  with  ale  from  the  brimming 
tankard  beside  him.  Then  he  looked  round,  and  lifted  his  hand 
to  request  silence  ;  and  ascending  the  chair,  rose  in  full  view  of 
all.  Every  one  felt  that  the  Squire  was  about  to  make  a  speech, 
and  the  earnestness  of  the  attention  was  proportioned  to  the  rar- 
ity of  the  event;  for  (though  he  was  not  unpractised  in  the  ora- 
tory of  the  hustings)  only  thrice  before  had  the  Squire  made  what 


1 88  My  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

could  fairly  be  called  "  a  speech  "  to  the  villagers  of  Hazeldean 
—once  on  a  kindred  festive  occasion,  when  he  had  presented  to 
them  his  bride — once  in  a  contested  election  for  the  shire,,  in 
Avhich  he  took  more  than  ordinary  interest,  and  was  not  quite  so 
sober  as  he  ought  to  have  been— once  in  a  time  of  great  agri- 
cultural distress,  when,  in  spite  of  reduction  of  rents,  the  farmers 
had  been  compelled  to  discard  a  large  number  of  their  customary 
laborers;  and  when  the  Squire  had  said—"  I  have  given  up  keep- 
ing the  hounds,  because  I  want  to  make  a  fine  piece  of  water."— 
that  was  the  origin  of  the  lake,— !-"  and  to  drain  all  the  low  lands 
found  the  Park.  Let  every  man  who  wants  work  come  to  me  !  " 
and  that  sad  year  the  parish  rates  of  Hazeldean  were  not  a 
penny  the  heavier. 

Now,  for  the  fourth  time,  the  Squire  rose,  and  thus  he  spoke, 
At  his  right  hand,  Harry  ;  at  his  left,  Frank.  At  the  bottom  of 
the  table,  as  vice-president,  Parson  Dale,  his  little  wife  behind 
him,  only  obscurely  seen.  She  cried. readily,  and  her  handker- 
chief was  already  before  her  eyes.  :t;fj}  -c»:^\f 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

,  ....... 

THE    SQUIRE  S   SPEECH. 

"  FRIENDS  and  neighbors, — I  thank,  you  kindly  for  coming 
round  me  this  day,  and  for  showing  so  much-interest  in  me  and 
mine.  My  cousin  was  not  born  amongst  you  as  I  was,  but  you 
have  known  her  from  a  child.  It  is  a  familiar  face,  and  one 
that  never  frowned,  which  you  will  miss  at  your  cottage  doors, 
as  I  and  mine  will  miss  it  Iqng  in  the  old  Hall — " 

Here  there  was  a  sob  from  some  of  the  women,and  nothing  was 
seen  of  Mrs.  Dale  but  the  white  handkerchief.  The  Squire  himself 
paused, and  brushed  away  a.  tear  with  the  back  of  his  hand.  Then 
he  resumed,  with  a  sudden  change  of .  voice  that  was  electrical,— 

"For  we  none  of  us  prize  a -blessing  .till  we  have  lost  it  ! 
Now,  friends  and  neighbors  ;  a  little  time  ago,  it  seemed  as  if 
SAme  ill-will  had  crept  in  the  village — ill-will  between  you  and 
me,  neighbors  !— why,  that  is  not  like  Hazeldean  !  " 

The  audience  hung  their  heads  !  You  never  saw  people  look 
so  thoroughly  ashamed  of  themselves.  The  Squire  proceeded, — 

"  I  don't  say  it  was  all  your  fault  ;  perhaps  it  was.-wine." 

"  Noa — noa — noa,"  burst  forth  in  a  general  .chorus. 

"  Nay,  friends,"  continued  the  Squire,  humbly,  and  in  one  of 
those  illustrative  aphorisms  which,  if  less  subtle  than  Riccaboc- 
ca's,  were  more  within  reach  of  the  popular  comprehension, — 
"  nay,  we  are  all  human,  and  every  man  has  his  hobby  ;  some- 
times he  breaks  in  the  hobby,  and  sometimes  the  hobby,  if  it  is 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  189 

very  hard  in  the  mouth,  breaks  in  him.  One  man's  hobby  has 
an  ill  habit  of  always  stopping  at  the  public-house  !  (Laughter. ) 
Another  man's  hobby  refuses  tostir  a  peg  beyond  the  door  where 
some  buxom  lass  patted  its  neck  the  week  before — a  hobby  I 
rode  pretty  often  when  I  went  courting  my  good  wife  here'! 
(Much  laughter  and  applause.)  Others  have  a  lazy  hobby,  that 
there's  no  getting  on  ;  others,  a  runaway  hobbr,  that  there's  no 
stopping;  but,  to  cut  the  matter  short,  my  favorite  hobby,  as  you 
well  know,  is  always  trotted  out  to  any  place  on  my  property 
which  seems  to  want  the  eye  -and  hand  of  the  master.  I  hate," 
cried  the  Squire,  warming,  "  to  see  things  neglected  and  decayed, 
and  going  to  the  dogs  !  This  land  we  live  in  is  a  good  mother 
to  us,  and  we  can't  do  too  much  for  her.  It  is  very  true,  neigh- 
bors, that  I  owe'  her  a  good  many  acres,  and  ought  to  speak  well 
of  her  ;  but  what  then  ?  I  live  amongst  you,  and  what  I  take 
from  the  rent  with  one  hand,  I  divide  amongst  you  with  the 
other.  (Low  but  assenting  murmurs.)  Now,  the  more  I  im- 
prove my  property,  the  more  mouths  it  feeds.  My  great-grand- 
father kept  a  Field-Book,  in  which  were  entered,  not  only  the 
names  of  all  tire  farmers,  and  the  quantity  of  land  they  held,  but 
the  average  number  of  the  laborers  each  employed.  My  grand- 
father and  father  followed  his  example  ;  I  have  done  the  same. 
I  find,  neighbors,  that  our  rents  have  doubled  since  my  great- 
grandfather began  to  make  the  book.  Ay,  but  there  are  more 
than  four  times  the  number  of  laborers  employed  on  the  estate, 
and  at  much  better  wages,  too  !  -Well,  my  men,  that  says  a  great 
deal  in  favor  of  improving  property,  and  not  letting  it  go  to  the 
dogs.  (Applause.)  And  therefore,  neighbors,  you  will  kindly 
excuse  my  hobby;  it  carries  grist  to  your  mill.  (Reiterated 
applause.)  Well,  but  you  will  say,  '  What's  the  Squire  driving 
at?'  Why  this,  my  friends:  There  was  only  one  worn  out, 
dilapidated,  tumble-down  thing  in  the  parish  of  Hazeldean,  and 
it  became  an  eyesore  to  me  ;  so  I  saddled  my  hobby,  and  rode 
at  it.  Oh  ho!-  you  know  what  I  mean  now!  Yes,  but  neighbors, 
you  need  not  have  taken  it  so  to  heart.  That  was  a  scurvy  trick 
of  some  of  you  to  hang  me  in  effigy,  as  they  call  it." 

"It  war'ntyou/'criedavoice  in  thecrowd;  "it  warNick:Stirn." 
The  Squire  recognized  the  voice  of  the  Tinker  ;  but  though 
he  now  guessed  at  the  ringleader,  on  that  day  of  general  amnesty 
he  had  the  prudence  and  magnanimity  not  to  say,  "  Stand:forth, 
Sprott ;  thou  art  the  man."  Yet  his  gallant  English  spirit  would 
not  suffer  him  to  come  off  at  the  expense  of  his  servant. 

"  If  it  was  Nick  Stirn  you  meant,"  said  he,  gravely,  "  more 
shame  for  you.     It  showed  some  pluck  to  hang  the  master ;  but 


1 90  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

to  hang  the  poor  servant,  who  only  thought  to  do.  his  duty,  care- 
less of  what  ill-will  it  brought  upon  him,  was  a  shabby  trick, — so 
little  like  the  lads  of  Hazeldean,  that  I  suspect  the  man  who 
taught  it  to  them  was  never  born  in  the  parish.  But  let  bygones 
be  bygones.  One  thing  is  clear,  you  don't  take  kindly  to  my  new 
pair  of  stocks!  The  stocks  has  been  a  stumbling-block  and  a 
grievance,  and  there's  no  denying  that  we  went  on  veay  pleas- 
antly without  it.  I  may  also  say  that,  in  spite  of  it,  we  have  been 
coming  together  again  lately.  And  I  can't  tell  you  what  good  it 
did  me  to  see  your  children  playing  again  on  the  green,  and  your 
honest  faces,  in  spite  of  the  stocks,  and  those  diabolical  tracts 
you've  been  reading  lately,  lighted  up  at  the  thought  that  some- 
thing pleasant  was  going  on  at  the  Hall.  Do  you  know,  neigh- 
bors, you  put  me  in  mind  of  an  old  story  which,  besides  applying 
to  the  parish,  all  who  are  married,  and  all  who  intend  to  marry, 
will  do  well  to  recollect.  A  worthy  couple,  named  John  and 
Joan,  had  lived  happily  together  many  a  long  year,  till  one  un- 
lucky day  they  bought  a  new  bolster.  Joan  said  the  bolster. was 
too  hard,  and  John  said  that  it  was  too  soft ;  so,  of  course,  they 
quarrelled.  After  sulking  all  day,  they  agreed  to  put  the  bolster 
between  them  at  night."  (Roars  of  laughter  amongst  the  men  ; 
the  women  did  not  know  which  way  to  look,  except,  indeed,  Mrs. 
Hazeldean,  who,  though  she  was  more  than  usually  rosy,  main- 
tained her  innocent,  genial  smile,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  There  is  no 
harm  in  the  Squire's  jest.")  The  orator  resumed:  "Afterthey 
had  thus  lain  apart  for  a  little  time,  very  silent  and  sullen,  John 
sneezed.  '  God  bless  you  ! '  says  Joan,  over  the  bolster.  '  Did 
you  say  God  bless  me  ? '  cries  John  ; — '  then  here  goes  the  bol- 
ster !  ' '  (Prolonged  laughter  and  tumultuous  applause.) 
.  "  Friends  and  neighbors,"  said  the  Squire,  when  silence  was 
restored,  and  lifting  the  horn  of  ale,  "  I  have  the  pleasure  to  in- 
form you  that  I  have  ordered  the  stocks  to  be  taken  down,  and 
made  into  a  bench  for  the  chimney-nook  of  our  old  friend  Gaffer 
Solomons  yonder.  But  mind  me,  lads,  if  ever  you  make  the  par- 
ish regret  the  loss  of  the  stocks,  and  the  overseers  come  .to  me 
with  long  faces,  and  say, '  the  stocks  must  be  rebuilded,'  why — " 
Here  from  all  the  youth  of  the  village  rose  so  deprecating  a 
clamor,  that  the  Squire  would  have  been  the  most  bungling  orator 
in  the  world,  if  he  had  said  a  word  further  on  the  subject.  He 
elevated  the  horn  over  his  head, — "  Why,  that's  my  old  Hazel- 
dean  again  !  Health  and  long  life  to  you  all  !  " 

The  Tinker  had  sneaked  out  of  the  assembly,  and  did  not 
show  his  face  in  the  village  for  the  next  six  months.  And  as  to 
those  poisonous  tracts,  in  spite  of  their  salubrious  labels,  "  The 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  191 

Poor  Man's  Friend,"  or  "The  Rights  of  Labor,"  you  could  no 
more  have  found  one  of  them  lurking  in  the  drawers  of  the 
kitchen-dressers  in  Hazeldean,  than  you  would  have  found 
the  deadly  nightshade  on  the  flower-stands  in  the  drawing-room 
of  the  Hall.  As  for  the  revolutionary  beer-house,  there  was  no 
need  to  apply  to  the  magistrates  to  shut  it  up — it  shut  itself  up 
before  the  week  was  out.  : 

O  young  head  of  the  great  House  of  Hapsburg,  what  a  Hazel- 
dean  you  might  have  made  of  Hungary  ! — What  a  "  Moriamur 
pro  rcge  nostro  "  would  have  rung  in  your  infant  reign, — if  you 
had  made  such  a  speech  as  the  Squire's  ! 


BOOK  FOURTH.— INITIAL  CHAPTER. 

COMPRISING    MR.    CAXTON*S    OPINIONS    ON     THE    MATRIMONIAL 
STATE,  SUPPORTED  BY  LEARNED    AUTHORITIES. 

"  IT  was  no  bad  idea  of  yours,  Pisistratus,"  said  my  father, 
graciously,  "  to  depict  the  heightened  affections  and  the  serious 
intention  of  Signor  Riccabocca  by  a  single  stroke — He  left  off 
his  spectacles  !  Good." 

"Yet,"  quoth  my  uncle,  "I  think  Shakespeare  represents  a  lover 
as  falling  into  slovenly  habits,  neglecting  his  person,  and  suffer- 
ing his  hose  to  be  ungartered,  rather  than  paying  that  attention 
to  his  outer  man  which  induces  Signor  Riccabocca  to  leave  off 
his  spectacles,  and  look  as  handsome  as  nature  will  permit  him." 

"  There  are  different  degrees  and  many  phases  of  this  pas- 
sion," replied  my  father.  "  Shakespeare  is  speaking  of  an  ill- 
treated,  pining,  woe-begone  lover,  much  aggrieved  by  the  cruelty 
of  his  mistress — a  lover  who  has  found  it  of  no  avail  to  smarten 
himself  up,  and  has  fallen  despondently  into  the  opposite  ex- 
treme. Whereas  Signor  Riccabocca  has  nothing  to  complain 
of  in  the  barbarity  of  Miss  Jemima." 

"  Indeed  he  has  not  ! "  cried  Blanche,  tossing  her  head — 
"  forward  creature  !" 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  said  my  mother,  trying  her  best  to  look  stately, 
"I  am  decidedly  of  opinion  that,  in  that  respect,  Pisistratus  has 
lowered  the  dignity  of  the  sex.  Not  intentionally,"  added  my 
mother,  mildly,  and  afraid  she  had  said  something  too  bitter  ; 
"  but  it  is  very  hard  for  a  man  to  describe  us  women." 

The  Captain  nodded  approvingly  ;  Mr.  Squills  smiled  ;  my 
father  quietly  resumed  the  thread  of  his  discourse. 

"To  continue,"  quoth  he.     "Riccabocca  has  no  reason  to 


1 92  :  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

despair  of  success  in  his  suit,  nor  any  object  in  moving  his  mis- 
tress to  compassion.  He  may,  therefore,  very  properly  tie  up 
his  garters  and  leave  off  his  spectacles.  What  do  you  say,  Mr. 
Squills? — for,  after  all,  since  love-making -cannot  fail  to  be  a 
great  constitutional  derangement;  the  experience  of  a  medical 
man  must  be  the  best  to  consult." 

"Mr.  Caxton,"  replied  Squills,  obviously  flattered,  "you  are 
quite  right;  when  a  man  makes  love, the  organs  of  self-esteem 
and  desire  of  applause  are  greatly  stimulated,  and  therefore,  of 
course,  he  sets  himself  off  to  the  best  advantage.  It  is  only,  as 
you  observe,  when,  like  Shakespeare's  lover,  he  has  given  up 
making  love  as  a  bad  job,  and  has  received  that  severe  hit  on 
the  ganglions  which  the  cruelty  of  a  mistress  inflicts,thathe  neg- 
lects his  personal  appearance  ;  he  neglects  it,  not  because  he  is  in 
love,but  because  his  nervous'  system  is  depressed.  That  was  the 
cause,if  you  remember,  with  poor  Major  Prime.  He  wore  his  wig 
all  awry  when  Susan  Smart  jilted  him;  but 'I  set  it  right  for  him." 

"  By  shaming  Miss  Smart  into  repentance,  or  getting  him  a 
new  sweetheart  ? '.'  asked  my  uncle. 

"  Pooh  !  "answered Squills,  "by  quinine  and  cold  bathing." 

"We. may  therefore  grant,"  renewed  my  father,  "  that,  as  a 
general  rule,  the  process  of  courtship  tends  to  the  spruceness, 
and  even  foppery,  of  the  individual  engaged  in  the  experiment, 
asVoltatre  has  very  prettily  proved  somewhere.  Nay,  the  Mexi- 
cans, indeed,  were  of  opinion,  that  the  lady  at  least  ought  to  con- 
tinue those  cares  of  her  .person  even  after  marriage.  There  is 
extant,  in  Sahagun's  History  of  JVew  Spain,  the  advice  of  an 
Aztec. or  Mexican  mother  to  her  daughter,  in  which  she  says — 
'  That  your  husband  may  not  take  you  in  dislike, adorn  yourself, 
wash  yourself,  and  let  your  garment  be  clean.'  Jt  is  true  that  the 
good  lady  adds — '  Do  it  in  moderation  ;  since,  if  every  day  you 
are  washing  yourself  and  your  clothes,  the  world  will  say  that 
you  are  over-delicate;  and  particular  people  will  call  you — 
TAPETZON  TINEMAXOCH  !  '  What  those  words  precisely  mean," 
added  my  father,  modestly,':"!  can  not  say^  since  I  never  had 
the  opportunity  to  acquire  the  ancient  Aztec  language — but 
something  very  opprobrious  and  horrible,  no  doubt." 

"I  dare  say  a  philosopher  like  Signor  Riccabocca,*'  said  my 
uncle,  "  was  not  himself  very  Tapetzon  tine— what  d'ye  call  it  ? — 
and  a  good  healthy  English  wife,  that  poor  affectionate  Jemima, 
was  thrown  away  upon  him." 

"  Roland,"  said  my  father,  "  you  don't  like  foreigners ;  a  re- 
spectable prejudice,  and  quite  natural  in  a  man  who  has  been 
trying  his  best  to  hew  them  in  pieces  and  blow  them  up  into 


TARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  193 

splinters.  But  you  don't  like  philosophers  either — and  for  that 
dislike  you  have  no  equally  good  reason." 

"  I  only  implied  that  they  are  not  much  addicted  to  soap  and 
water,"  said  my  uncle. 

"A  notable  mistake.  Many  great  philosophers  have  been 
very  great  beaux.  Aristotle  was  a  notorious  fop.  Buffon  put 
on  his  best  laced  ruffles  when  he  sat  down  to  write,  which  implies 
that  he  washed  his  hands  first.  Pythagoras  insists  greatly  on 
the  holiness  of  frequent  ablutions  ;  and  Horace— who,  in  his 
own  way,  was  as  good  a  philosopher  as  any  the  Romans  pro- 
duced— takes  care  to  let  us  know  what  a  neat,  well-dressed, 
dapper  little  gentleman  he  was.  But  I  don't  think  you  ever 
read  the  '  Apology  of  Apuleius  ?  * ' 

"  Not  I — what  is  it  about  ? "  asked  the  Captain. 

"  About  a  great  many  things.  It  is  that  sage's  vindication  from 
several  malignant  charges — amongst  others,  and  principally,  in- 
deed,thatof  being  much  too  refined  and  effeminate  for  a  philoso- 
pher. Nothing  can  exceed  the  rhetorical  skill  with  which  he  ex- 
cuses himself  for  using — tooth-powder.  'Ought  a  philosopher,' 
he  exclaims,  '  to  allow  anything  unclean  about  him,  especially  in 
the  mouth — the  mouth, which  is  the  vestibule  of  the  soul,  the  gate 
of  discourse,  the  portico  of  thought!  Ah,  but  ^Emilianus  [the 
accuser  of  Apuleius]  never  opens  ^/V  mouth  but  for  slander  and 
calumny — tooth-powder  would  indeed  be  unbecoming  to  him ! 
Or,if  he  use  any,it  will  not  be  rrty  good  Arabian  tooth-powder,but 
charcoal  and  cinders.  Ay,  his  teeth  should  be  as  foul  as  his 
language  !  And  yet  even  the  crocodile  likes  to  have  his  teeth 
cleaned  ;  insects  get  into  them,  and  horrible  reptile  though  he 
be,  he  opens  his  jaws  inoffensively  to  a  faithful  dentistical  bird, 
who  volunteers  his  beak  for  a  tooth-pick.*  " 

My  father  was  now  warm  in  the  subject  he  had  started,  and 
soared  miles  away  from  Riccabocca  and  "  My  Novel."  "  And 
observe,"  he  exclaimed — "observe  with  what  gravity  this  eminent 
Platonist  pleads  guilty  to  the  charge  of  having  a  mirror.  '  Why, 
what,'  he  exclaims, '  more  worthy  of  the  regards  of  a  human  crea- 
ture than  his  own  image  ? '  (nihil  respectabilius  horriini  quamfor- 
mam  suam  /)  Is  not  that  one  of  the  children  the  most  dear  to  us 
who  is  called  '  the  picture  of  his  father  ?  '  But  take  what  pains 
you  will  with  a  picture,  it  can  never  be  so  like  you  as  the  face  in 
your  mirror!  Think  it  discreditable  to  look  with  proper  attention 
on  one's-self  in  the  glass!  Did  not  Socrates  recommend  such 
attention  to  his  disciples — did  not  he  make  a  great  moral  agent 
of  the  speculum  ?  The  handsome,  in  admiring  their  beauty 
therein,  were  admonished  that  handsome  is  who  handsome  does  ; 


194  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

and  the  more  theijgly  stared  at  themselves,!;he  more  they  became 
naturally  anxious  to  hide  the  disgrace  of  their  features  in  the  love- 
liness of  their  merits.  Was  not  Demosthenes  always  at  his  specu- 
lum? Did  he  not  rehearse  his  cause  before  it  as  before  a  master  in 
the  art?  He  learned  his  eloquence  from  Plato,  his  dialectics  from 
Eubulides;  but  as  for  his  delivery — there,  he  came  to  the  mirror! 

"  Therefore,"  concluded  Mr.  Canton,  returning  unexpectedly 
to  the  subject — "  therefore,  it  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  Ric- 
cabocca  is  averse  to  cleanliness  and  decent  care  of  the  person 
because  he  is  a  philosopher  ;  and, all  things  considered,he  never 
showed  himself  more  a  philosopher  than  when  he  left  off  his 
spectacles  and  looked  his  best." 

"Well,"  said  my  mother  kindly,  "I  only  hope  it  may  turn 
out  happily.  But  I  should  have  been  better  pleased  if  Pisistra- 
tus  had  not  made  Dr.  Riccabocca  so  reluctant  a  w.ooer." 

"  Very  true,"  said  the  Captain,;  "the  Italian  does  not  shine 
as  a  lover.  Throw  a  little  more  ore  into  him,.Pisistratus — some- 
thing gallant  and  chivalrous."  10 j/.'j  c.; 

"  Fire — gallantry — chivalry!"  cried  my  father,  who  had  taken 
Riccabocca  under  his  special  protection—"  why,  don't  you  see 
that  the  man  is  described  as  a  philosopher  ?— and  I  should  like 
to  know  when  a  philosopher  ever  plunged  into  matrimony  with- 
out considerable  misgiving  and  cold  shivers.  Indeed,  it  seems 
that — perhaps  before  he  was  a  philosopher — Riccabocca  had 
tried  the  experiment,  and  knew  what  it  was.  Why,  even  that 
plain-speaking,  sensible,  practical  man,  Metellus  Numidicus, 
who:was  not  even  a  philosopher,  but  only  a  Roman  Censor,  thus 
expressed  himself  in  an  exhortation  to  the  people  to  perpetrate 
matrimony — 'If,  O  Quirites,  we  could  do  without  wives,  we 
should  all  dispense  with  that  subject  of  care  (ed  melestid  care- 
remus};  but  since  nature  has  so  managed  it  that  we  Cannot  live 
with  women  comfortably,  nor  without  them  at  all,  let  us  rather 
provide  for  the  human  race  than  our  own  temporary  felicity." 

Here  the  ladies  set  up  a  cry  of  such  indignation,  that  both  Ro- 
land and  myself  endeavored  to  appease  their  wrath  by  hasty 
assurances  that  we  utterly  repudiated  the  damnable  doctrine  of 
Metellus  Numidicus. 

My  father,  wholly  unmoved,  as  soon  as  a  sullen  silence  was 
established,  recommenced — "  Do  not  think,  ladies,"  said  he, 
"  that  you  were  without  advocates  at  that  day  ;  there  were  many 
Romans  gallant  enough  to  blame  the  Censor  for  a  mode  of  ex- 
pressing himself  which. they  held:to  be  equally  impolite  and  in- 
judicious. '  Surely,'  said  they,  with  some  plausibility,  '  if  Nu- 
midicus wished  men  to  marry,  he  need  not  have  referred  so 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGI.JSH    LIFE.  195 

peremptorily  to  the  disquietudes  of  the  connection,  and  thus 
have  made  them  more  inclined  to  turn  away  from  matrimony 
than  given  them  a  relish  for  it.'  But  against  these  critics  one 
honest  man  (whose  name  of  Titus Castricius  should  not  be  for- 
gotten by  posterity)  maintained  that  Metellus  Numidicus  could 
not  have  spoken  more  properly  :  'For  remark,'  said  he,  '  that 
Metellus  was  a  censor,  not  a  rhetorician.  It  becomes  rhetori- 
cians to  adorn  and  disguise,  and  make  the  best  of  things  ;  but 
Meteilus,  sanctusvir — a  holy  and  blameless  man,  grave  and  sin- 
cere to  wit,  and  addressing  the  Roman  people  in  the  solemn  ca- 
pacity of  Censor — was  bound  to  speak  the  plain  truth,  especi- 
ally as  he  was  treating  on  a  subject  on  which  the  observation  of 
every  day  and  the  experience  of  every  life,  could  not  leave  the 
least  doubt  upon  the  mind  of  his  audience.'  Still,  Riccabocca, 
having  decided  to  marry,  has  no  doubt  prepared  himself  to  bear 
all  the  concomitant  evils — as  becomes  a  professed  sage  ;  and  I 
own  I  admire  the  art  with  which  Pisistratus  has  drawn  the  kind 
of  woman  most  likely  to  suit  a  philosopher—" 

Pisistratus  bows  and  looks  round  complacently  ;  but  recoils 
from  two  very  peevish  and  discontented  faces  feminine. 

MR.CAXTON  (completing  his  sentence). — Not  only  as  regards 
mildness  of  temper  and  other  household  qualifications,  but  as 
regards  the  very  person  of  the  object  of  his  choice.  For  you  evi- 
dently remember,  Pisistratus,  the  reply  of  Bias,  when  asked  his 
opinion  on  marriage:  ""ZZYo*  nakrjv  £%8i^  ff  aiff^pav  uai 
si  xaXr/v,  e<?£z?  Ttoivrjv  si_$r]  ctiG%pav  sgeiS  noiv^v.'1' 

Pisistratus  tries  to  look  as  if  he  had  the  opinion  of  Bias  by 
heart,  and  nods  acquiescingly. 

MR.  CAXTON. — That  is,  my  dears,  "the  woman  ,you  would 
marry  is  either  handsome  or  ugly  ;  if  handsome  she  is  koine,viz., 
you  don't  have  her  to  yourself  ;  if  ugly,  she  is  poine— -that  is,  a 
fury."  But,  as  it  is  observed  in  Aulus  Gellius  (whence  I  borrow 
this  citation),  there  is  a  wide  interval  between  handsome  and 
ugly.  And  thus  Ennius,  in  his  tragedy  of  Menalippus,  uses  an 
admirable  expression  to  designate  women  to  the  proper  degree 
of  matrimonial  comeliness,  such  as  a  philosopher  would  select. 
He  calls  this  degree  statg.  forma — a  rational,  mediocre  sort  of 
beauty,  which  is  not  liable  to  be  either  koine  or  poine.  And 
Favorinus,  who  was  a  remarkably  sensible  man,  and  came  from 
Provence — the  male  inhabitants  of  which  district  have  always 
valued  themselves  on  their  knowledge  of  love  and  ladies — calls 
this  said  stata  forma  the  beauty  of  wives — the  uxorial  beauty. 
Ennius  says;,  that  women  of  a  stata  forma,  are  always  safe  and 
modest.  Now,  Jemima,  you  observe,  is  described  as  possessing 


196  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

this  stata  forma  j  and  it  is  the  nicety  of  your  observation  in 
this  respect,  which  I  like  the  most  in  the  whole  of  your  descrip- 
tion of  a  philosopher's  matrimonial  courtship,  Pisistratus  (ex- 
cepting only  the  stroke  of  the  spectacles),  for  it  shows  that  you 
had  properly  considered  the  opinion  of  Bias,and  mastered  all  the 
counter-logic  suggested  in  Book  V., chapter  xi., of  Aulus  Gellius." 

"For all  that,"  said  Blanche,  half  archly,  half  demurely, with 
a  smile  in  the  eye  and  a  pout  of  the  lip,  "  I  don't  remember  that 
Pisistratus,  in  the  days  when  he  wished  to  be  most  complimentary, 
ever  assured  me  that  I  had  a  stata  forma — a  rational,  mediocre 
sort  of  beauty." 

"  And  I  think,"  observed  my  uncle,  "  that  when  he  comes  to 
his  real  heroine,  whoever  she  may  be,  he  will  not  trouble  his  head 
much  about  either  Bias  or  Aulus  Gellius." 

CHAPTER  II. 

MATRIMONY  is  certainly  a  great  change  in  life.  One  is  aston- 
ished not  to  find  a  notable  alteration  in  one's  friend,  even  if  he 
or  she  have  been  only  wedded  a  week.  In  the  instance  of  Dr.  and 
Mrs.  Riccabocca  the  change  was  peculiarly  visible.  To  speak  first 
of  the  lady,  as  in  chivalry  bound,  Mrs.  Riccabocca  had  entirely 
renounced  that  melancholy  which  had  characterized  Miss  Jem- 
ima ;  she  became  even  sprightly  and  gay,  and  looked  all  the  bet- 
ter and  prettier  for  the  alteration.  She  did  not  scruple  to  confess 
honestly  to  Mrs.  Dale,  that  she  was  now  of  opinion  that  the  world 
was  very  far  from  approaching  its  end.  But,  in  the  meanwhile, 
she  did  not  neglect  the  duty  which  the  belief  she  had  abandoned 
serves  to  inculcate — "  She  set  her  house  in  order."  The  cold 
and  penurious  elegance  that  had  characterized  the  Casino  disap- 
peared like  enchantment— .that  is,  the  elegance  remained,  but  the 
cold  and  penury  fled  before  the  smile  of  woman.  Like  Puss-in- 
Boots,  after  the  nuptials  of  his  master,  Jackeymo  only  now  caught 
minnows  and  sticklebacks  for  his  o\vn  amusement.  Jackeymo 
looked  much  plumper,  and  so  did  Riccabocca.  In  a.  word,  the 
fair  Jemima  became  an  excellent  wife.  Riccabocca  secretly 
thought  her  extravagant,  but  like  a  wise  man,  declined  to  look 
at  the  house-bills,  and  ate  his  joint  in  unreproachful  silence. 

Indeed,  there  was  so  much  unaffected  kindness  in  the  nature 
of  Mrs.  Riccabocca — beneath  the  quiet  of  her  manner,  there 
beat  so  genially  the  heart  of  the  Hazeldeans — that  she  fairly  jus- 
tified the  favorable  anticipations  of  Mrs.  Dale.  And  though  the 
Doctor  did  not  noisily  boast  of  his  felicity,  nor,  as  some  new- 
married  folks  do,  thrust  it  insultingly  under  the  nimis  unctis  nari- 
bus — the  turned-up  noses  of  your  surly  old  married  folks — nor 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  197 

force  it  gaudily  and  glaringly  on  the  envious  eyes  of  the  single, 
you  might  still  see  that  he  was  a  more  cheerful  and  light-hearted 
man  than  before.  His  smile  was  less  ironical,  his  politeness  less 
distinct.  He  did  not  study  Machiavelli  so  intensely — and  he  did 
not  return  to  the  spectacles  ;  which  last  was  an  excellent  sign. 
Moreover,  the  humanizing  influence  of  the  tidy  English  wife 
mightbeseen  in  the  improvement  of  his  outward  or  artificialman. 
His  clothes  seemed  to  fit  him  better  ;  indeed  the  clothes  were 
new.  Mrs.  Dale  no  longer  remarked  that  the  buttons  were  off  the 
wristbands,  which  was  a  great  satisfaction  to  her.  But  the  sage 
still  remained  faithful  to  the  pipe,  the  cloak,  and  the  red  silk  um- 
brella. Mrs.  Riccabocca  had  (to  her  credit  be  it  spoken)  used 
all  becoming  and  wife-like  arts  against  these  three  remnants  of 
theold  bachelor  Adam,  but  in  vain.  ^Anima  mia"  (soul  of  mine), 
said  the  Doctor,  tenderly  ;  "  I  hold  the  cloak,  the  umbrella,  and 
the  pipe,  as  the  sole  relics  that  remain  to  me  of  my.  native  coun- 
try. Respect  and  spare  them." 

Mrs.  Riccabocca  was  touched,  and  had  the  good  sense  to  per- 
ceive that  man,  let  him  be  ever  so  much  married,  retains  certain 
signs  of  his  ancient  independence — certain  tokens  of  his  old 
identity,  which  a  wife,  the  most  despotic,  will  do  well  toconcede. 
She  conceded  the  cloak,  she  submitted  to  the  umbrella,  she  over- 
came her  abhorrence  of  the  pipe.  After  all,  considering  the  nat- 
ural villany  of  our  sex,  she  confessed  to  herself  t^hat  she  might 
have  been  worse  off.  But,  through  all  the  calm  and  cheerfulness 
of  Riccabocca,  a  nervous  perturbation  was  sufficiently  percepti- 
ble ;  it  commenced  after  the  second  week  of  marriage — it  went 
on  increasing,  till  one  bright  sunny  afternoon,  as  he  was  stand- 
ing on  his  terrace,  gazing  down  upon  the  road,  at  which  Jack- 
eyvno  was  placed — lo,  a  stage  coach  stopped  !  The  Doctor  made 
a  bound,  and  put  both  hands  to  his  heart  as  if  he  had  been  shot ; 
he  then  leaped  over  the  balustrade,  and  his  wife  from  her  window 
beheld  him  flying  down  the  hill,  with  his  long  hair  streaming  in 
the  wind,  till  the  trees  hid  him  from  her  sight. 

"Ah,"  thought  she,  with  a  natural  pang  of  conjugal  jealousy, 
''henceforth  I  am  .only  second  in  his  home.  He  has  gone  to 
welcome  his  child  !  "  And  at  that  reflection  Mrs.  Riccabocca 
shed  tears. 

But  so  naturally  amiable  was  she,  that  she  hastened  tocurbher 
rfmotion,  and  efface  as  well  as  she  could  the  trace  of  a  step-moth- 
er's grief. '  When  this  was  done,  and  a  silent,  self-rebuking  prayer 
murmured  over,  the  good  woman  descended  the  stairs  with  alac- 
rity, and  summoning  up  her  best  smiles,  emerged  on  the  terrace. 

She  was  repaid  ;  for  scarcely  had  she  come  into  the  open  air, 


198  MY    NOVEL;    OR, 

when  two  little  arms  were  thrown  around  her,  and  the  sweetest 
voice  that  ever  came  from  a  child's  lips,  sighed  out  in  broken 
English,  "Good  mamma,  love  me  a  little." 

:  "  Love  you  ?  with  my  whole  heart !  "  <:ried  the  step-mother, 
with  all  a  mother's  honest  passion.  And  she  clasped  the  child 
to  her  breast. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  wife,"  said  Riccabbcca  in  a  husky  tone. 

"  Please  take  this  too,"  added  Jackeymo,  in  Italian,  as  well 
as  his  sobs  would  let  him— and  he  broke  off  a  great  bough  full 
of  blossoms  from  his  favorite  orange-tree,  and  thrust  it  into  his 
mistress's  hand.  She  had  not  the  slightest  notion  what  he 
meant  by  it ! 

CHAPTER  III. 

VIOLANTE  was  indeed  a"  bewitching  child — a  child  to  whom 
I  defy  Mrs.  Caudle  herself  (immortal  Mrs.  Caudle!)  to  have 
been  a  harsh,  step-mother. 

Look  at  her  now,  as,  released  from  those  kindly  arms,  she 
stands,  still  clinging  with  one  hand  to  her  new  mamma,  and 
holding  out  the  other  to  Riccabocca,^— with  those  large,  dark 
eyes  swimming  in  happy  tears.  What  a  lovely  smile!— ^what  an 
ingenuous,  candid  brow  !  She  looks  delicate — she  evidently 
requires- care^-she  wants  the  mother.  And  rare  is  the  woman 
who  would  not  love  her  the  better  for  that !  Still,  what  an  in- 
nocent, infantine  bloom  in  those  clear,  smooth  cheeks  ! — and 
in  that  slight  frame,  what  exquisite  natural  grace  ! 

"And  this,  I  suppose, is  your  nurse,  darling?"  said  Mrs.  Ric- 
cabocca,  observing  a  dark,  foreign-looking  woman,  dressed  very 
strangely,  without  cap  or  bonnet,  but  a  great  silver  arrow  stuck 
in  her  hair,  and  a  filigree  chain  or  necklace  resting  upon  her 
kerchief. 

"  Ah,  good  Anetta,"  said  Violante  in  Italian.  "  Papa,  she 
says  she  is  to  go  back  ;  but  she  is  not  to  go  back — is  she  ? " 

Riccabocca,  who  had  scarcely  before  noticed  the  woman,  start- 
ed at  that  question — exchanged  a  rapid  glance  With  Jackeymo — 
tind  then,  muttering  'some  inaudible  excuse,  approached  the 
nurse,  and  beckoning  her  to  follow  him,  went  away  into  the 
grounds.  He  did  not  return  for  more  than  an  hour,  nor  did  the 
woman  then  accompany  him  home.  He  said  briefly  to  his  wife 
tliat  the  nurse  was  obliged  to  return  at  once  to  Italy,  and  that 
she  would  stay  in  th.evillage  to  catch  the  mail ;  that  indeed  she 
would  be  of  no  use  in  their  establish  merit,  as  she  could  not  speak 
a  word  of  English  ;  but'that  he  was  sadly  afraid  Violante  would 
pine  for  her.  And  Violante  did  pine  at  first.  But  still,  to  a 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  199 

child  it  is  so  great  a  thing  to  find  a  parent — to  be  at  home — 
that,  tender  and  grateful  as  Violante  was,  she  could  not  be  in- 
consolable while  her  father  was  there  to  comfort. 

For  the  first  few  days,  Riccabocca  scarcely  permitted  anyone 
to  be  with  his  daughter  but  himself.  He  would  not  even  leave 
her  alone  with  his  Jemima.  They  walked  out  together— sat  to- 
gether for  hours  in  the  belvidere.  Then  by  degrees  he  began 
to  resign  her  more  and  more  to  Jemima's  care  and  tuition,  es- 
pecially in  English,  of  which  language  at  present  she  spoke 
only  a  few  sentences  (previously,  perhaps,  learned  by  heart), 
so  as  to  be  clearly  intelligible. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

THERE  was  one  person  in-the  establishment  of  Dr.  Ricca- 
bocca, who  was  satisfied  neither  with  the  marriage  of  his  mas- 
ter nor  the  arrival  of  Violante — and  that  was  our  friend  Lenny 
Fairfield.  Previous  to  the  all-absorbing  duties  of  courtship, 
the  young  peasant  had  secured  a  very  large  share  of  Riccaboc- 
ca's  attention.  The  sage  had  felt  an  interest  in  the  growth  of 
this  rude  intelligence  struggling  up  to  light.  But  what  with  the 
wooing,  and  what  with  the  wedding,  Lenny  Fairfield  had  sunk 
very  much  out  of  his  artificial  position  as  pupil,  into  his  natu- 
ral station  of  under-gardener.  And  on  the  arrival  of  Violante, 
he  saw,  with  natural  bitterness,  that  he  was  clean  forgotten,  not 
only  by  Riccabocca,  but  almost  by  Jackeymo.  It  was  true  that 
the  master  still  lent  him  books,  and  the  servant  still  gave  him 
lectures  on  horticulture.  But  Riccabocca  had  no  time  nor  in- 
clination now  to 'amuse  himself  with  enlightening  that  tumult  of 
conjecture  which  the  books  created.  And  if  Jackeymo  had 
been  covetous  of  those  mines  of  gold  buried  beneath  the  acres 
now  fairly  taken  from  the  Satire  (a'nd  good-naturedly  added 
rent-free,  as  an  aid  to  Jemima's  dower),  before  the  advent  of 
the  young  lady  whose  future  doAvry  the  produce  was  to  swell — 
now  that  she  was  actually  Under  the  eyes  of  the  faithful  ser- 
vant, such  a  stimulus  was  given  to  his  industry  that  he  could 
think  of  nothing  else  but  the  land,  and  the  revolution  he  de- 
signed to  effect  in  its  natural  English  crops.  The  garden,  save 
only  the  orange-trees,  was  abandoned  entirely  to  Lenny,  and 
additional  laborers  were  called  in  for  the  field-work.  Jackeymo 
had  discovered  that  one  part  of  the  soil  was  suited  to  lavender, 
that  another  would  grow  camomile.  He  had  in  his  heart  ap- 
portioned a  beautiful  field  of  rich  loam  to  flax  ;  but  against  the 
growth  of  flax  the  Squire  set  his  face  obstinately.  That  most  lu- 
crative, perhaps,  of  all  crops,  when  soil  and  skill  suit,  was  form- 


200  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

erly  attempted  in  England  much  more  commonly  than  it  is  now, 
since  you  will  find  few  old  leases  which  do  not  contain  a  clause 
prohibitory  of  flax,  as  an  impoverishment  of  the  land.  And 
though  Jackeymo  learnedly  endeavored  to  prove  to  the  Squire 
that  the  flax  itself  contained  particles  which,  if  returned  to  the 
soil,  repaid  all  that  the  crop  took  away,  Mr.  Hazeldean  had  his 
old-fashioned  prejudices  on  the  matter,  which  were  insuperable. 
"  My  forefathers,"  quoth  he,  "did  not  put  that  clause  in  their 
leases  without  good  cause  ;  and  as  the  Casino  lands  are  en- 
tailed on  Frank,  I  have  no  right  to  gratify  your  foreign  whims 
at  his  expense." 

To  make  up  for  the  loss  of  the  flax,  Jackeymo  resolved  to 
convert  a  very  nice  bit  of  pasture  into  orchard  ground,  which 
he  calculated  would  bring  in  £10  net  per  acre  by  the  time 
Miss  Violante  was  marriageable.  At  this  the  Squire  pished  a 
little  ;  but  as  it  was  quite  clear  that  the  land  would  be  all  the 
more  valuable  hereafter  for  the  fruit-trees,  he  consented  to  per- 
mit the  "  grass-land  "  to  be  thus  partially  broken  up. 

All  these  changes  left  poor  Lenny  Fairfield  very  much  to 
himself — at  a  time  when  the  new  and  strange  devices  which  the 
initiation  into  book  knowledge  creates  made  it  most  desirable 
that  he  should  have  the  constant  guidance  of  a  superior  mind. 

One  evening  after  his  work,  as  Lenny  was  returning  to  his 
mother's  cottage,  very  sullen  and  very  moody,  he  suddenly 
came  in  contact  with  Sprott  the  Tinker. 

CHAPTER  V. 

• 

THE  Tinker  was  seated  under  a  hedge,  hammering  away  at 
an  old  kettle — with  a  little  fire  burning  in  front  of  him — and 
the  donkey  hard  by,  indulging  in  a  placid  doze.  Mr.  Sprott 
looked  up  as  Lenny  passed — nodded  kindly,  and  said — 

"  Good  evenin',  Lenny  ;  glad  to  hear  you,  be  so  'spectably 
sitivated  with  Mounseer." 

*'  Ay,"  answered  Lenny,  with  a  leaven  of  rancor  in  his  recol- 
lections, "  you're  not  ashamed  to  speak  to  me  now  that  I  am 
not  in  disgrace.  But  it  was  in  disgrace,  when  it  wasn't  my 
fault,  that  the  real  gentleman  was  most  kind  to  me." 

"  Ar — r,  Lenny,"  said  the  Tinker,  with  a  prolonged  rattle  in 
that  said  Ar — r,  which  was  not  without  great  significance.  "  But 
you  sees  the  real  gentleman,  who  han't  got  his  bread  to  get,  can 
hafford  to  'spise  his  cracter  in  the  world.  A  poor  Tinker  must 
be  fy.mbersome  and  nice  in  his  'sociations.  But  sit  down  her* 
a  bit,  Lenny  ;  I've  summut  to  say  to  ye  !  " 

"Tome— " 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  204 

"Toye.  Givetheneddyashoveouti'thevay,and  sitdown,Isay." 

Lenny  rather  reluctantly,  and  somewhat  superciliously,  ac- 
cepted this  invitation. 

"  I  hears,"  said  the  Tinker  in  a  voice  made  rather  indistinct 
by  a  couple  of  nails  which  he  had  inserted  between  his  teeth — 
"  I  hears  as  how  you  be  unkimmon  fond  of  reading.  I  ha'  sum 
nice  cheap  books  in  my  bag  yonder — sum  as  low  as  a  penny." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  them,"  said  Lenny,  his  eyes  sparkling. 

The  Tinker  rose,  opened  one  of  the  panniers  on  the  ass's 
back,  took  out  a  bag,  which  he  placed  before  Lenny,  and  told 
him  to  suit  himself.  The  young  peasant  desired  no  better.  He 
spread  all  the  contents  of  the  bag  on  the  sward]  and  a  motley 
collection  of  food  for  the  mind  was  there — food  and  poison — 
scrpentes  avibus — good  and  evil.  Here  Milton's  Paradise  Lost, 
there  the  Age  of  Reason — here  Methodist  Tracts,  there  True 
Principles  of  Socialism — Treatises  on  Useful  Knowledge  by 
sound  learning  actuated  by  pure  benevolence — Appeals  to  Op- 
eratives by  the  shallowest  reasoners,  instigated  by  the  same  am- 
bition that  had  moved  Eratosthenes  to  the  conflagration  of  a 
temple  ;  works  of  fiction  as  admirable  as  Robinson  Crusoe,  or 
innocent  as  the  Old  English  Baron  ;  besides  coarse  translations 
of  such  garbage  as  had  rotted  away  the  youth  of  France  under 
Louis  Quinze.  This  miscellany  was  an  epitome,  in  short,  of  the 
mixed  World  of  Books  of  the  vast  City  of  the  Press,  with  its 
palaces  and  hovels,  its  aqueducts  and  sewers — which  opens  all 
alike  to  the  naked  eye  and  the  curious  mind  of  him  to  whom  you 
say,  in  the  Tinker's  careless  phrase,  "  Suit  yourself/' 

But  it  is  not  the  first  impulse  of  a  nature,  healthful  and  still  pure, 
to  settle  in  the  hovel  and  lose  itself  amidst  the  sewers;  and  Lenny 
Fairfield turned  innocently overthebadbooks,andselectingtwoor 
three  of  the  best,  brought  them  to  the  Tinker,  and  asked  the  price. 

"  Why,"  said  Mr.  Sprott,  putting  on  his  spectacles,  "  you  have 
taken  the  werry  dearest ;  them  'ere  be  much  cheaper,  and  more 
hinterestin'." 

"  But  I  don't  fancy  them,"  answered  Lenny  ;  "  I  don't  un- 
derstand what  they  are  about,  and  this  seems  to  tell  one  how  the 
steam-engine  is  made,  and  has  nice  plates  ;  and  this  is  Ro'b- 
inson  Crusoe,  which  Parson  Dale  once  said  he  would  give  me- — 
I'd  rather  buy  it  out  of  my  own  money." 

"  Well,  please  yourself,"  quoth  the  Tinker  ;  "  you  shall  have 
the  books  for  four  bob,  and  you  can  pay  me  next  month." 

"  Four  bobs — four  shillings  ?  it  is  a  great  sum,"  said  Lenny  ; 
"  but  I  will  lay  by,  as  you  are  kind  enough  to  trust  me  ;  good 
evening,  Mr.  Sprott." 


202  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  Stay  a  bit,"  said  the  Tinker;  "  I'll  just  throw  you  these  two 
little  tracts  into  the  bargain;  they  be  only  a  shilling  a  dozen,  so 
'tis  but  tuppence — and  when  you  has  read  those,  vy,  you'll  be  a 
reglar  customer." 

The  Tinker  tossed  to  Lenny  Nos.  i  and  2  of  Appeals  to 
Operatives,  and  the  peasant  took  them  up  gratefully. 

The  young  knowledge-seeker  went  his  way  across  the  green 
fields,  and  under  the  still  autumn  foliage  of  the  hedge-rows.  He 
looked  first  at  one  book,  then  at  another  :  he  did  not  know  on 
which  to  settle. : 

The  Tinker  rose  and  made  a  fire  with  leaves,  and  furze,  and 
sticks,  some  dry  and  some  green. 

Lenny  has  now  opened  No.  i  of  the  tracts;  they  are  the 
shortest  to  read,  and  don't  require  so  much  effort  of  the  mind 
as  the  explanation  of  the  steam-engine. 

The  Tinker  has  set  on  his  grimy  glue-pot,and  the  glue  simmers. 

' 

CHAPTER  VI. 

.    • 

As  Violante  became  more  familiar  with  her  new  home,  and 
those  around  her  became  more  familiar  with  Violante,  she  was 
remarked  fora  certain  stateliness  of  manner  and  bearing,  which, 
had  it  been  less  evidently  natural  and  inborn^  would  have  seemed 
misplaced  in  the  daughter  of  a  forlorn  exile,  and  would  have 
been  rare  at  so  early  an  age  among  children  of  the  loftiest  pre- 
tensions. It  was  with  the  air  of  a  little  princess  that  she  pre- 
sented her  tiny  hand  to  a  friendly  pressure,  or  submitted  her 
calm  clear  cheek  to  a  presuming  kiss.  Yet  withal  she  was  so 
graceful,  and  her  very  stateliness  was  so  pretty  and  captivating, 
that  she  was  not  the  less  loved  for  all  her  grand  airs.  And,  in- 
deed, she  deserved  to  be  loved  ;  for  though  she  was  certainly 
prouder  than  Mr.  Dale  could  approve  x>f,  her  pride  was  devoid 
of  egotism  ;  and  that  is  a  pride  by  no  means  common.  She  had' 
an  intuitive  forethought  for  others  ;  you  could  see  that  she  was 
capable  of  that  grand  woman-heroism,  abnegation  of  self  :  and 
though  she  was  an  original  child,  and  Often  grave  and  musing, 
with  a  tinge  of  melancholy,  sweet,  but  deep,  in  her  character, 
still  she  was  not  above  the  happy,  genial  merriment  of  child- 
hood— only  her  silver  laugh  was  more  attuned,  and  her  gestures 
more  composed,  than  those  of  children  habituated  to  many 
playfellows  usually  are.  Mrs.  Hazeldean  liked  her  best  when- 
grave,  and  said  "she  would  become  a  very  sensible  woman." 
Mrs.  Daje  liked  her  best  when  she  was  gay,  and  said  "  she  was 
born  to  make  many  a  heart  ache  ";  for  which  Mrs.  Dale  was 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  303 

properly  reproved  by  theParson.  Mrs.  Hazeldean  gave  hera  set  of 
garden  tools;  Mrs.  Dale  a  picture-book  and  a  beautiful  doll.  For 
a  long  time  the  book  and  the  doll  had  the  preference.  But  Mrs. 
Hazeldean  having  observed  to  Riccabocca  that  the  poor  child 
looked  pale,  and  ought  to  be  a  good  deal  in  the  open  air,  the  wise 
father  ingeniously  pretended  to  Violante  that  Mrs.  Riccaboccahad 
taken  a  great  fancy  to  the  picture-book, and  that  he  should  be  very 
glad  to  have  the  doll,  upon  which  Violante  hastened  to  give  them 
both  away,  and  was  never  so  h,appy  as  when  mamma  (as  she  called 
Mrs.  Riccabocca)  was  admiring  the  picture-book,  and  Riccabocca 
with  austere  gravity  dandled  the  doll.  Then  Riccabocca  assured 
her  that  she  could  be  of  gjeat  use  to  him  in  the  garden;  and  Vio- 
lanteinstantly  put  into  movement  herspade,hoe,anci  wheelbarrow. 

This  last  occupation  .brought  her  into  immediate  contact 
with  Mr.  Leqnard  Fairfie,ld  ;  and  that  personage  one  morning, 
to  his  great  horror,  found  Miss  Violante  had  nearly  extermi- 
nated a  whole  celery-bed,  which  she  had  ignorantly  conceived 
to  be  a  crop  of  weeds. 

Lenny  w.as  extremelyangry.  He  snatched  away  the  hoe,and  said 
Angrily,  "You  must  not  do  that,  miss;  I'll  tell  your  papa,  if  you — " 

Violante  drew  herself  ;up,  and  never,  having  been  so  spoken 
to  before,  at  least  since  her  arrival. in  England,  there  was  some- 
thing comic  in  the 'Surprise  of  her  large  eyes,  as  well  as  some- 
thing  tragic  in  the  dignity  of  her  offended  mien.  "  It  is  very 
naughty  of  you,  Miss,"  continued  Leonard  in  a  milder  tone, 
for  he  was  both  softened  by  the  eyes  and  awed  by  the  mien, 
"and  I  trust  you  will  not  do  it  again." 

"  Non  capisco"  (I  don't  understand),  murmured  Violante, 
and  the  dark  eyes  filled  with  tears.  At  that  moment,  up  came 
Jackeymo  ;  and  Violante,  pointing  to  Leonard,  said,  with  an 
effort  not  $o  betray  her  emotion,  " 'II  fanciullo  I  molto  grosso- 
lano  "  (he  is  a  very  rude  boy). 

Jackeymo  turned  to  Leonard  with  the  look  of  an  enraged 
tiger.  "  How  you  dare,  scum  of  de  earth  that  you  are/'  cried 
he,*  "  how  dare  you  make  cry  the  signorina  ?  "  And  his  English 
not  supplying  familiar  vituperatives.  sufficiently,  he  poured  out 
upon  Lenny  such  a  profusion  of  Italian  abuse,  that-  the  boy 
turned  red  and  white,  in  a  breath,  with  rage  and  perplexity. 

Violantetookinstantcompassion  upon thevictimshe  had  made, 
and,  with,  true  feminine  caprice,  now  began  to  scold  Jackeymo 
for  his  anger, and,  finally  approaching  Leonard,  laid  her  hand  on 

*  It  need  scarcely  be  observed  that  Jackeymo,  in  his  conversations  with  his  master  or  Vio- 
lante, or  his  conferences  with  himself,  employs  his  native  language,  which  is  therefore  trans- 
lated withou'  the  blunders  that  he  is  driven  to  commit  when  compelled  to  trust  himself  to 
*he  tongue  of  the  country  in  which  he  is  a  sojourner. 


204  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

his  arm,  and  said  with  a  kindness  at  once  childlike  and  queenly, 
and  in  the  prettiest  imaginable  mixture  of  imperfect  English  and 
softltalian,towhich  I  cannot  pretend  todo  justice,  and  shallthere- 
fore  translate;  "Don't  mind  him.  I  dare  say  it  was  all  my  fault 
only  I  did  not  understand  you;  are  not  these  things  weeds  ?  " 

"  No,  my  darling  signorina,"  said  Jackeymo  in  Italian,  look- 
ing ruefully  at  the  celery-bed,  "  they  are  not  weeds,  and  they  sell 
very  well  at  this  time  of  the  year.  But  still,  if  it  amuses  you 
to  pluck  them  up,  I  should  like  to  see  who's  to  prevent  it." 

Lenny  walked  away.  He  had  been  called  "  the  scum  of  the 
earth,"  by  a  foreigner  too  !  He  had  again  bee'n  ill-treated  for 
doing  what  he  conceived  his  duty.  He  was  again  feeling  the 
distinction  between  rich  and  poor,  and  he  now  fancied  that  that 
distinction  involved  deadly  warfare,  for  he  had  read  from  be- 
ginning to  end  those  two  damnable  tracts  which  the  Tinker  had 
presented  to  him.  But  in  the  midst  of  all  the  angry  disturb- 
ance of  his  mind,  he  felt  the  soft  touch  of  the  infant's  hand, 
the  soothing  influence  of  her  conciliating  words,  and  he  was 
half  ashamed  that  he  had  spoken  so  roughly  to  a  child. 

Still,  not  trusting  himself  to  speak,  he  walked  away,  and  sat 
down  at  a  distance.  "  I  don't  see,"  thought  he,  "  why  there 
should  be  rich  and  poor,  master  and  servant."  Lenny,  be  it 
remembered,  had  not  heard  the  Parson's  Political  Sermon. 

An  hour  after,  having  composed  himself,  Lenny  returned  to 
his  work.  Jack'eymo  was  no  longer  in  the  garden  ;  he  had  gone 
to  the  fields  ;  but  Riccabocca  was  standing  by  the  celery-bed,  and 
holding  the  red  silk  umbrella  over  Violante  as  she  sat  on  the 
ground,  looking  up  at  her  father  with  those  eyes  already  so  full 
of  intelligence,  and  love,  and  soul. 

"  Lenny,"  said  Riccabocca,  "  my  young  lady  has  been  telling 
me  that  she  has  been  very  naughty,  and  Giacomo  very  unjust 
to  you.  Forgive  them  both." 

Lenny's  sullenness  melted  in  an  instant  ;  the  reminiscences 
of  tracts  Nos.  i  and  2, 

"  Like  the  baseless  fabric  of  a  vision, 
Left  not  a  wreck  behiad." 

He  raised  his  eyes,  swimming  with  all  his  native  goodness,  toward 
the  wise  man,  and  dropped  them  gratefully  on  the  infant  peace- 
maker. Then  he  turned  away  his  head  and  fairly  wept.  The  Par- 
son was  right :  "  O  ye  poor,  have  charity  for  the  rich  ;  O  ye  rich, 
respect  the  poor." 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  20$ 

CHAPTER  VII. 

Now  from  that  day  the  humble  Lenny  and  regal  Violante  be- 
came great  friends.  With  what  pride  he  taught  her  to  distin- 
guish between  celery  and  weeds^and  how  proud  too  was  she 
when  she  learned  that  she  was  useful !  There  is  not  a  greater 
pleasure  you  can  give  children,  especially  female  children,  than 
to  make  them  feel  they  are  already  of  value  in  the  world,  and 
serviceable  as  well  as  protected.  Weeks  and  months  rolled  away, 
and  Lenny  still  read,  not  only  the  books  lent  him  by  the  Doctor, 
but  those  he  bought  of  Mr.  Sprott.  As  for  the  bombs  and  shells 
against  religion  which  the  Tinker  carried  in  his  bag,  Lenny  was 
not  induced  to  blow  himself  up  with  them.  He  had  been  reared 
from  his  cradle  in  simple  love  and  reverence  for  the  Divine 
Father,  and  the  tender  Saviour,  whose  life  beyond  all  records 
of  human  goodness,  whose  death  beyond  all  epics  of  mor- 
tal heroism,  no  being  whose  infancy  has  been  taught  to  suppli- 
cate the  Merciful  and  adore  the  Holy,  yea,  even  though  his  later 
life  may  be  entangled  amidst  the  thorns  of  some  desolate  pyrrho- 
nism,  can  ever  hear  reviled  and  scoffed  without  a  shock  to  the 
conscience  and  a  revolt  to  the  heart.  As  the  deer  recoils 'by 
instinct  from  the  tiger,  as  the  very  look  of  the  scorpion  deters  you 
from  handling  it,  though  you  never  saw  a  scorpion  before,  so  the 
very  first  line  in  some  ribald  profanity  on  which  the  Tinker  put 
his  black  finger,  made  Lenny's  blood  run  cold.  Safe,  too,  was 
the  peasant  boy  from  any  temptation  in  works  of  a  gross  and 
licentious  nature,  not  only  because  of  the  happy  ignorance  of  his 
rural  life,  but  because  of  a  more  enduring  safeguard — genius  ! 
Genius,  that,  manly,  robust,  healthful  as  it  be,  is  long  before  it 
lose  its  instinctive  Dorian  modesty  ;  shame-faced,  because  so 
susceptible  to  glory — genius,  that  loves  indeed  to  dream,  but  on 
the  violet  bank,  not  the  dunghill.  Wherefore,  even  in  the  error  of 
the  senses,  it  seeks  to  escape  from  the  sensual  into  worlds  of 
fancy,  subtle  and  refined.  But  apart  from  the  passions,  true  gen- 
ius is  the  most  practical  of  all  human  gifts.  Like  the  Apollo 
whom  the  Greek  worshipped  as  its  type,  even  Arcady  is  its  exile, 
not  its  home.  Soon  weary  of  the  dalliance  of  Tempe,  it  ascends 
to  its  mission — -the  Archer  of  the  silver  bow,  the  guide  of  the  car 
of  light.  Speaking  more  plainly, genius  is  the  enthusiasm  forself- 
improvement;  it  ceases  or  sleeps  the  moment  it  desists  from  seek- 
ing some  object  which  it  believes  of  value,  and  by  that  object  it 
insensibly  connects  its  self-improvement  with  the  positive  ad- 
vance of  the  world.  At  present  Lenny's  genius  had  nobias  that 
was  not  to  the  Positive  and  Useful.  It  took  the  direction  natural 


206  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

to  its  sphere,  and  the  wants  therein — viz.,  to  the  arts  which  we 
call  mechanical.  He  wanted  to  know  about  steam-engines  and 
Artesian  wells;  and  to  kn.ow  about  them  it  was  .necessary  to 
know  something  of  mechanics  and  hydrostatics  ;  so  he  bought 
popular  elementary  works  on  those  mystic  sciences,  and  set  all 
the  powers  of  his  mind  at  work  on  experiments. 

Noble  and  generous  spirits  are  ye,  who,  with  small  care  for 
fame,  and  little  reward  from  pelf,  have  opened  to  the  intellects 
of  the  poor  the  portals  of  wisdom  !  I  honor  and  revere  ye  ; 
only  do  not  think  ye.  have  done  all  that  is  needful.  Consider,  I 
pray  ye,  whether  so  good  a  choice  from  the  Tinker's  bag  would 
have  been  made  by  a  boy  whom  religion  had  not  scared  from  the 
pestilent,  and  genius  had  not  led  to  the  self-improving.  And 
Lenny  did  not  wholly  escape  from  the  mephitic  portions  of  the 
motley  elements  from  which  his  awakening  mind  drew  its  nur- 
ture. Think  not  it  was  all  pure  oxygen  that  the.  panting  lip  drew 
in.  No  ;  there  were  still  those  inflammatory  tracts.  Political  I 
do  not  like  to  call  them,  for  politics,  means  the  art  of  govern- 
ment, and  -the  tracts  I  speak  of  assailed  all  government  which 
mankind  has  hitherto  recognized.  Sad  rubbish,  perhaps,  were 
such  tracts  to  you,  O  sound  thinker,  in  your  easy-chair  !  Or,  to 
you  practised  stateman,  at  your  ppst  on  the  Treasury  Bench — 
to  you,  calm  dignitary  of  a  learned  Church — or  to  you,  my  lord 
judge,  who  may  often  have  sent  from  your  bar  to  the  dire  Orcus 
of  Norfolk's  Isle:the  ghosts  of  men  whom  that  rubbish,  falling 
simultaneously  on  the  bumps  of  acquisitiveness  and  combative- 
ness,  hath  untimely  slain  !  Sad  rubbish  to  you  !  But  seems  it 
such  rubbish  to  the  poor  man,  to  whom  it  promises  a  paradise 
on  the  easy  terms,  of  upsetting  a  world  ?  For  ye  see,  those  "Ap- 
peals to  Operatives"  represent  that  same  world-upsetting  as  the 
simplest  thing  imaginable^— a  sort  of  two-and- two-make-four 
proposition.  The  poor  have  only  got  to  set  their  strong  hands 
to  the  axle,  and  heave  a-hoy  !  ,an.d  hurrah  for  the  topsy-turvy  ! 
Then,  just  put  a  little  wholesome  rage  into  the  heave  a-hoy  !  it 
is  so  facile  to  accompany  the  eloquence  of  "  Appeals  "  with  a 
kind  of  stir-the-bile-up  statistics — "  Abuses  of  the  Aristocracy" 
- — "  Jobs  of  the  Priesthood  " — "  Expenses  of  the  Army  kept  up 
for  Peers'  younger  sons  "—"  Wars  contracted  for  the  villanous 
purpose  of  raising  the  rents  of  the  land-ownersrM — all  arithmet- 
ically dished  up,  and  seasoned  with  tales  of  every  gentleman 
who  has  committed  a  misdeed,  every  clergyman  who  has  dis,- 
honored  his  cloth  ;  as  if  such  instances  were  fair  specimens  of 
average  gentlemen  and  ministers  of  religion  !  All  this  passion- 
ately advanced  (and  observe,  never  answered,  for  that  literature 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  207 

admits  no  controversialists,  and  the  writer  has  it  all  his  own  way) 
may  be  rubbish  ;  but  it  is  out  6f  such  rubbish  that  operatives 
build  barricades  for  attack,  and  legislators  prisons  for  defence. 

Our  poor  friend  Lenny  drew  plenty  of  this  stuff  from  the  Tink- 
er's bag.  He  thought  it  very  clever  and  very  eloquent;  and  he  sup- 
posed the  statistics  were  as  true  as  mathematical  demonstrations. 

A  famous  knowledge-diff  user  is  looking  over  my  shoulder,  and 
tells  me,  "  Increase  education,  and  cheapen  good  books,  and  all 
this  rubbish  will  disappear  !  "  Sir,  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it. 
If  you  printed  Ricardo  and  Adam  Smith  at  a  farthing  a  volume, 
I  still  believe  that  they  would  be  as  little  read  by  the  operatives 
as  they  are  now-a-days  by  a  very  large  proportion  of  highly  cul- 
tivated men.  I  still  believe  that,  while  the  press  works,  attacks 
on  the  rich,  and  propositions  for  heave-a-hoys,  will  always  form 
a  popular  portion  of  the  Literature  of  Labor.  There's  Lenny 
Fairfield  reading  a  treatise  on  hydraulics,  and  constructing  a 
model  for  a  fountain  into  the  bargain  ;  but  that  does  not  pre- 
vent his  acquiescence  in  any  proposition  for  getting  rid  of  a 
National  Debt,  which-  he  certainly  never  agreed  to  pay,  and 
which  he  is  told  makes  sugar  and  tea  so  shamefully  dear.  No, 
I  tell  you  what  does  a  little  counteract  these  eloquent  incentives 
to  break  his  own  head  against  the  social  walls  of  the  Social  Sys- 
tem— it  is,  that  he  has  two  eyes  in  that  head,  which  are  not 
always  employed  in  reading.  And,  having  been  told  in- 'print 
that  masters  are  tyrants,  parsons  hypocrites  or  drones  in  the 
hive,  and  land-owners  vampires  and  blood-suckers,  he  looks  out 
into  the  little  world  around  him,  and,  first,  he  is  compelled  to 
acknowledge  that  his  master  is  not  a  tyrant  (perhaps  because  he 
is  a  foreigner  and  a  philosopher,  and,  for  what  I  and  Lenny 
know,  a  republican).  But  then  Parson  Dale,  though  High 
Church  to  the  marrow,  is  neither  hypocrite  nor  drone.  He  has 
a  very  good  living,  it  is  true — much  better  than  he  ought  to 
have,  according  to  the  "political"  opinions  of  those  tracts  !  but 
Lenny  is  obliged  to  confess  that,  if  Parson  Dale  were  a  penny 
the  poorer,  he  would  do  a  pennyworth's  less  good  ;  and,  com- 
paring one  parish  with  another,  such  as  Rood  Hall  and  Hazel- 
dean,  he  is  dimly  aware  that  there  is  no  greater  CIVILIZER  than 
a  person  tolerably  well  off.  Then,  too,  Squire  Hazeldean,  though 
as  arrant  aTory  as  ever  stood  upon  shoe-leather,  is  certainly  not  a 
vampire  nor  blood-sucker.  He  does  not  feed  on  the  public;  agreat 
many  of  the  public  feedonhim;  and,  therefore,  hispracticalexperi- 
ence  a  little  staggers  and  perplexes  Lenny  Fairfield  as  to  the  gospel 
accuracy  of  his  theoretical  dogmas.  Masters,  parsons,  and  land- 
owners! having,  at  the  risk  of  all  popularity,  just  given  a  coup  de 


208  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

-patte  to  certain  sages  extremely  the  fashion  at  present,  I  am  not 
going  to  let  you  off  without  an  admonitory  flea  in  the  ear.  Don't 
suppose  that  any  mere  scribbling  and  typevvork  will  suffice  to  an- 
swer the  scribbling  andtypework  set  at  work  to  demolish  you — 
write  down  that  rubbish  you  can't — live  it  down  you  may.  If 
you  are  rich,  like  Squire  Hazeldean,  do  good  with  your  money;  if 
you  arepoor,like  Signer  Riccabocca,do  good  with  your  kindness. 
See!  there  isLenny  now  receivinghis  week's  wages;  andthough 
Lenny  knows  that  he  can  get  higher  wages  in  the  very  next  parish, 
his  blue  eyes  are  sparkling  with  gratitude,  not  at  the  chink  of  the 
money, but  at  the  poor  exile's  friendly  talk  on  things  apart  from  all 
service;  while  Violante  is  descending  the  steps  from  the  terrace, 
charged  by  her  mother-in-law  with  a  little  basket  of  sago,  and.  such 
like  delicacies,  for  Mrs.  Fairfield,  who  has  been  ailing  the  last 
few  days. 

;  .Lenny  will  see  the  Tinker  as  he  goes  home,  and  he  will  buy  a 
most  Demosthenean  "Appeal" — a  tract  of  tracts,  upon  the 
Propriety  of  Strikes,  and  the  Avarice  of  Masters.  But,  some- 
how or  other,  I  think  a -few  words  from  Signer  Riccabocca,  that 
did  not  cost  the  Signer  a  farthing,  and  the  sight  of  his  mother's 
smile  at  the  contents  of  the  basket,  which  cost  very  little,  will 
serve  to  neutralize  the  effects  of  that  "  Appeal,"  much  more  effi- 
caciously than  the  best  article  a  Brougham  or  a  Mill  could  write 
on  the  subject.  , 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

SPRING  had  come  again;  and  one  beautiful  May  day,  Leonard 
Fairfield  sat  beside  the  little  fountain  which  he  had  now  actually 
constructed  in  the  garden.  The  butterflies  were  hovering  over 
the  belt  of  flowers  which  he  had  placed  around  his  fountain, and 
the  birds  were  singing  overhead.  Leonard  Fairfield  was  resting 
from  his  day's  work,  to  enjoy  his  abstemious  dinner,  beside  the 
cool  play  of  the  sparkling  waters,  and,  with  the  yet  keener  appe- 
tite of  knowledge,he  devoured  his  book  as  hemunched  his  crusts. 

A  penny  tract  is  the  shoeing^horn  of  literature!  it  draws  on  a 
great  many  books,  and  some  too  tight  to  be  very  useful  in  walk- 
ing. The  penny  tract  quotes  a  celebrated  writer — you  long  to 
read  him;  it  props  a  startling  assertion  by  a  grave  authority — 
you  long  to  refer  to  it.  During  the  nights  of  the  past  winter, 
Leonard's  intelligence  had  made  vast  progress  !  he  had  taught 
himself  more  than  the  elements  of  mechanics,  and  put  to  prac- 
tice the  principles  he  had  acquired,  not  only  in  the  hydraulical 
achievement  of  the  fountain,  and  in  the  still  more  notable  appli- 
cation of  science,commenced  on  the  stream  in  which  Jackeymo 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH   LIFE. 

had  fished  for  minnows,  and  which  Lenny  had  diverted  to  the 
purpose  of  irrigating  two  fields,but  in  various  ingenious  contriv- 
ancesforthefacilitationor  abridgment  of  labor,which  hadexcited 
great  wonder  and  praise  in  the  neighborhood.  On  the  other  hand, 
those  rabid  little  tracts,  which  dealt  so  summarily  with  the  des- 
tinies of  the  human  race,  even  when  his  growing  reason,  and  the 
perusal  of  works  more  classical  or  more  logical,  had  led  him  to 
perceive  that  they  wereilliterate,and  to  suspect  that  they  jumped 
from  premises  to  conclusions  with  a  celerity  very  different  from 
the  careful  ratiocination  of  mechanical  science,  had  still,  in  the 
citations  and  references  wherewith  they  abounded,  lured  him  on 
to  philosophers  more  specious  and  more  perilous.  Out  of  the 
Tinker's  bag  he  had  drawn  a  translation  of  Condorcet's  Progress 
0/Man,and  another  of  Rousseau's  Social  Contract.  Works  so  elo- 
quent had  induced  him  to  select  from  the  tracts  in  the  Tinker's 
miscellany  those  which  abounded  most  in  professions  of  philan- 
thropy, and  predictions  of  some  coming  Golden  Age,  to  which 
old  Saturn's  was  a  joke — tracts  so  mild  and  mother-like  in  their 
language,  that  it  required  a  mirch  more  practical  experience  than 
Lenny's  to  perceive  that  you  would  have  to  pass  a  river  of  Wood 
before  you  had  the  slightest  chance  of  setting  foot  on  the  flowery 
banks  on  which  they  invited  you  to  repose — tracts  which  rouged 
poor  Christianity  on  the  cheeks,  clapped  a  crown  of  innocent  daf- 
fodillies on  her  head,  and  set  her  to  dancing  a  pas  de  zephyr  in 
the  pastoral  ballet  in  which  St.  Simon  pipes  to  the  flock  he 
shears;  or  having  first  laid  it  down  as  a  preliminary  axiom  that 
"  The  cloud-capt  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 

The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself — 

Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve," 

substituted  in  place  thereof  Monsieur  Fourier's  symmetrical 
phalanstere,  or  Mr.  Owen's  architectural  parallelogram.  It  was 
with  some  such  tract  that  Lenny  was  seasoning  his  crusts  and 
his  radishes,  when  Riccabocca,  bending  his  long  dark  face  over 
the  student's  shoulder,  said  abruptly — 

"  Diavolo,  my  friend  !  what  on  earth  have  you  got  there  .' 
Jast  let  me  look  at  it,  will  you  ?  " 

Leonard  rose  respectfully,  and  colored  deeply  as  he  surren- 
dered the  tract  to  Riccabocca. 

The  wise  man  read  the  first  page  attentively,  the  second  more 
cursorily,  and  only  ran  his  eye  over  the  rest.  He  had  gone 
through  too  vast  a  range  of  problems  political;  not  to  have 
passed  over  that  venerable  Ports  Asinorum  of  Socialism,  on 
which  Fouriers  and  St.  Simons  sit  straddling,  and  cry  aloud 
that  they  have  arrived  at  the  last  boundary  of  knowledge  ! 


,a.w  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

:"  All  this  is  as  old  as  the  hills,"  quoth  Riccabocca,  irrever- 
ently ;  "but  the  hills  stand  still,  and  this — :there  it  goes  !  "  and 
the  sage*  pointed  to  a  cloud  emitted  from  his  pipe.  "Did  you 
fever  read  Sir  .David  Brewster  on  Optical  Delusions?  No  ! 
Well,  I'll  lend  it  to  you,  You  will  find  therein  a  story  of  a  lady 
who  always  saw  a  black  cat  on  her  hearth-rug.  .  The  black  cat 
-existed  only  in  her  fancy,  but  the  hallucination  was  natural 
"And  reasonable — eh — what  do  you  think  ? " 

"  Why,  sir,"  said  Leonard,  not  catching  the  Italian's  meaning, 
"  I  don't  exactly  see  that  it  was  natural  and  reasonable/' 

"  Foolish  boy,  yes  !  because  black  cats  are  things  possible 
and  known.  But  who  ever  saw.  upon  earth  a  community  of 
men  such  as  sit  on  the  hearth-rugs  of  Messrs.  Owen  and  Fou- 
rier ?  If  the  lady's  hallucination  was  not  reasonable,  what  is 
his  who  believes  in  such  visions  as  these  ? " 

Leonard  bit  his  lip. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  cried  Riccabocca,  kindly, ."  the  only  thing 
sure  and  tangible  to  which  these  writers  would  lead  you,  lies  at 
the  first  step,  and  that  is  what  is  commonly  called  a  Revolution. 
Now,  I  know  what  that  is.  I  have  gone,  not  indeed  through  a 
revolution, -but  an  attempt  at  one." 

Leonard  raised  his  eyes  toward  his  master  with  a- look  of 
profound  respect,  and  great' curiosity. 

"  Yes,"  added  Riccabocca,  and  the  face  on  which  the  boy 
gazed  exchanged  its  usual  grotesque  and  sardonic  expression  for 
one  animated,, noble,  and  heroic.  ;"  Yes,  not  a  .revolution  for 
chimeras,  but  for  that  cause  which  the,  coldest  allow  to  be  good, 
and  which,  when  successful,  all  time  approves  as  divine — the  re- 
demption of  ournative  soil  from  the  rule  of  the  foreigner!  I  have 
r shared  in  such  an  attempt.  And, "continued  the  Italian, mourn- 
fully, "  recalling  now-all  the  evil  passions  it  arouses,  all  the  ties 
it  dissolves,all  the  blood  that  it  commands  to  flow,  all  the  health- 
ful industry  it  arrests,all  the  madmen  that  it  arms,all  the  victims 
that  it  dupes,!  question  whether  one  man  really  honest,  pure,and 
humane,  who  has  once-gone  through  such  an  ordeal,  would  ever 
hazard  itagain,  unless  he  wasassured  that  the  victory  was.certain — 
ay,  and  the. object  for  which  he  fights  not  to  be  wrested  from  his 
handsantid  theuproar  of  theelements that  the  battle  had released." 

The  Italian  paused,  shaded  his  brow  with  his  hand,  and  re- 
mained long  silent. ./Then  gradually  assuming  his  ordinary  tone, 
he  continued — 

"  Revolutions  that  have  no  definite  objects  made  clear  by  the 
positive  experience  of  history  ;  .revolutions,  in  a  word,  that  aim 
less-at  substituting  one  law  or  one  dynasty  for  another,  than  at 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  211 

changing  the  whole  scheme  of  society,  have  been  little  attempted 
by  real  statesmen.  Even  Lycurgus  is  proved  to  be  a  myth  who 
never  existed.  Such  organic  changes  are  but  in  the  day-dreams 
of  philosophers  who  lived  apart  from  the  actual  world,  and 
whose  opinions  (though  generally  they  were  very  benevolent, 
good  sort  of  men,  and  wrote  in  an  elegant  poetical  style)  one 
would  no  more  take  on  a  plain  matter  of  life,than'Orie  would  look 
upon  Virgil's  Eclogues  as  a  faithful  picture  of  the  ordinary  pains 
and  pleasures  of  the  peasants  who  tend  our  sheep.  Read  them 
as  you  would  read  poets,  and  they  are  delightful:  But  attempt 
to  shape  the  world  according  to  the  poetry,  and  fit  yourself  for 
a  mad-house.  The  farther  off  the  age  is  from  the  realization  of 
such  projects,  the  more  these  poor  philosophers  have  indulged 
them.  Thus,  it  was  amid  the  saddest  corruption  of  court  man- 
ners that  it  became  the  fashion  in  Paris  to  sit  for  one's  picture, 
with  a  crook  in  one's  hand,  as  Alexis  or  Daphne.  Just  as  lib- 
erty was  fast  dying  out  of  Greece,  and  the  successors  of  Alex- 
ander were  founding  their  monarchies,  and  Rome  was  growing 
up  to  crush  in  its  iron  grasp  all  states  save  its  own,  Plato  with- 
draws his  eyes  from  the  world  to  open  them  in  his  dreamy  At- 
lantis. Just  in  the  grimmest  period  of  English  history,  with  the 
axe  hanging  over  his  head,  Sir  Thomas  More  gives  you  his  Uto- 
pia. Just  when  the  world  is  to  be  the  theatre  of  a  new  Sesos- 
tris,  the  sages  of  France  tell  you  that  the  age  is  too  enlightened 
for  war,  that  man  is  henceforth  to  be  governed  by  pure  reason, 
and  live  in  a  paradise.  Very  pretty  reading  all  this  to  a  man 
like  me,  Lenny,  who  can  admire  and  smile  at  it.  But  to  you,  to 
the  man  who  has  to  work  for  his  living,  to  the  man  who  thinks 
it  would  be  so  much  more  pleasant  to  live  at  his  ease  in  a  phal- 
anstere  than  to  work  eight  or  ten  hours  a-day ;  to  the  man  of 
talent,  and  action,  and  industry,  whose  future  is  invested  in  that 
tranquillity  and  order  of  a  state  in  which  talent,  and  action,  and 
industry,  are  a  certain  capital  ;— why,  Messrs.  Coutts,  the  great 
bankers,  had  better  encourage  a  theory  to  upset  the  system  of 
banking  !  Whatever  disturbs  society,  yea,  even  by  a  causeless 
panic,  much  more  by  an  actuaLstruggle, falls  first  upon  the  mar- 
ket of  labor,  and  thence  affects  prejudicially  every  department 
of  intelligence.  In  such  times  the  arts  are  arrested  ;  literature 
is  neglected  ;  people  are  too  busy  to  read  any  thing  save  appeals 
to  their  passions.  And  capital,  shaken  in  its  sense  of  security, 
no  longer  ventures  boldly  through  the  land,  calling  forth  all  the 
energies  of  toil  and  enterprise,  and  extending  to  every  workman 
his  reward.  Now,  Lenny,  take  this  piece  of  advice.  You  are 
young,  clever,  and  aspiring  ;  men  rarely  succeed  in  changing  the 


212  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

world  ;  but  a  man  seldom  fails  of  success,  if  he  lets  the  world 
alone,  and  resolves  to  make  the  best  of  it.  You  are  in  the  midst 
of  the  great  crisis  of  your  life  ;  it  is  the  struggle'between  the  new- 
desires  knowledge  excites,  and  that  sense  of poverty,which  those 
desires  convert  either  into  hope  and  emulation,  or  into  envy  and 
despair.  I  grant  that  it  is  an  up-hiH  work  that  lies  before  you  ; 
but  don't  you  think  it  is  always  easier  to  climb  a  mountain  than  it 
is  to  level  it?  These  books  call  on  you  to  level  the  mountain;  and 
that  mountain  is  the  property  of  other  people,  subdivided  among  a 
great  many  proprietors,  and  protected  by  law.  At  the  first  stroke 
of  the  pickaxe,it  is  ten  to  one  but  whatyou  are  taken  up  for  a  tres- 
pass. But  the  path  up  the  mountain  is  a  right  of  way  uncontested. 
You  may  be  safe  at  the  summit,  before  (even  if  theowners  are  fools 
enough  to  let  you)  you  could  have  leveled  a  yard.  Cospetto!"  quoth 
the  doctor,-"  it  is  more  than  two  thousand  years  ago  since  poor 
Plato  began  to  level  it,  and  the  mountain  is  as  high  as  ever  !  " 
Thus  saying,  Riccabocca  came  to  the  end  of  his  pipe,  and 
stalking  thoughtfully  away,  he  left  Leonard  Fairfield  trying  to 
extract  light  from  the  smoke. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

SHORTLY  after  this  discourse  of  Riccabocca's,  an  incident  oc- 
curred to  Leonard  that  served  to  carry  his  mind  into  new  direc- 
tions. One  evening,  when  his  mother  was  out,  he  was  at  work 
on  a  new  mechanical  contrivance,  and  had  the  misfortune  to 
break  one  of  the  instruments  which  he  employed.  Now,  it  will 
be  remembered  that  his  father  had  been  the  Squire's  head  car- 
penter ;  the  widow  had  carefully  hoarded  the  tools  of  his  craft, 
which  had  belonged  to  her  poor  Mark  ;  and  though  she  occa- 
sionally lent  them  to  Leonard,  she  would  not  give  them  up  to  his 
service.  Among  these,  Leonard  knew  that  he  should  find  the 
one  that  he  wanted  ;  and  being  much  interested  in  his  contriv- 
ance, he  could  not  wait  till  his  mother's  return.  The  tools,  with 
ether  little  relics  of  the  lost,  were  kept  in  a  large  trunk  in  Mrs. 
Fairfield's  sleeping-room  ;  the  trunk  was  not  locked,  and  Leonard 
went  to  it  without  ceremony  or  scruple.  In  rummaging  for  the 
instrument,  his  eye  fell  upon  a  bundle  of  MSS.,  and  he  suddenly 
recollected  that  when  he  was  a  mere  child,  and  before  he  much 
knew  the  difference  between  verse  and  prose,  his  mother  had 
pointed  to  these  MSS.,  and  said,  "  One  day  or  other,  when  you 
can  read  nicely,  I'll  let  you  look  at  these,  Lenny.  My  poor 
Mark  wrote  such  verses — ah,  he  was  a  schollard  !  "  Leonard, 
reasonably  enough,  thought  that  the  time  had  now  arrived  when 
be  was  worthy  the  privilege  of  reading  the  paternal  effusions, 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  2IJ 

and  he  took  forth  the  MSS.  with  a  keen  but  melancholy  interest. 
He  recognized  his  father's  handwriting,  which  he  had  often  seen 
before  in  account-books  and  memoranda,  and  read  eagerly  some 
trifling  poems,  which  did  not  show  much  genius,  nor  much  mas- 
teryo!  language  and  rhythm — such  poems,in  short,as  a  self  -educa- 
ted man,  with  poetic  taste  and  feeling,  rather  than  poetic  inspira- 
tion or  artistic  culture, might  compose  with  credit, butnot  for  fame. 
But  suddenly,as  he  turned  over  these  "Occasional  Pieces,"  Leon- 
ard came  to  others  in  a  different  handwriting — a  woman's  hand- 
writing,— -small,and  fine,  and  exquisitely  formed.  He  had  scarce- 
ly read  six  lines  of  these  last,  before  his  attention  was  irresistibly 
chained.  They  wereof  adifferent  order  of  merit  from  poorMark's; 
they  bore  the  unmistakable  stamp  of  genius.  Like  the  poetry  of 
wonlen  in  general,  they  were  devoted  to  personal  feeling  ;  they 
were  not  the  mirror  of  a  world,  but  reflections  of  a  solitary  heart. 
Yet  this  i's  the  kind  of  poetry  most  pleasing  to  the  young.  And  the 
verses  in  question  had  another  attraction  for  Leonard  ;  they 
seemed  toexpresssome  struggleakin  to  his  own, — somecomplaint 
against  the  actual  condition  of  the  writer's  life,— some  sweet, 
melodious  murmurs  at  fortune.  For  the  rest,  they  were  character- 
ized by  a  vein  of  sentiment  so  elevated,  that  if  written  by  a  man 
it  would  have  run  into  exaggeration  ;  written  by  a  woman,  the  ro- 
mance was  carried  off  by  so  many  genuine  revelations  of  sin- 
cere, deep,  pathetic  feeling,  that  it  was  always  natural,  though 
true  to  a  nature  for  which  you  would  not  augur  happiness. 

Leonard  was  still  absorbed  in  the  persual  of  these  poems,  when 
Mrs.  Fairfield  entered  the  room. 

"  What  have  you  been  about,  Lenny— "-searching  in  my  box  ?" 

"  I  came  to  look  for  my  father's  bag  of  tools,  mother,  and  I 
found  these  papers,  which  you  said  I  might  read  some  day." 

"I  doesn't  wonder  you  did  not  hear  me  when  I  came  in,"  said 
the  widow,  sighing.  "I  used  to  sit  still  for  the  hour  together,  when 
my  poor  Mark  read  his  poems  to  me.  There  was  such  a  pretty  one 
about  the 'Peasant's  Fireside,' Lenny;  have  you  got  hold  of  that?" 

"  Yes,  dear  mother  ;  and  I  remarked  the  allusion  to  you  ;  it 
brought  tears  to  my  eyes.  But  these  verses  are  not  my  father's, — 
whose  are  they?  They  seem  in  a  woman's  handwriting." 

Mrs.  Fairfield  looked, — changed  color,— grew  faint,  and 
seated  herself. 

"  Poor,  poor  Nora  !  "  said  she,  falteringly.  "  I  did  not  know 
as  they  were  there;  Mark  kep  'em;  they  got  among  his — " 

LEONARD. — Who  was  Nora  ? 

MRS.  FAIRFIELD. — Who  ! — child — who  ?  Nora  was — was 
my — own  sister. 


214  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

LEONARD  (in  great  amaze,  contrasting  his  ideal  of  the  writer 
of  these  musical  lines,  in  that  graceful  hand,  with  his  homely, 
uneducated  mother,  who  could  neither  read  nor  write). — Your 
sister  ! — is  it  possible  ?  My  aunt,  then.  How  comes  it  you  never 
spoke  of  her  before  ?  Oh  !  you  should  be  so  proud  of  her,  mother. 

MRS.  FAIRFIELD  (clasping_her  hands).T— We  were  proud  of  her, 
all  of  us — father,  mother— -all  !  She  was  so  beautiful  and  so 
good,  and  not  proud  she  !  though  she  looked  like  the  first  lady 
in  the  land.  Oh  !  Nora,  Nora  ! 

LEONARD  (after  a  pause). — But  she  must  have  been  highly 
educated  ? 

MRS.  FAIRFIELD. — 'Deed:  she  was  ! 

LEONARD. — How  was  that  ? 

MRS.  FAIRFIELD  (rocking  herself  to  and  fro  in  her  chair). — Oh ! 
my  Lady  was  her  godmother — Lady  Lansmerel  mean, — and  took 
a  fancy  to  her  when  shewas that  high!  and  had  her  to  stay  at  the 
Park,  andwaiton  her  Ladyship;  and  then  sheputhei  toschool%and 
Nora  was  so  clever,  that  nothing  would  do  but  she  must  go  to  Lon- 
don as  a  governess.  But  don't  talk  of  it, , boy! — don't  talk  of  it  ! 

LEONARD.^— Why  not,  mother  ?  What  has  become  of  her  ?— 
where  is  she  ? 

MRS.  FAIRFIELD  (bursting  into  a  paroxysm  of  tears). — In  her 
grave^ — in  her  cold  grave  !  Dead,  dead'! 

Leonard  was  inexpressibly  grieved  and  shocked.  It  is  the 
attribute  of  the  poet  to  seem  always^  living, — always  a  friend. 
Leonard  felt  as  if  some  one  very  dear  had  been  suddenly  torn 
from  his  heart.  He  tried  to  console  his  mother  ;  but  her^emotion 
was  contagious,  and  he  wept  with  her. 

"And  haw  long  has  she  been  dead?"  he  asked,  at  last,  in 
mournful  accents. 

"  Many's  the  long  year — many;  but,"  added  Mrs.  Fairfield, 
rising,  and  putting  her  tremulous  hand  on  Leonard's  shoulder, 
"  you'll  just  never  talk  to  me  about  her — I  can't  bear  it — it 
breaks  my  heart  ;  L  can  bear  better  to  talk  of  Mark.  Come 
down  stairs — come."  ij  feoji 

"  May  I  not  keep  these  verses,  mother?     Do  let  me." 

"  Well,  well,  those  bits  o'  paper  be  all  she  left  behind  her.  Yes, 
keep  them,  but  put  back  Mark's.  Are  they  all  here  ? — sure  ? " 
And  the  widow,  though  she  could  not  read  her  husband's  verses, 
looked  jealously  at  the  MSS.  written  in  his  irregular  large  scrawl, 
and,  smoothing  them  carefully,  replaced  them  in  the  trunk,  and 
resettled  over  them  some  sprigs  ofjavender,  which  Leonard  had 
unwittingly  disturbed.  \ 

"  But,"  said  Leonard,  as  his  eye  again  rested  on  the  beauti- 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  215 

ful  handwriting  of  his  lost  aunt — "  but  you  call  her  Nora— I 
see  she  signs  herself  L." 

"  Leonora  was  her  name.  I  said  she  was  my  lady's  god- 
child. We  called  her  Nora  for.short— " 

"Leonora^-and  I  am  Leonard — isthathowlcamebythename,?" 
"Yes,  yes — do  hold  your  tongue,  boy,"  sobbed  poor  Mrs. 
Fairfield  ;  and  she  could  not  be  soothed  nor  coaxed,  into  con- 
tinuing or  renewing  a  subject  which  was  evidently  associated 
with  insupportable  pain. 

CHAPTER  X. 

IT  is  difficult  to  exaggerate  the  effect  that  this  discovery  pro- 
duced on  Leonard's  train  of  thought.  Some  one  belonging  to 
his  own  humble  race  had,  'then,  preceded  him  in  his  struggling: 
flight  toward  the  loftier  regions  of  Intelligence  and  Desire.  It 
was  like  the  mariner  amidst  unknown  seas,  who  finds  carved 
upon  some  desert  isle  a  familiar  household  name.  .  And  this 
creature  of  genius  and  of  sorrow — whose  existence  he  had  only-, 
learned  .by  her  song,  and  whose  death  created  'in.  the  .simple; 
heart  of  her  sister  so  passionate  a  grief,  after  the  lapse  of  so 
many  years— supplied  to  the- romance  awaking 'in  his  young 
heart  the  ideal  which  it  unconsciously  sought.  He  was  pleased 
to  hear  that  she  had  been  beautiful  and  good.  He  paused  from 
his  books  to  muse  on  her,  and  picture  her  image  to  his  fancy., 
That  there  was  some  mystery  in  her  fate  was  evident  to  him  ; 
and  while  that  conviction  .deepened  his  interest,  ,the  mystery  it- 
self, by  degrees,  took  a  charm  which  he  w,as  riot  anxious  to  dis- 
pel. He  resigned  himself  to  Mrs.  Fairfield's  obstinate  silence. 
He  was  contented  to  rank  the  dead  amongst  those  holy  and  in- 
effable images  which  we  do  not  seek  to  unveil.  Youth  and, 
Fancy  have  many  secret  hoards  of  idea  which,  they;  do  not  de- 
sire to  impart,  even  to  those  most  in  their  confidence.  I  doubt 
the  depth  of  feeling  in  any  man  who  has  not  certain  recesses  in 
his:soul  into  which  none  may  enter. 

Hitherto,  as  I  have  said,  the  talents  of  Leonard  Fairfield  had 
been  more  turned  to  things  positive  than  to  the  ideal  ;  to  sci- 
ence and  investigation  of  fact  than  to,  poetry,  and  that  airier 
truth  in  which  poetry  has  its  element.  He  had  read  our  greater 
poets,  indeed,  but  without  thought  of  imitating;  and  rather, 
from  the  general  curiosity  to  inspect  all  celebrated  monuments 
of  the  human  mind,  than  from  that  especial  predilection  for 
verse  which  is  too  common  in  childhood  and  youth  to  be  any; 
sure  sign  of  a  poet.  But  now  these  melodies,  unknown  to  all  the 
world  besicte,  rang  in  his  ear,  mingled  with  his  thoughts — set,  as 


2l6  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

it  were,  his  whole  life  to  music.  He  read  poetry  with  a  differ- 
ent sentiment — it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  discovered  its  secret. 
And  so  reading.the  passion  seized  him,  and  "the  numbers  came." 

To  many  minds,  at  the  commencement  of  our  grave  and  earn- 
est pilgrimage,  I  am  Vandal  enough  to  think  that  the  indul- 
gence of  poetic  taste  and  reverie  does  great  and  lasting  harm  ; 
that  it  serves  to  enervate  the  character,  give  false  ideas  of  life, 
impart  the  semblance  of  drudgery  to  the  noble  toils 'and  duties 
of  the  active  man.  All  poetry  would  not  do  this — not,  for  in- 
stance, the  Classical,  in  its  diviner  masters — not  the  poetry  of 
Homer,  of  Virgil,  of  Sophocles — not,  perhaps,  even  that  of  the 
indolent  Horace.  But  the  poetry  which  youth  usually  loves  and 
appreciates  the  best — the  poetry  of  mere  sentiment — does  so  in 
minds  already  over-predisposed  to  the  sentiment,  and  which 
require  bracing  to  grow  into  healthful  manhood. 

On  the  other  hand,  even  this  latter  kind  of  poetry,  which  is 
peculiarly  modern,  does  suit  many  minds  of  another  mould-^- 
minds  which  our  modern  life,  with  its  hard  positive  forms,  tends 
to  produce.  And  as  in  certain  climates  plants  and  herbs,  par- 
ticularly adapted  as  antidotes  to  those  diseases  most  prevalent 
in  the  atmosphere,  are  profusely  sown,  as  it  were,  by  the  benig- 
nant providence  of  nature — so  it  may  be  that  the  softer  and 
more  romantic  species  of.  poetry,  which  comes  forth  in  harsh, 
money-making,  unromantic  times,  is  intended  as  curatives  and 
counter-poisons.  The  world  is  so  much  with  us,  now-a-days, 
that  we  need  have  something  that  prates  to  us,  albeit  even  in 
too  fine  an  euphuism,  of  the  moon  and  stars. 

Certes,  to  Leonard  Fairfield,  at  that  period  of  his  intellectual 
life,  the  softness  out  of  Helicon  descended  as  healing  dews.  In 
his  turbulent  and  unsettled  ambition,  in  his  vague  grapple  with 
the  gianJ  forms  of  political  truths,  in  his  bias  toward  the  appli- 
cation of  science  to  immediate  practical  purposes,  this  lovely 
vision  of  the  Muse  came  in  the  white  robe  of  the  Peacemaker  ; 
and  with  upraised  hand,  pointing  to  serene  skies,  she  opened  to 
him  fair  glimpses  of  the  Beautiful,  which  is  given  to  Peasant  as 
to  Prince — showed  to  him  that  on  the  surface  of  the  earth  there 
is  something  nobler  than  fortune — that  he  who  can  view  the 
world  as  a  poet  is  always  at  soul  a  king  ;  while  to  practical  pur- 
pose itself,  that  larger  and  more  profound  invention,  which 
poetry  stimulates,  supplied  the  grand  design  and  the  subtle 
view — leading  him  beyond  the  mere  ingenuity  of  the  mechanic, 
and  habituating  him  to  regard  the  inert  force  of  the  matter  at 
his  command  with  the  ambition  of  the  Discoverer.  But  above 
all,  the  discontent  that  was  within  him  finding  a  vent,  not  in  de« 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  21? 

liberate  war  upon  this  actual  world,  but  through  the  purifying 
channels  of  song — in  the  vent  itself  it  evaporated,  it  was  lost. 
By  accustoming  ourselves  to  survey  all  things  with  the  spirit 
that  retains  and  reproduces  them  only  in  their  lovelier  or  grand- 
er aspects,  a  vast  philosophy  of  toleration  for  what  we  before 
gazed  on  with  .scorn  or  hate  insensibly  grows  upon  us.  Leon- 
ard looked  into  his  heart  after  the  Enchantress  had  breathed 
upon  it  ;  and  through  the  mists  of  the  fleeting  and  tender  mel- 
ancholy which  betrayed  where  she  had  been,  he  beheld  a  new 
sun  of  delight  and  joy  dawning  over  the  landscape  of  human  life. 

Thus,  though  she  was  dead  and  gone  from  his  actual  knowl- 
edge, this  mysterious  kinswoman — "  a  voice,  and  nothing  more  " 
— had  spoken  to  him,  soothed,  elevated,  cheered,  attuned  each 
discord  into  harmony  ;  and,  if  now  permitted  from  some  serener 
sphere  to  behold  the  life  that  her  soul  thus  strangely  influenced, 
verily  with  yet  holier  joy,the  saving  and  lovelier  spirit  might  have 
glided  onward  in  the  Eternal  Progress. 

We  call  the  large  majority  of  human  lives  obscure.  Presump- 
tuous that  we  are  !  How  know  we  wha.t  lives  a  single  thought 
retained  from  the  dust  of  nameless  graves  may  have  lighted  to 
renown  ? 

CHAPTER    XI. 

•  IT  was  about  a  year  after  Leonard's  discovery  of  the  family 
MSS.  that  Parson  Dale  borrowed  the  quietest  pad  mare  in  the 
Squire's  stables,  and  set  out  on  an  equestrian  excursion.  He 
said  that  he  was  bound  on  business  connected  with  his  old  par- 
ishioners of  Lansmere  ;  for,  as  it  has  been  incidentally  implied 
in  a  previous  chapter,  he  had  been  connected  with  that  borough 
town  (and,  I  may  here  add,  in  the  capacity  of  curate)  before  he 
had  been  inducted  into  the  living  of  Hazeldean. 

It  was  so  rarely  that  the  Parson  stirred  from  home,  that  this 
journey  to  a  town  more  than  twenty  miles  off  was  regarded  as  a 
most  daring  adventure,  both  at  the  Hall  and  at  the  Parsonage. 
Mrs.  Dale  could  not  sleep  the  whole  previous  night  with  think- 
ing of  it;  and  though  she  had  naturally  one  of  herworst  nervous 
headaches  on  the  eventful  morn,  she  yet  suffered  no  hands  less 
thoughtful  than  her  own  to  pack  up  the  saddle-bags  which  the 
Parson  had  borrowed  along  with  the  pad.  Nay, so  distrustful  was 
she  of  the  possibility  of  the  good  man  exerting  the  slightest  com- 
mon sensein  her  absence, that  she  kept  him  close  at  her  sidewhile 
she  was  engaged  in  that  same  operation  of  packing  up— showing 
him  theexact  spot  inwhichtheclean  shirt  was  put,and  how  nicely 
the  old  slippers  were  packed  up  in  one  of  his  own  sermons.  Sh« 


2l8  MY   NOVEL  ;    OR, 

implored  him  not  to  mistake  the  sandwiches  for  his  shaving-soap, 
and  made  him  observe  how  carefully  she  had  provided  against 
such  confusion, by  placing  them  as  far  apart  from  each  other  as  the 
nature  of  saddle-bags  will  admit.  The  poor  Parson — who  was 
really  by  no  means  an  absent  man,  but  as  little  likely  to  shave  him- 
self with  sandwiches  and  lunch  upon  soap  as  the  most  common- 
place mortal  may  be — listened  with  con  jugalpatience,and  thought 
that  man  never  had  such  a  wife  before;  nor  was  it  without  tears  in 
his  own  eyes  that  he  tore  himself  from  the  farewell  embrace  of 
his  weeping  Carry. 

I  confess,  however,  that  it  was  with  some  apprehension  that 
lie  set  his  foot  in  the  stirrup,  and  trusted  his  person  to  the  mer- 
cies of  an  unfamiliar  animal.  For,  whatever  might  be  Mr. 
Dale's  minor  accomplishments  as  man  and  parson,  horseman- 
ship was  not  \\v~>  forte  ;  indeed,  I  doubt  if  he  had  taken  the  reins 
in  his  hand  more  than  twice  since  he  had  been  married. 

The  Squire's  surly  old  groom,  Mat,  was  in  attendance  with 
the  pad  •;  and  to  the  Parson's  gentle  inquiry  whether  Mat  was 
quite  sure  that  the  pad  was  quite  safe,  replied  laconically, 
"Oi,  oi,  give  her  her  head  !  " 

"  Give  her  her  head!"  repeated  Mr.  Dale,  rather  amazed, for  he 
hadnottheslightestintentionof  takingaway  that  partof  the  beast's 
frame  so  essential  to  its  vital  ecoriomy—  'Give  her  her  head  !  " 

"  Oi,  oi  ;  and  don't  jerk  her  up  like  that,  or  she'll  fall  a" 
doincing  on  her  hind  legs." 

The  Parson  instantly  slackened  the  reins  ;  and  Mrs.  Dale—- 
who had  tarried  behind  to  control  her  tears — now  running  to 
the  door  for  "more  last  words,"  he  waved  his  hand  with 
courageous  amenity,  and  ambled  forth  into  the  lane. 

Our  equestrian  was  absorbed  at  first  in  studying  the  idiosyn- 
cracies  of  the  pad-mare,  and  trying  thereby  to  arrive  at  some 
notion  of  her  general  character;  guessing,  for  instance,  why 
she  raised  one  ear  and  laid  down  the  other  ;  why  she  kept  bear- 
ing so  close  to  the  left  that  she  brushed  his  leg  against  the 
hedge  ;  and  why,  when  she  arrived  at  a  little  side-gate  in  the 
fields,  which  led  toward  the  home-farm,  she  came  to  a  full  stop, 
and  fell  to  rubbing  her  nose  against  the  rail — -an  occupation  from 
which  the  Parson,  finding  all  civil  remonstrances  in  vain,  at 
length  diverted  her  by  a  timorous  application  of  the  whip. 

This  crisis  on  the  road  fairly  passed,  the  pad  seemed  to  com- 
prehend that  she  had  a  journey  before  her,  and  giving  a  petu- 
lant whisk  of  her  tail,  quickened  her  amble  into  a  short  trot, 
which  soon  brought  the  Parson  into  the  highrroad,  and  nearly 
apposite  the  Casino. 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  219 

Here,  sitting  on  the  gate  which  led  to  his  abode,  and  shaded 
by  his  umbrella,  he  beheld  Dr.  Riccabocca. 

The  Italian  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  book  he  was  reading,  and 
stared  hard  at  the  Parson  :  and  he — -not  venturing  to  withdraw 
his  whole  attention  from  the  pad  (who,  indeed,  set  up  both  her 
ears  at  the  apparition  of  Riccabocca,  and  evinced  symptoms  of 
that  surprise  and  superstitious  repugnance  at  unknown  objects, 
which  goes  by  the  name  of  "shying") — looked  askance  at 
Riccabocca. 

"  Don't  stir,  please,"  said  the  Parson,  "or  I  fear  you'll  alarmthis 
creature  ;itseemsanervous,  timid  thing; — soho— gently — gently." 

And  he  fell  to -patting  the  mare  with  great  unction. 

The  pad,  thus  encouraged,  overcame  her  first  natural  aston- 
ishment at  the  sight  of  Riccabocca  and  the  red  umbrella  ;  and 
having  before  been  at  the  Casino  on  sundry1  occasions,  and 
sagaciously  preferring  places  within  the  range  of  her  experi- 
ence to  bournes  neither  cognate  nor  conjecturable,  she  moved 
gravely  up  toward  the  gate  on  which  the  Italian  sat ;  artd  after 
eyeing  him  a  moment — as  much  as  to  say,  "  I  wish  you  would 
get  off,"- — came  to  a  dead  lock. 

"  Well,"  said  Riccabocca,  "  since  your  horse  seems  more  dis- 
posed to  be  polite  to  me  than  yourself,  Mr.  Dale,  I  take  the 
opportunity  of  your  present  involuntary  pause  to  congratulate 
you  on  your  elevation  in  life,  and  to  breathe  a  friendly  prayer 
that  pride  may  not  have  a  fall  !  " 

"Tut,"  said  the  Parson,  affecting  an  easy  air,  though  ;still 
contemplating  the  pad,  who  appeared  to  have  fallen  into  a  quiet 
doze,  "  it  is  true  that  I  have  not  ridden  much  of  late  years,  and 
the  Squire's  horses  are  very  high-fed  and  spirited  ;  but  there  is 
no  more  harm  in  them  than  their  master  when  one  once  knows 
their  ways." 

"  Chi  va  piano,  va  sano, 
E  chi  va  sano  va  lontano," 

said  Riccabocca,  pointing  to  the  saddle-bags.  "  You  go  slowly, 
therefore  •safely  ;  and  he  who  goes  safely  may  go  far.  You 
seem  prepared  for  a  journey  ?  " 

"  I  am,"  said  the  Parson  ;  "and  on  a  matter  that  cdncerns 
you  a  little." 

"  Me  !  "  exclaimed  Riccabocca—"  concerns  me  !  " 

"Yes,  so  far  as  the  chance  of  depriving  you  of  a  servant 
whom  you  like  and  esteem  affects  you." 

"  Oh,"  said  Riccabocca,  "  I  understand  ;  you  have  hinted  to 
me  very  often  that  I,  or  knowledge,  or  both  together,  have  un- 
fitted Leonard  Fairfield  for  service." 


220  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  I  did  not  say  that  exactly;  I  said  that  you  had  fitted  him  for 
something  higher  than  service.  But  do  not  repeat  this  to  him. 
And  I  cannot  yet  say  more  to  you,  for  I  am  very  doubtful  as  to 
the  success  of  my  mission;  and  it  will  not  not  do  to  unsettle  poor 
Leonard  until  we  are  sure  that  we  can  improve  his  condition." 

"  Of  that  you  can  never  be  sure,"  quoth  the  wise  man,  shak- 
ing his  head;  "  and  I  can't  say  that  I  am  unselfish  enough  not  to 
bear  you  a  grudge  for  seeking  to  decoy  away  from  me  an  invalu- 
able servant — faithful,  steady,  intelligent,  and  "  added  Ricca- 
bocca, warming  as  he  approached  the  climacteric.adjective,  "ex- 
ceedingly cheap  !  Nevertheless — go,  and  Heaven  speed  you.  I 
am  not  an  Alexander^  to  stand  between  man  and  the  sun."  . 

"  You  are  a  noble,  great-hearted  creature,  Signor  Riccabocca, 
in  spite  of  your  cold-blooded  proverbs  and  villanous  books." 
The  Parson,  as  he  said  this,  brought  down  the  whip-hand  with 
so  indiscreet  an  enthusiasm  on  the  pad's shoulder,that  the. poor 
beast,  startled  o.ut  of  her  innocent  doze,  made  a  bolt  forward, 
which  nearly  precipitated  Riccabocca  from  his  seaton  the  stile, 
and  then  turning  round — as  the  Parson  tugged  desperately  at  the 
rein — caught  the  bit  between  her  teeth;  and  set  off  at  a  canter, 
The  Pardon  lost  both  his  stirrups;  and  when  he  regained  :them(as 
the  pad  slackened  her  pace),  and  had  time  to  breathe  and. look 
about  him,  Riccabocca  and  the  Casino  were  both  out  of  sight. 

"Certainly,"  quoth  Parson  Dale,  as  he  settled  himself  with 
great  complacency,  and  a  conscious  triumph  that  he  was  still  on 
the  pad's  back — "  certainly  it  is  true  '  that  the  noblest  conquest 
ever  made  by  man  was  that  of  the  horse  ';  a  fine  creature  it  is — 
a  very  fine  creature — and  uncommonly  difficult  to  sit  qn,  espe- 
cially without  stirrups."  Firmly  in  his  stirrups  the  Parson  plant- 
ed his  feet;  and  the  heart  within  him  was  very  proud. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  borough  town  of  Lansmere  was  situated  in  the  county 
adjoining  that  which  contained  the  village  of  Hazeldean.  Late 
at  noon  the  Parson  crossed  the  little  stream  which  divided  the 
two  shires,  and  came  to  an  inn  which  was  placed  at  an  angle 
where  the  great  main  road  branched  off  into  two  directions — 
the  one  leading  toward  Lansmere,  the  other  going  more  direct 
to  London.  At  this  inn  the  pad  stopped,  and  put  down  both  ears 
with  the  air  of  a  pad  who  had  made  up  her  mind  to  bait.  And 
the  Parson  himself,feeling  very  warm  and  somewhat  sore, said  to 
thepad  benignly:  "It  is  just — thou  shall  havecorn  and  water  !  " 

Dismounting,  therefore,  and  finding  himself  very  stiff,  as  soon 
as  he  reached  terra  firma,  the  Parson  consigned  the  pad  to  thf 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  221 

ostler,  and  walked  into  the  sanded  parlor  of  the  inn,  to  repose 
himself  on  a  very  hard  Windsor  chair. 

He  had  been  alone  rather  more  than  half  an  hour,  reading  a 
county  newspaper  which  smelled  much  of  tobacco,  and  trying 
to  keep  off  the  flies  that  gathered  round  him  in  swarms,  as  if 
they  had  never  before  seen  a  parson,  and  were  anxious  to  as- 
certain how  the  flesh  of  one  tasted, — when  a  stage-coach 
stopped  at  the  inn.  A  traveller  got  out  with  his  carpet-bag  in 
his  hand,  and  was  shown  into  the  sanded  parlor. 

The  Parson  rose  politely,  and  made  a  bow. 

The  traveller  touched  his  hat,  without  taking  it  off — looked 
at  Mr.  Dale  from  top  to  toe — then  walked  to  the  window,  and 
whistled  a  lively,  impatient  tune,  then  strode  toward  the  fire- 
place and  rang  the  bell ;  then  stared  again  at  the  Parson ;  and  that 
gentleman  having  courteously  laid  down  the  newspaper,  the 
traveller  seized  it,  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  flung  one  of  his 
legs  over  the  table,  tossed  the  other  up  on  the  mantelpiece,  and 
began  reading  the  paper,  while  he  tilted  the  chair  on  its  hind- 
legs  with  so  daring  a  disregard  to  the  ordinary  position  of  chairs 
and  their  occupants,  that  the  shuddering  Parson  expected  every 
moment  to  see  him  come  down  on  the  back  of  his  skull. 

Moved,  therefore,  to  compassion,  Mr.  Dale  said  mildly — 

"  Those  chairs  are  very  treacherous,  sir.  I'm  afraid  you'll 
be  down." 

"  Eh  !  "  said  the  traveller,  looking  up  much  astonished — 
"  Eh  !  down  ? — oh,  you're  satirical,  sir." 

"  Satirical,  sir  ?  upon  my  word,  no  !  "  exclaimed  the  Parson, 
earnestly. 

"I  think  every  free-born  man  has  a  right  to  sit  as  he  pleases  in  his 
own  house,"  resumed  the  traveller,  with  warmth ;  "and  an  inn  is  his 
own  house,  I  guess,  so  long  as  he  pays  his  score.  Betty,  my  dear." 

For  the  chambermaid  had  now  replied  to  the  bell. 

"  I  han't  Betty,  sir  ;  do  you  want  she  ?  " 

"No,  Sally — cold  brandy-and-water,  and  a  biscuit." 

"  I  han't  Sally,  either,"  muttered  the  chambermaid  ;  but  the 
traveller,  turning  round,  showed  so  smart  a  neck-cloth  and  so 
comely  a  face,  that  she  smiled,  colored,  and  went  her  way.  ; 

The  traveller  now  rose,  and  flung  down  the  paper.  He  took 
out  a  penknife,  and  began  paring  his  nails.  Suddenly  desist- 
ing from  this  elegant  occupation,  his  eye  caught  sight  of  the 
Parson's  shovel-hat,  which  lay  on  a  chair  in  the  corner. 

"You're  a  clergyman,  I  reckon,  sir,"  said  the  traveller,  with 
a  slight  sneer. 

Again  Mr.  Dale  bowed — bowed  in  part  deprecatingly — in  part 


.:2;22  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

with  dignity.     It  was  a  bow  that  said,  "  No  offence,  sir,    but  I 
am  a  clergyman,  and  I'm  not  ashamed  of  it." 

"  Going  far  ?  "  asked  the  traveller. 

PARSON. —  Not  very. 

TRAVELLER. — In  a  chaise  or  fly  ?  If  so,  and  we  are  going  the 
same  way— halves. 

PARSON. — Halves  ? 
;     TRAVELLER. — Yes,  I'll  pay  half  the  damage — pikes  inclusive. 

PARSON. — You  are  very  good,  sir.  But  [spoken  with  pride] 
I  am  on  horseback. 

TRAVELLER. — On  horseback !  Well,  I  should  not  have  guessed 
jtjiat !  You  don't  look  like  it.  Where  did  you  say  you  were  going? 

"I  did  not  say  where  I  was  going,  sir,"  said  the  Parson  dryly, for 
he  was  much  offended  at  that  vague  and  ungrammatical  remark 
applicable  to  his  horsemanship,  that  "he  did  not  look  like  it." 

"Close!  "saidthetraveller,laughing;"anoldtraveller,  Ireckon." 

The  Parson  made  no  reply,  but  he  took  up  his  shovel-hat, 
and,  with  a  bow  more  majestic  than  the  previous  one,  walked 
out  to  see  if  his  pad  had  finished  her  corn. 

The  animal  had  indeed  finished  all  the  corn  afforded  to  her, 
which  was  not  much,  and  in  a  few  minutes  more  Mr.  Dale  re- 
sumed his  journey.  He  had  performed  about  three  miles,  when 
the  .sound  of  wheels  behind  him  made  him  turn  his'h^ad^  and 
he  perceived  a  chaise  driven  very  fast,  while  out  of  the  windows 
thereof  dangled  strangely  a  pair  of  human  legs.  The  pad  began 
to  curvet  as  the  post-horses  rattled  behind,  and  the  Parson  had 
only ;, an  indistinct  vision  of 'a  human  face  supplanting  those 
human  legs.  The  traveller  peered  out  at  him  as  he  whirled 
by— saw  Mr.  Dale  tossed  up  and  down  on  the  saddle,  and  cried 
out,"  How's  the  leather  ?  " 

"  Leather  !  "  soliloquized  the  Parson,  as  the  pad  recomposed 
herself.  "What  does;  he  mean  by  that  ?  Leather!  a  very  vul- 
gar man.  But  I  got  rid  of  him  cleverly." 

Mr.  Dale  arrived,  without  farther  adventure  at  Lansmere. 
He  put  up  at  the  principal  inn — refreshed  himself  by  a  general 
ablution — and  sat  down  with  good  appetite  to  his  beef-steak  and 
pint  of  port. 

TheParson  was  a  better  judge  of  the  physiognomy  of  man  than 
thatof  thehorse;  and  after  a  satisfactory  glance  atthe  civil  smirk- 
inglandlord,  who  removed  the  cover  and  set  on  the  wine:  he  ven- 
tured on,  an  Attempt  at  conversation.  "Is  my  lord  atthe  Park?" 

LANDLORD  (still  more  qivilly  than  before). — No,  sir  ;  his  lord- 
ship and  my  lady  have  gone  to  town  to  meet  Lord  L'Estrange." 
"  Lord  L'Estrange  ?     He  is  in  England,  then  ? " 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  223 

"  Why,  so  1  heard,"  replied  the  landlord  ;  "  but  we  never  see 
him  here  now*'  I  remember  him  a  very  pretty  young  man. 
Every  one- was  fond  of  him  and  proud  of  him.  But  what  pranks 
he  did  play  when  he  was  a  lad  !  We  hoped  he  would  come  in 
for  our  boro'  some  of  these  days,  but  he  has  taken  to  foreign 
parts — more'sthe  pity.  I  am  a  reg'lar  Blue,  sir,  as  I  ought  to 
be.  The  Blue  candidate  always  does  rne  the  honor  to  come  t6 
the  Lansmere  Arms.  'Tis  only  the  low  party  puts  up  with  the 
Boar,"  added  the  landlord,  with  a  look  of  ineffable  disgust.  "  I 
hope  you  like  the  wine,  sir  ?  " 

"  Very  good,  and  seems  old." 

"  Bottled  these  eighteen  years,  sir.  I  had  in  the  cask  for  the 
great  election  of  Dashmore  and  Egerton.  I  have  little  left  of 
it,  and  I  never  give  it  but  to  old  friends  like — for,  I  think,  sir, 
though  you  be  grown  stout,  and  look  more  grand,  I  may  say 
that  I've  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  before." 

"  That's  true,  I  dare  say,  though  I  fear  I  was  never  a  very  good 
customer." 

"Ah,  it  j'sMr.  Dale,  then!  I  thought  so  when  you  cameintothehall. 
I  hope  your  lady  is  quite ;  well, and  the  Squire,  too;  fine  pleasant- 
spoken  gentleman;  nofaultof  his,if  Mr.  Egerton  went  wrong.  Well, 
we  have  never  seen  him — I  mean  Mr.  Egerton-^since  thattime.  I 
don't  wonder  he  stays  away;  but  my  lord's  son,  who  was  brought 
up  here,  itan't  nat'rallike  that/ie  should  turn  his  back  on  us  !  " 

Mr.  Dale  made  no  reply,  and  the  landlord1  was  about  to  retire, 
when  the  Parson,  pouring  out  another  glass  of  port,  said— 
"  There  must  be  great  changes  in  the  parish.  Is  Mr.  Morgan, 
the  medical  man,  still  here?" 

"  No,  indeed  ;  he  took  out  his  ploma  after  you  left,  arnd  be- 
came a  real  doctor  ;  and  a  pretty  practice  he-'  had  too,  when  he 
took,  all  of  a  sudden,  to  some  new-fangled  way  of  physicking;— 
I  think  they  call  it  frdmy — something." 

"  Homoeopathy  ?  " 

"That'sit— something againstall  reason ;  and  sohelost  hisprac- 
tice  here  and  went  up  to  Lunnun.  I've  not  heard  of  him  since." 

"  Do  the  Avenels  still  reside  in  their  old  house  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes  ; — and  are  pretty  well  off,  I  hear  say.  John  is  al- 
ways poorly  •,  though  he  still  goes  now  and  then  to  the  Odd 
Fellows,  and  takes  his  glass  ;  but  his  "wife  comes  and  fetches 
him  away  before  he  can  do  himself  any  harm." 

"  Mrs.  Avenel  is  the  same  as  ever  ?  " 

"'She  holds  her  head  higher,  I  think,"  said  the  landlord, 
smiling.  . "  She  was  always— not  exactly  proud  like,  but  what  I 
calls  gumptious." 


224  MY    NOVEL  |    OR, 

"  I  never  heard  that  word  before,"  said  the  Parson,  laying 
down  his  knife  and  fork.  "Bumptious,  indeed,  though  I  be- 
lieve it  is  not  in  the  dictionary,  has  crept  into  familiar  parlance,, 
especially  amongst  young  folks  at  school  and  college." 

"  Bumptious  is  bumptious,  and  gumptious  is  gumptious,"  said 
the  landlord,  delighted  to  puzzle  a  parson.  "  Now,  the  town 
beadle  is  bumptious,  and  Mrs.  Avenel  is  gumptious." 

"  She  is  a  very  respectable  woman/'  said  Mr.  Dale,  some- 
what rebukingly. 

"  In  course,  sir;  all  gumptious  folks  are;  they  value  themselves 
on  their  respectability,  and  looks  down  on  their  neighbors." 

PARSON  (still  philologically  occupied,) — "Gumptious — gump- 
tious. I  think  I  remember  the  substantive  at  school — not  that 
my  master  taught  it  to  me.  '  Gumption,' — it  means  cleverness." 

LANDLORD  (doggedly).— "There's  gumption  and  gumptious  ! 
Gumption  is  knowing  ;  but  when  I  say  that  sum  un  is  gump- 
tious, I  mean — though  that's  more  vulgar  like — sum  un  who  does 
not  think  small  beer  of  hisself.  You  take  me,  sir  ?  " 

"I  think  I  do,"saidtheParson, half-smiling.  "I  believe  the  A  ve- 
nels  have  only  two  of  their  children  alive  still— their  daughter, 
who  married  Mark  Fairfield,  and  a  son  who  went  to  America  ?  " 

"  Ah,  but  he  made  his  fortune  there,  and  has  come  back." 

"Indeed!  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it.  HehassettledatLansmere?" 

"  No,  sir.  I  hear  as  he's  bought  a  property  a  long  way  off,  But 
he  comes  to  see  his  parents  pretty  often — so  John  tells  me — 
but  I  can't  say  that  I  ever  see  him.  I  fancy  Dick  doesn't  like  to 
be  seen  by  folks  who  remember  him  playing  in  the  kennel." 

"  Not  unnatural,"  said  the  Parson,  indulgently;  "  but  he  visits 
his  parents  ;  he  is  a. good  son  at  all  events,  then  ?  " 
fj  "  I've  nothing  to  say  against  him.  Dick  was  a  wild  chap  be- 
fore he  took  himself  off.  I  never  thought  he  would  make  his  for- 
tune ;  but  the  Avenels  are  a  clever  set.  Do  you  remember  poor 
Nora — the  Rose  of  Lansmere,  as  they  called  her  ?  Ah,  no,  I 
think  she  went  up  to  Lunnun  afore  your  time,  sir." 

"  Humph  !  "  said  the  Parson,  dryly.  "  Well,  I  think  you 
may  take  away  now.  It  will  be  dark  soon,  and  I'll  just  stroll 
out  and  look  about  me." 

"  There's  a  nice  tart  coming,  sir." 

"  Thank  you,  I've  dined." 

The  Parson  put  on  his  hat  and  sallied  forth  into  the  streets. 
He  eyed  the  houses  on  either  hand  with  that  melancholy  and 
wistful  interest  with  which,  in  middle  life,  men-  revisit  scenes 
familiar  to  them  in  youth— surprised  to  find  either  so  little 
change  or  so  much,  and  recalling,  by  fits  and  snatches,  old  asso/ 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  225 

jiations  and  past  emotions.  The  long  High  Street  which  he 
threaded  now  began  to  change  its  bustling  character,  and  slide, 
as  it  were  gradually,  into  the  high-road  of  a  suburb.  On  the 
left,  the  houses  gave  way  to  the  moss-grown  pales  of  Lansmere 
Park;  to  the  right,  though  houses  still  remained,  they  were  sepa- 
rated from  each  other  by  gardens,  and  took  the  pleasing  appear- 
ance of  villas— such  villas  as  retired  tradesmen  or  their  widows, 
old  maids,  and  half-pay  officers,  selectfortheeveningof  their  days. 

Mr.  Dale  looked  at  these  villas  with  thq  deliberate  attention 
of  a  man  awakening  his  power  of  memory,  and  at  last  stopped 
before  one,  almost  the  last  on  the  road,  and  which  faced  the 
broad  patch  of  sward  that  lay  before  the  lodge  of  Lansmere  Park. 
An  old  pollard  oak  stood  near  it,  and  from  the  oak  there  came  a 
low  discordant  sound  ;  it  was  the  hungry  cry  of  young  ravens, 
awaiting  the  belated  return  of  the  parent-bird.  Mr.  Dale  put  his 
hand  to  his  brow,  paused  a  moment,  and  then,  with  a  hurried 
step,  passed  through  the  little  garden,  and  knocked  act  the  door. 
A  light  was  burning  in  the  parlor,  and  Mr.  Dale's  eye  caught 
through  the  window  a  vague  outline  of  three  forms.  There  was 
an  evident  bustle  within  at  the  sound  of  the  knock.  One  of 
the  forms  rose  and  disappeared.  A  very  prim,  neat,  middle- 
aged  maid-servant  now  appeared  at  the  threshold,  and  austerely 
inquired  the  visitor's  business. 

"I  want  to  see  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Avenel.  Say  that  I  have  come 
many  miles  to  see  them  ;  and  take  in  this  card." 

The  maad-servant  took  the  card,  and  half  closed  the  door. 
At  least  three  minutes  elapsed  before  she  reappeared. 

"  Missis  says  it's  late,  but  walk  in." 

The  Parson  accepted  the  not  very  gracious  invitation,  stepped 
across  the  little  hall,  ;and  entered  the  little-; parlor. 

Old  John  Avenel,  a  mild-looking  man,  who  seemed  slightly 
paralytic,  rose  slowly  from  his.  arm-chair.  Mrs,  Avenel,  in  an 
awfully  stiff,  clean,  Calvinistical  cap,  and  a  gray  dress,  every  fold 
of  which  bespoke  respectability  and  staid  repute — stood  erect  on 
the  floor,  and  fixing  on  the  Parson  a  cold  and  cautious  eye,  said — 

"You  do  the  like  of  us  great  honor,  Mr.  Dale—take  a  chair  ! 
You  call  upon  business?" 

"Of  which  I  apprised  Mr.  Avenel,  by  letter." 

"  My  husband  is  very  poorly." 

"  A  poor  creature  !  "  said  John,  feebly,  and  as  if  in  compassion 
of  himself.  "  I  can't  get  about  as  I  used  to  do.  But  it  ben't  near 
election  time,  be  it,  sir? " 

"No,  John, "said  Mrs.  Avenel, placing  her  husband's  arrn  within 
her  own.  "You  must  lie  down  a  bit,  while  I  talk  to  the  gentleman." 


226  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"I'm  a  real  good  Blue,"  said  poor  John  ;  "but  I  ain't  quite 
the  man  I  was";  and  leaning  heavily  on  his  wife  •he  left  the 
room,  turning  round  at  the  threshold,  and  saying  with  great 
urbanity — "Anything  to  oblige,  sir  !  " 

Mr.  Dale  was  much  touched.  He  had  remembered  John  Avenel 
thecomeliest,the  most  active,  and  the  most  cheerful  man  in  Lans- 
mere;  great  at  glee-club  and  cricket  (though  then  somewhat 
stricken  in  years),  greater  in  vestries;  reputed  greatest  in  elections. 

"  Last  scene  of  all,"  murmured  the  Parson;  "and  oh  well, 
turning  from  the  poet,  may  we  cry  with  the  disbelieving  phil- 
osopher, '  Poor,  poor  humanity  ! '  "  * 

In  a  few  minutes  Mrs.  Avenel  returned.  She  took  a  chair 
at  some  distance  from  the  Parson's,  and  resting  one  hand  on 
the  elbow  of  the  chair,  while  with  the  other  she  stiffly  smoothed 
the  stiff  gown,  she  said — 

"Now,  sir.". 

That  "  Now,  sir,"  had  in  its  sound  something  sinister  and 
warlike.  This  the  shrewd  Parson  recognized  with  his  usual 
tact.  He  edged  his  chair  nearer  to  Mrs.  Avenel,  and  placing 
his  hand  on  hers — 

"  Yes,  now  then,  as  friend  to  friend." 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

MR.  DALE  had  been  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  convers- 
ing with  Mrs.  AVenel,  and  had  seemingly  made  little  progress 
in  the  object  of  his  diplomatic  mission,  for  now,  slowly  drawing 
on  his  gloves,  hfc'said— 

"  I  grieve  to  think,  Mrs.  Avenel,  that  you  should  have  so 
hardened  your  heart — yes-^you  must  pardon  me — it  is  my  vo- 
cation to  speak  stern  truths.  You  cannot  say  that  I  have  not 
kept  faith  with  you,  but  I  must  now  invite  you  to  remem'ber 
that  I  specially  reserved  to  myself  the  right  of  exercising  a  dis- 
cretion to  act  as  I  judged  best  fot  the  child's  interests,  on  any 
future,  occasion  ;  and  it  was  upon  this  understanding  that  you 
gave  n?e'  the  promise,  which  you  would  now  evade,  of  providing 
for  him  when  he  dame  into  manhood." 

"I  say  I  will  provide  for  him.  I  say  that  you -may  'prentice 
him  in  any  distant  town;  and  by-and^by  we  will  stock  a  shbp  for 
him.  What  would  you  have  more,  sir,  from  folks  like  us,  who 
have  kept  shop  ourselves  ?  It  ain't  reasonable  what  you  ask,  sir." 

tf  My  dear  friend,"  said  the  Parson,  "  what  I  ask  of  you  at 
present  is  but  to  see  him — to  receive  him  kindly — to  listen  to  his 

*  Mr.  Dale  probably  here  alludes  to  Lord  Bolingbroke's  ejaculation  as  he  stood  by  the 
dying  Pope  ;  but  his  memoi-y  'does  not  serve  him  with  the  exact  words. 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  227 

conversation — to  judge  for  yourselves.  We  can  have  but  a  com- 
mon object — that  your  grandson  should  succeed  in  life,  and  do 
you  credit.  Now,  I  doubt  very  much  whether  we  can  effect 
this  by  making  him  a  small  shopkeeper." 

"  And  has  Jane  Fairfield,  who  married  a  common  carpenter, 
brought  him  up  to  despise  small  shopkeepers  ? "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Avenel,  angrily. 

"  Heaven  forbid  !  Some  of  the  first  men  in  England  have 
been  the  sons  of  small  shopkeepers.  But  is  it  a  crime  in  them, 
or  in  their  parents,  if  their  talents  have  lifted  them  into  such 
rank  or  renown  as  the  haughtiest  duke  might  envy  ?.  England 
were  not  England  if  a  man  must  rest  where  his  father  began." 

"  Good  !"  said,  or  rather  grunted,  an  approving  voice,  but 
neither  Mrs.  Avenel  nor  the  Parson  heard  it. 

"  All  very  fine,"  said  Mrs,  Avenel,  bluntly.  "  But.  to  send  aboy 
like  that  to  the  university — where's  the  money  to  come  from  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Avenel,"  said  the  Parson,  coaxingly,  "  the  cost 
need  not  be  great  at  a  small  college  at  Cambridge  ;  and  if  .you 
will  pay  half  the  expense,  I  will  pay  the  other  half.  I  have  no 
children  of  my  own,  and  can  afford  it." 

."  That's  very  handsome  in  you,  sir,"  said  Mrs.  Avenel,  some- 
what touched,  yet  still  not  graciously.  "  But  the  money  is  not 
the  only  point." 

"  Once  at  Cambridge,"  continued  Mr.  Dale,  speaking  rapjdly, 
"  at  Cambridge,  where  the  studies  are  mathematical— that  is,  of 
a  nature  for  which  he  has  shown  so  great  an  aptitude — and  I 
have  no  doubt  he  will  distinguish  himself  ;  if  he  does,  he  will 
obtain,  on  leaving,  what  is  called  a  fellowship — .that  is,  a  col- 
legiate dignity  accompanied  by  an  income  on  which  he  could 
maintain  himself  until  he  made  his  way  in  life.  Come,  Mrs. 
Avenel,  you  are  well  off  ;  you  have  no  relations  nearer  to  you 
in  want  of  your  aid.  Your  son,  I  hear,  has  been  very  fortunate." 

"  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  AveneJ, interrupting  the.  Parson,  "it  is  not  be- 
cause my  son  Richard  is  an  honor  to  us,  and  is  a  good  sonrand 
has  made  his  fortin,  that  we  are  to  rob  him  of  what  we  have  to 
leave,and  give  it  to  a  boy  whom  we  know  nothing  about,and.who, 
in  spite  of  what  you  say,  can't  bring  upon  us  any  credit  at  all." 

"  Why  ?     I  don't  see  that." 

"  Why  !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Avenel,  fiercely— "why  !  you  know 
why.  No,  I  don't  want  him  to  rise, in  life  ;  I  don't  want  folks  to 
be  spoiling  and  asking  about  him.  I  think  it  is  a  very  wicked 
thing  to  have  put  fine  notions  in  his  head,  and  I  am,  sure  my 
daughter  Fairfield  could  not  have  done  it  herself.  And  now,  to 
ask  me  to  rob  Richard,  and  bring  out  a  great  boy — who's  been  a 


228  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

gardener  or  ploughman,  or  such  like — to  disgrace  a  gentleman 
who  keeps  his  carriage,  as  ray  son  Richard  does — I  would  have  you 
to  know,  sir. — No!  I  won't  do  it,  and  there's  an  end  of  the  matter." 

During  the  last  two  or  three  minutes,  and  just  before  that  ap- 
proving "good"' had  responded  to  the  Parson's  popular  senti- 
ment, a  door  communicating  with  an  inner  room  had  been  gently 
opened,  and  stood  ajar  ;  but  this  incident  neither  party  had  even 
noticed.  But  now  the  door  was  thrown  boldly  open,  and  the 
traveller  whom  the  Parson  had  met  at  the  inn  walked  up  to  Mr. 
Dale,  and  said,  "  No  !  that's  not  the  end  of  the  matter.  You 
say  the  boy's  a  'cute,  clever  lad  ? " 

"Richard,  have  you  been  listening  ?  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Avenel. 

"  Well,  I  guess,  yes — the  last  few  minutes." 

"  And  what  have  you  heard  ?  " 

"Why,  that  this  reverend  gentleman  thinks  so  highly  of  my 
sister  Fairfield's  boy,  that  he  offers  to  pay  half  of  his  keep  at 
college.  Sir,  I'm  very  much  obliged  to  you,  and  there's  my 
hand,  if  you'll  take  it." 

The  Parson  jumped  up  overjoyed,and  with  a  triumphant  glance 
toward  Mrs.  Avenel,  shook  hands  heartily  with  Mr.  Richard. 

"  Now,"  said  the  latter,  "just  put  on  your  hat,  sir,  and  take  a 
stroll  with  me,and  we'll  discuss  the  thing  business-like.  Women 
don't  understand  business  ;  never  talk  to  women  on  business." 

With  these  words,  Mr.  Richard  drew  out  a  cigar-case,  select- 
ed a  cigar,which  he  applied  to  the  candle,and  walked  into  the  hall. 

Mrs.  Avenel  caught  hold  of  the  Parson.  "  Sir,  you'll  be  on 
your  guard  with  Richard.  Remember  your  promise." 

"  He  does  not  know  all,  then  ?" 

"  He  ?  No  !  And  you  see  he  did  not  overhear  more  than 
what  he  says.  I'm  sure  you're  a  gentleman,  and  won't  go  against 
your  word." 

"My  wordwasconditional;  but  Iwill  promise  you  nevertobreak 
the  silence  without  more  reason  than  1  think  there  is  here  for  it. 
Indeed,  Mr.  Richard  Avenel  seems  to  save  all  necessity  for  that." 

"Are  you  coming,  sir?"  cried  Richard,  as  he  opened  the 
street-door. 

• 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE'  Parson  joined  Mr.  Richard  Avenel  on  the  road.  It  was 
a  fine  night,  and  the  moon  clear  and  shining. 

"  So  then,"  said  Mr.  Richard,  thoughtfully,  "  poor  Jane,  who 
was  always  the  drudge  of  the  family,  has  contrived  to  bring  up 
her  son  well;  and  the  boy  is  really  what  you  say,  eh ? — could 
make  a  figure  at  college  ?  " 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  229 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  said  the  Parson,  hooking  himself  on  to  the 
arm  which  Mr.  Avenel  proffered. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him,"  said  Richard.  "  Has  he  any 
manner  ?  Is  he  genteel  ?  or  a  mere  country  lout  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  he  speaks  with  so  much  propriety,  and  has  so  much 
modest  dignity  about  him,  that  there's  many  a  rich  gentleman 
who  could  be  proud  of  such  a  son." 

"It  is  odd,"observed  Richard,  "what difference  there  is  in  fami- 
lies. There's  Jane, now — who  can't  read  nor  write,  and  was  just  fit 
to  be  a  workman's  wife — had  not  a  thought  above  her  station ;  and 
when  I  think  of  my  poor  sister  Nora — you  would  not  believe  it,  sir, 
but  she  was  the  most  elegant  creature  in  theworld — yes,  even  as  a 
child  (she  was  but  a  child  when  I  went  off  to  America).  And  often, 
as  I  was  getting  on  in  life,  often  I  used  to  say  to  myself,  'My  little 
Nora  shall  be  a  lady  after  all.'  Poor  thing — but  she  died  young." 

Richard's  voice  grew  husky. 

The  Parson  kindly  pressed  the  arm  on  which  he  leaned,  and 
said,  after  a  pause — 

"  Nothing  refines  us  like  education,  sir.  I  believe  your  sister 
Nora  had  received  much  instruction,  and  had  the  talents  to 
profit  by  it;  it  is  the  same  with  your  nephew." 

"  I'll  see  him,"  said  Richard,  stamping  his  foot  firmly  on  the 
ground,  "  and  if  I  like  him,  I'll  be  as  good  as  a  father  to  him. 
Look  yoUj  Mr. — what's  your  name,  sir  ? " 

"  Dale." 

''  Mr.  Dale,  look  you,  I'm  a  single  man.  Perhaps  I  may  marry 
some  day;  perhaps  I  shan't.  I'm  not  going  to  throw  myself  away. 
If  I  can  get  a  lady  of  quality,  why — but  that's  neither  here  nor 
there;  meanwhile  I  should  be  glad  of  a  nephew  whom  I  need  not 
be  ashamed  of.  You  see,  sir,  I  am  a  new  man,  the  builder  of 
my  own  fortunes;  and  though  I  have  picked  up  a  little  education 
- — I  don't  well  know  how — as  I  scrambled  on,  still,  now  I  come 
back  to  the  old  country,  I'm  well  aware  that  I  am  not  exactly  a 
match  for  those  d — d  aristocrats;  don't  show  so  well  in  a  drawing- 
room  as  I  could  wish.  I  could  be  a  Parliament  man  if  1  liked, but  I 
>mightmake  a  gooseof  myself;  so,  all  things  considered,  if  I  can  get 
a  sort  of  junior  partner  to  do  the  polite  work,  and  show  off  the 
goods,  I  think  the  house  of  Avenel  and  Co.  might  become  a  pretty 
considerable  honor  to  the  Britishers.  You  understand  me,  sir  ?" 

"Oh,  very  well,"  answered  Mr.  Dale,  smiling,  though  rather 
gravely. 

"  Now,"  continued  the  New  Man,  "  I'm  not  ashamed  to  have 
risen  in  life  by  my  own  merits;  and  I  don't  disguise  what  I've 
been.  And  when  I'm  in  my  own  grand  house,I'm  fond  of  saying, 


230  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

'  I  landed  in  New  York  with^io  in  my  purse,  and  here  I  am! ' 
But  it  would  not  do  to  have  the  old  folks  with  me.  People  take 
you  with  all  your  faults  if  you're  rich;  but  they  won't  swallow 
your  family  into  the  bargain.  So  if  I  don't  have  at  my  house 
my  own  father  and  mother,  whom  I  love  dearly,  and  should  like 
to  see  sitting  at  table,  with  my  servants  behind  their  chairs,  I 
could  still  less  have  sister  Jane.  I  recollect  her  very  well,  and 
she  can't  have  got  genteeler  as  she's  grown  older.  Therefore  I 
beg  you'll  not  set  her  on  coming  after  me;  it  would  not  do  by 
any  manner  of  means.  Don't  say  a.  word  about  me  to  her.  But 
send  the  boy  down  here  to  his  grandfather,  and  I'll  see  him 
quietly,  you  understand." 

"Yes,  but  it  will  be  hard  to  separate  her  from  her  boy." 
"  Stuff!  all  boys  are  separated  from  their  parents  when  they 
go  into  the  world.  So  that's  settled.  Now,  just  tell  me.  I 
know  the  old  folks  always  snubbed  Jane — that  is,  mother  did. 
My  poor  dear  father  never  snubbed  any  of  us.  Perhaps  mother 
has  not  behaved  well  to  Jane.  But  we  must  not  blame  her  for 
that;  you  see  this  is:how  it  happened.  There  were  a  good  many 
of  us,  while  father  and  mother  kept  shop  in  the  High  Street,  so 
we  were  all  to  be  provided  for  anyhow;  and  Jane,  being  very 
useful  and  handy  at  work,  got  a  place  when  she  was  a  little  girl 
and  had  no  time  for  learning.  Afterward  my  father  made  a  lucky 
hit,  in  getting  my  Lord  Lansmere's  custom  after  an  election,  in 
which  he  did  a  great  deal  for  the  Blues  (for  which  he  was  a 
famous  electioneer,  my  poor  father).  My  Lady  stood  godmother 
to  Nora;  and  then  all  my  brothers,  and  two  of  my  sisters,  died 
off,  and  father  retired  from  business  ;  and  when  he  took  Jane 
from  service  she  was  so  common-like  that  mother  could  not  help 
contrasting  her  with  Nora.  You  see  Jane  was  their  child  when 
they  were  poor  little  shop-people,  with  their  heads  scarce  above 
water;,  and  Nora  was  their  child  when  they  were  well  off,  and 
had  retired  from  trade,  and  lived  genteel;  so  that  makes  a  great 
difference.  And  mother  did  not  quite  look  on  her  as  on  her 
own  child.  But  it  was  Jane's  own  fault;  for.  mother  would  have 
made  it  up  with  her  if  she  had  married  the  son  of  our  neighbor  the 
great  linen-draper,  as  she  might  have  done;  but  she  would  take 
Mark  Fairfield,  a  common  carpenter.  Parents  like  best  those 
of  their  children  who  succeed  best  in  life.  Natural.  Why,  they 
did  not  care,  for  me  till  I  came  back  the  man  I  am.  But  to  re- 
turn to  Jane.  I'm  afraid  they've  neglected  her.  How  is  she  off?" 
"  She  earns  her  livelihood,  and  is  poor,  but  contented." 
"  Ah,  just  be  good  -enough  to  give  her  this"  (and  Richard 
took  a  bank-note  of  ^50  from  his  pocket-book).  "  You  can  say 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  23! 

the  old  folks  sent  it  to  her  ;  or  that  it  is  a  present  from  Dick, 
without  telling  her  he  has  come  back  from  America." 

"  Mydear  sir,"  said  the  Parson,  "  I  am  more  and  more  thank- 
ful to  have  made  your  acquaintance.  This  is  a  very  liberal  gift  of 
yours;  but  your  best  plan  will  be  to  send  it  through  your  mother. 
For,though  I  don'twant  tobetray  any  confidence  you  placein  me,  I 
should  not  know  what  to  answer  if  Mrs.  Fairfield  began  to  ques- 
tion me  about  her  brother.  I  never  had  but  one  secret  to  keep,  and 
I  hope  I  shall  never  have  another.  A  secret  is  very  like  a  lie  !  " 

"  You  had  a  secret  then  !  "  said  Richard,  as  he  took  back  the 
bank-note.  He  had  learned,  perhaps  in  America,  to  be  a  very 
inquisitive  man.  He  added  point-blank,  "  Pray,  what  was  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  what  it  would  not  be  if  I  told  you,"  said  the  Parson, 
with  a  forced  laugh — "a  secret  !  " 

"  Well,  I  guess  we're  in  a  land  of  liberty.  Do  as  you  like. 
Now,  I  dare  say  you  think  me  a  very  odd  fellow  to  come  out  of 
my  shell  to  you  in  this  off-hand  way.  But  I  liked  the  look. of  you, 
even  when  we  were  at  the  inn  together.  And  just  now  I  was 
uncommonly  pleased  to  find  that,  though  you  are  a  parson,  you 
don't  want  to  keep  a  man's  nose  down  to  a  shop-board,  if  he  has 
anything  in  him.  You're  not  one  of  the  aristocrats — " 

"  Indeed,"  said  the  Parson,  with  imprudent  warmth,  "  it  is 
not  the  character  of  the  aristocracy  of  this  country  to  keep  peo- 
ple down.  They  make  way  amongst  themselves  for  any  man, 
whatever  hisbirth^who  has  the  talent  and  energy  to  aspire  to  their 
level.  That's  the  especial  boast  of  the  British  Constitution,  sir  !  " 

."  Oh,  you  think  so,  do  you  !  "  said  Mr.  Richard  looking  sourly 
at  the  Parson.  "  I  dare  say  those  are  the  opinions  in  which  you 
have  brought  up  the  lad.  Just  keep  him  yourself,  and  let  the 
aristocracy  provide  for  him  !  " . 

The  Parson's  generous  and  patriotic  warmth  evaporated  at 
once,at  this  sudden  inlet  of  cold  air  into  the  conversation.  He  per- 
ceived that  he  had  made  a  terrible  blunder;  and,  as  it  was  not  his 
businessat  that  moment  to  vindicate  theBritish  constitution,  but  to 
serve  Leonard  Fairfield,  he  abandoned  the  cause  of  the  aristocracy 
with  the  most  poltroon  and  scandalous  abruptness.  .  Catching  at 
thearm  which  Mr.  Avenelhad  withdrawn  from  him, heexclaimed— 

"  Indeed,  sir,  you  are  mistaken  ;  I  have  never  attempted  to 
influence  your  nephew's  political  opinions.  On  the  contrary,  if> 
at  his  age,,  he  can  be  said  to  have  formed  any  opinions,  I  am 
greatly  afraid— that  is,  I  think  his  opinions  are  by  no  means 
sound — that  is,  constitutional.  I  mean,  I  mean — "  And  the 
poor  Parson,  anxious  to  select  a  word  that  weuld.net  offend  his 
listener,  stopped  short  in  lamentable  confusion  of  idea. 


232  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Mr.  Avenel  enjoyed  his  -distress  for  a  moment,  with  a  satur- 
nine smile,  and  then  said — 

"  Well,  I  calculate  he's  a  Radical,  Natural  enough,  if  he  has 
not  got  a  sixpence  to  lose — all  come  right  by-and-by.  I'm  not 
a  Radical — at  least  not  a  Destructive — much  too  clever  a  man  for 
that,  I  hope.  But  I  wish  to  see  things  very  different  from  what  they 
are.  Don't  fancy  that  I  want  the  common  people,  who've  got  noth- 
ing, to  pretend  to  dictate  to  their  betters,  because  I  hate  to  see  a 
parcel  of  fellows,  who  are  called  lordsandsquires,trying  to  rulethe 
roast.  I  think,  sir,  that  it  is  men  like  me  who  ought  to  be  at  the  topof 
the  tree!  and  that's  the  long  and  the  short  of  it.  What  do  you  say?" 

"  I've  not  the  least  objection,"  said  the  crestfallen  Parson, 
basely.  But,  to  do  him  justice,  I  must  add,  that  he  did  not 
the  least  know  what  he  was  saying  ! 

CHAPTER  XV. 

UNCONSCIOUS  of  the  change  in  his  fate  which  the  diplomacy 
of  the  Parson  sought  to  effect,  Leonard  Fairfield  was  enjoying 
the  first  virgin  sweetness  of  fame  ;  for  the  principal  town  in  his 
neighborhood  had  followed  the  then  growing  fashion  of  the 
age,  and  set  up  a  Mechanics'  Institute  ;  and  some  worthy  per- 
sons interested  in  the  formation  of  that  provincial  Athenaeum 
had  offered  a  prize  for  the  best  Essay  on  the  Diffusion  of 
Knowledge, — a  very  trite  subject,  on  which  persons  seem  to 
think  that  they  can  never  say  too  much,  and  on  which  there  is, 
nevertheless,  a  great  deal  yet  to  be  said.  This  prize  Leonard 
Fairfield  had  recently  won.  His  Essay  had  been  publicly  com- 
plimented by  a  full  meeting  of  the  Institute;  it  had  been  printed 
at  the  expense  of  the  Society,  and  had  been  rewarded  by  a  silver 
medal — delineative  of  Apollo  crowning  Merit  (poor  Merit  had 
not  a  rag  to  his  back  ;  but  Merit,  left  only  to  the  care  of  Apollo, 
never  is  too  good  a  customer  to  the  tailor  !)  And  the  "  County 
Gazette  "  had  declared  that  Britain  had  produced  another  prod- 
igy in  the  person  of  Dr.  Riccabocca's  self-educated  gardener. 
'  Attention  was  now  directed  to  Leonard's  mechanical  con- 
trivances. The  Squire,  ever  eagerly  bent  on  improvements,  had 
brought  an  engineer  to  inspect  the  lad's  system  of  irrigation, 
and  the  engineer  had  been  greatly  struck  by  the  simple  means 
by  which  a  very  considerable  technical  difficulty  had  been  over- 
come. The  neighboring  farmers  now  called  Leonard  "Mr. 
Fairfield,"  and  invited  him,  on  equal  terms,  to  their  houses. 
Mr.  Stirn  had  met  him  on  the  high  road,  touched  his  hat,  and 
hoped  that  "he  bore  no  malice."  All  this,  I  say,  was  the  first 
sweetness  of  fame  ;  and  if  Leonard  Fairfield  comes  to  be  a  great 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  233 

man,  he  will  never  find  such  sweets  in  the  after-fruit.  It  was 
this  success  which  had  determined  the  Parson  on  the  step  which 
he  had  just  taken,  and  which  he  had  long  before  anxiously 
meditated.  For,  during  the  last  year  or  so,  he  had  renewed 
his  old  intimacy  with  the  widow  and  the  boy ;  and  he  had 
noticed,  with  great  hope  and  great  fear,. the  rapid  growth  of  an 
intellect,  which  now  stood  out  from  the  lowly  circumstances 
that  surrounded  it  in  bold  and  unharmonizing  relief. 

It  was  the  evening  after  his  return  home  that  the  Parson 
strolled  up  to  the  Casino.  He  put  Leonard  Fairfield's  Prize  Essay 
in  his  pocket.  For  he  felt  that  he  could  not  let  the  young  man  go 
forth  into  the  world  without  a  preparatory  lecture,  and  he  intended 
to  scourge  poor  Merit  with  the  very  laurel  wreath  which  it  had  re- 
ceived from  Apollo.  But  in  this  he  wanted  Riccabocca's  assist- 
ance; orrather  he  feared  that,  if  he  did  not  get  the  Philosopher  on 
his  side,  the  Philosopher  might  undo  all  the  work  of  the  Parson. 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

A  SWEET  sound  came  through  the  orange  boughs,  and  floated 
to  the  ears  of  the  Parson,  as  he  wound  slowly  up  the  gentle 
ascent — so  sweet,  so  silvery,  he  paused  in  delight — unaware, 
wretched  man !  that  he  was  thereby  conniving  at  Papistical 
errors.  Soft  it  came  and  sweet;  softer  and  sweeter — "'Ave 
Maria!"  Violante  was  chanting  the  evening  hymn  to  the 
Virgin  Mother.  The  Parson  at  last  distinguished  the  sense  of 
the  words,  and  shook  his  head  with  the  pious  shake  of  an  ortho- 
dox Protestant.  .He-broke  from  the  spell  resolutely,  and  walked 
on  with  a  sturdy  step.  Gaining  the  terrace,  he  found  the  little 
family  seated  under  an  awning,  Mrs.  Riccabocca  knitting  ;  the 
Signorwith  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast  •;  the  book  he  had  been 
reading  a  few  moments  before  had  fallen  on  the  ground,  and  his 
dark  eyes  were  soft  and  dreamy.  Violante  had  finished  her 
hymn,  and  seated  herself  on  the  ground  between  the  two,  pillow- 
ing her  head  on  her  step-mother's  lap,  but  with  her  hand  resting 
on  her  father's  knee,  and  her  gaze  fixed  fondly  on  his  face. 

"  Good  evening,"  said  Mr.  Dale.  Violante  stole  up  to  him, 
and,  pulling  him  so  as  to  bring  his  ear  nearer  to.  her  lip,  whis- 
pered,— "  Talk  to  papa,  do — and  cheerfully  ;  he  is  sad." 

She  escaped  from  him  as  she  said  this,  and  appeared  to  busy 
herself  with  watering  the  flowers  arranged  on  stands  round  the 
awning.  But  she  kept  her  swimming,  lustrous  eyes  wistfully 
on  her  father. 

"  How  fares  it  with  you,  my  dear  friend  ? "  said  the  Parson, 


234  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

kindly, as  he  rested  his  hand  on  the  Italian's  shoulder.      "You 
must  not  let  him  go  out  of  spirits,  Mrs.  Riccabocca." 

"lam  very  ungrateful  to  her  if  lever  am  so,"said  thepoor  Italian, 
with  all  hisnatural  gallantry.  Many  a  good  wife,  who  thinks  it  is  a 
reproach  to  her  if  her  husband  is  ever  "out  of  spirits,"  might  have 
turned  peevishly  from  that  speech,'more  elegant  than  sincere,  and 
so  have  made  bad  worse.  But  Mrs.  Riccabocca  took  her  hus- 
band's proffered  hand  affectionately,  and  said  with  great  naivete- — 

"  You  see  I  am  so  stupid,  Mr.  Dale ;  I  never  knew  I  was  so 
stupid  till  I  married.  But  I  am  very  glad  you  are  come.  You 
can  get  on  some  learned  subject  together,  and  then  he  will  not- 
miss  so  much  his — " 

"  His  what  ? "  asked  Riccabocca,  inquisitively. 

"  His  country.  Do  you  think  that  I  cannot  sometimes  read 
your  thoughts  ? " 

"Very  often..  But  you  did  not  read  them  just  then.  The 
tongue  touches  where  the  tooth  aches,  but  the  best  dentist  cannot 
guess  at  the  tooth  unless  one  open  one's  mouth — Basta!  Can 
we  offer  you  some  wine  of  our  own  making,  Mr.  Dale? — it  is  pure." 

"  I'd  rather  have  some  tea,"  quoth  the  Parson,  hastily. 

Mrs.  Riccabocca,  too  pleased  to  be  in  her  natural  element  of 
domestic  use,  hurried  into  the  house  to  prepare  our  national 
beverage.  And  the  Parson,  sliding  into  her  chair,  said— 

"But  you  are  dejected,  then  ?  Fie  !  If  there's  a  virtue  in  the 
world  at  which  we  should  al \vays  aim,  it  is  cheerfulness." 

"I  don't  dispute  it,"  said  Riccabocca  with  a  heavy  sigh.  "But 
though  it  is  said  by  some  Greek,  who,  I  think,  is  quoted  by  your 
favorite  Seneca,  that  a  wise  man  carries  his  country  with  him  at 
the  soles  of  his  feet,  he  can't  carry  also  the  sunshine  over  his  head." 

"  I  lell  you  what  it  is,"  said  the  Parson,  bluntly,  "  you  would 
have  a  much  keener  sense  of  happiness  if  you  had  much  less 
esteem  of  philosophy." 

"  Cospetto  !  "  said  the  Doctor,  rousing  himself.  "  Just  explain, 
will  you  ? " 

"  Does  not  the  search  after  wisdom  induce  desires  not  satis- 
fied in  this  small  circle  to  which  your  life  is  confined  ?  It  is  not 
so  much  your  country  for  which  you  yearn,  as  it  is  space  to  your  in- 
tellect,employment  for  yourthoughts, career  for  your  aspirations." 

"  You  have  guessed  at  the  tooth  which  aches,"  said  Riccabocca 
with  admiration. 

"  Easy  to  do  that,"  answered  the  Parson.  "  Our  wisdom-teeth 
come  last,  and  give  us  the  most  pain.  And  if  you  would  jast 
starve  the  mind  a  little,  and  nourish  the  heart  more,  you  would 
be  less  a  philosopher  and  more  of  a — "  The  Parson  had  the 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  235 

word  "  Christian  "  at  the  end  of  his  tongue;  he  suppressed  a  word 
that,so  spoken, would  have  been  exceedingly  irritating,and  substi- 
tuted, with  inelegant  antithesis,  "  and  more  of  a  happy  man  !  " 
"  I  do  all  I  can  with  my  heart,"  quoth  the  Doctor. 
."Not  you  !  For  a  man  with  such  a  heart  as  yours  should 
never  feel  the  want  of  the  sunshine.  My  friend,  we  live  in  an 
age  of  over-mental  cultivation.  :We  neglect  too  much  the 'sim- 
ple,- healthful  outer  life,  in  which  there  is  so  much  positive 
joy.  In  turning  to  the  world  within  us,  we  grow  blind  to  this 
beautiful  world  without;  in  studying  ourselves  as  men,  we  almost 
forget  to  look  up  to  heaven,  and  warm  to  the  smile  of  God." 

The  philosopher  mechanically  shrugged  his -shoulders,  as  he 
always  did  when  another  man  moralized— especially  if  the  mor- 
alizer  were  a  priest  ;  but  there  was  no  irony  in  his  smile,:  as  he 
answered,  thoughtfully— 

"  There  is  sprue  truth  in: what  you  say.  I  own  that  we  live  too 
much  as  if  we  were  all  brain.  Knowledge  has  its  penalties  and 
pains,  as  well  as  its  prizes." 

"That  is  just  what  I  want  you  to  say  to  Leonard." 
"  How  have  you  settled  the  object  of  your  journey  ? " 
"I  will  tell  you  as  we  walk  down  to  him  after  tea.  At  present, 
I  am  rather  too  much  occupied  with  you."  . 

"  Me  ?  The  tree  is  formed- — try  only  to  bend  the-young  twig." 
"  Trees  are  trees,  and  twigs  twigs,"  said  the  Parson  dogmatic- 
ally; "  but  man  is  always  growing  till  he  falls  into  the  grave.    I 
think  I  have  heard  you  say  that  you  once  had  a  narrow  escape 
of  a  prison  ?  " 
"  Very  narrow." 

"  Just  suppose  that  you  were  now  in  that  prison,  and  that  a: 
fairy  conjured  up  the  prospect  ofthis  quiet  home  in  a  Safe  land; 
that  you  saw  the  orange-trees  in  flower,  felt  the  evening  breeze 
on  your  cheek  ;  beheld:  your  child  gay  or  sad,  as  you  smiled  or 
knit  your  brow  ;  that  within  this  phantom  home  was  a  Vvoma'n, 
not,  indeed,  all  your  young  romance  might  have  dreamed  of, 
but  faithful  and  true,  every  beat  of  her  heart  all  your  o\vn: — 
would  you  not:cry  from  the  depth  of  the  dungeon,  .'O  fairy  ! 
such  a  change  were  a  paradise.'  Ungrateful  man!  you  want  in- 
terchange for  your  mind,  ancLyour  heart  should  suffice  for  all!  " 
Riccabocca  was  touched  and  silent. 

''Come  hither,  my  child,"  said  Mr.   Dale,  turning  round  to 

Violante,  who  still  stood  among  t!he  flowers,  out  of  hearing,  but 

with  watchful  eyes.     "  Come  hither,"  he  said,  opening  his  arms. 

Violante  bounded  forward,and  nestled  to  the  good  man'sheart. 

"  Tell  me,Violante,  when  you  are  alone  in  the  fields  or  the  gar- 


236  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR 

den,  and  have  left  your  father  looking  pleased  and  serene,  so 
that  you  have  no  care  for  him  at  your  heart, — tell  me,  Violante, 
though  you  are  alone,  with  the  flowers  below,  and  the  birds  sing- 
ing overhead,  do  you  feel  that  life  itself  is  happiness  or  sorrow?  " 

"  Happiness  !  "  answered  Violante,  half  shutting  her  eyes, 
and  in  a  measured  voice. 

"  Can  you  explain  what  kind  of  happiness  it  is  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  impossible  !  and  it  is  never  the  same.  Sometimes 
it  is  so  still — so  still,  and  sometimes  so  joyous,  that  I  long  for 
wings  to  fly  up  to  God,  and  thank  him  !  " 

"O  friend,"  said  the  Parson,  "  this  is  the  true  sympathy  be- 
tween life  and  nature,  and  thus  we  should  feel  ever,  did  we  take 
more  care  to  preserve  the  health  and  innocence  of  a  child.  We 
are  told  that  we  must  become  as  little  children  to  enter  into  the 
kingdom  of  heaven  ;  methinks  we  should  also  become  as  chil- 
dren to  know  what  delight  there  is  in  our  heritage  of  earth  !  " 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  maid-servant  (for  Jackeymo  was  in  the  fields)  brought 
the  table  under  the  awning,  and  with  the  English  luxury  of  tea, 
there  were  other  drinks  as  cheap  and  as  grateful  on  summer 
evenings — drinks  which  Jackeymo  had  retained  and  taught  from 
the  customs  of  the  south — -unebriate  liquors,  pressed  from  cool- 
ing fruits,  sweetened  with  honey,  and  deliciouslyiced;  ice  should 
cost  nothing  in  a  country  in  which  one  is  frozen  up  half  the  year  ! 
And  Jackeymo,  too,  had  added  to  our  good,  solid,  heavy  English 
bread,  preparations  of  wheat  much  lighter,  and  more  propitious 
to  digestion — with  those  crisp  grissins,  which  seemed  to  enjoy 
being  eaten,  they  make  so  pleasant  a  noise  between  one's  teeth. 

The  Parson  esteemed  it  a  little  treat  to  drink  tea  with  the 
Riccaboccas.  There  was  something  of  elegance  and  grace  in 
that  homely  meal  at  the.  poor  exile's  table,  which  pleased  'the 
eye  as  well  as  taste.  And  the  very  utensils,  plain  Wedgewood 
though  they  were,  had  a  classical  simplicity  which  made  Mrs. 
Hazeldean's  old  India  delf,  and  Mrs.  Dale's  best  Worcester 
china,  look  tawdry  and  barbarous  in  comparison.  '  For  it  was 
Flaxman  who  gave  designs  to  Wedgewood,  and  the  most  truly 
refined  of  all  our  manufactures  in  porcelain  (if  we  do  not  look 
to  the  mere  material)  is  in  the  reach  of  the  most  thrifty. 

The  little  banquet  was  at  first  rather  a  silent  one  ;  but  Ricca- 
bocca  threw  off  his  gloom,  and  became  gay  and  animated.  Then 
poor  Mrs.  Riccabocca  smiled,  and  pressed  the  grissins;  and 
Violante,  forgetting  all  her  stateliness,  laughed  and  played  tricks 
on  the  Parson,  stealing  away  his  cup  of  warm  tea  when  his  head 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  237 

was  turned,  and  substituting  iced  cherry  juice.  Then  the  Parson 
got  up  and  ran  after  Violante,  making  angry  faces,  and  Violante 
dodged  beautifully,  till  the  Parson,  fairly  tired  out,  was  too  glad 
to  cry  "  Peace,"  and  come  back  to  the  cherry  juice.  ThUstime 
rolled  on,  till  they  heard  afar  the  stroke  of  the  distant  church 
clock,  and  Mr.  Dale  started  up  and  cried  "  But  we  shall  be  too  late 
for  Leonard.  Come,  naughty  little  girl,  get  your  father  his  hat." 

"  And  umbrella  !  "  said  Riccabocca,  looking  up  at  the  cloud- 
less moonlit  sky.  .  •  /  • 

•"  Umbrella  against  the  stars  ?  "  asked  the  Parson,  laughing. 

"  The  stars  are  no  friends  of  mine,"  said  Riccabocca,  "  and 
one  never  knows  what  may  happen  !  " 

The  Philosopher  and  the  Parson  walked  on  amicably. 

"You  have  done  me  good,"  said  Riccabocca,  "  but  I  hope  I 
am  not  so  unreasonably  melancholic  as  you  seem  to  suspect. 
The  evenings  will  sometimes  appear  long  and  dull  too,  to  a  man 
whose  thoughts  on  the  past  are  almost  his  sole  companions." 

"  Sole  companions  ? — -your  child  ?  " 

"  She  is  so  young." 

"  Your  wife  ?  " 

"  She  is  so — ,"  the  bland  Italian  appeared  to  check  some  dis- 
paraging adjective,  and  mildlyjadded,  "so  good,  I  allow;  but  you 
must  own  that  she  and  I  cannot  have  much  in  common." 

"  I  own  nothing  of  the  sort.  You  have  your  house  and  your  in- 
terests, your  happiness  and  your  lives,  in  common.  We  men  are 
so  exacting,  we  expect  to  find  ideal  nymphs  and  goddesses  when 
we  condescend  to  marry  a  mortal;  and  if  we  did,  our  chickens 
would  be  boiled  to  rags,andour  mutton  comeupascold  as  astone." 

"  Per  Bacco,  you  are  an  oracle,"  said  Riccabocca,  laughing. 
."  But  I  am  not  so  sceptical  as  you  are.  I  honor  the  fair  sex  too 
much.  There  are  a  great  many  women  who  realize  the  ideal 
of  men  to  be  found  in— the  poets  !  " 

"  There's  my  dear  Mrs.  Dale/'  resumed  the  Parson,  not  heed- 
ing this  sarcastic  compliment  to  the  sex,  but  sinking  his  voice 
into  a  whisper,and  looking  round  cautiously — "  There's  my  dear 
Mrs.  Dale,  the  best  woman  in  the  world— an  angel,  I  would  say, 
if  the  word  was  not  profane  ;.BUT — " 

"  What's  the  BUT  ? "  asked  the  Doctor,  demurely. 

"  BUT  I  too  might  say  that '  she  and  I  have  not  much  in  com- 
mon,' if  I  were  only  to  compare  mind  to  mind,  and  when  my 
poor  Carry  says  something  less  profound  than  Madame  de  Stael 
might  have  said,  smile  on  her  in  contempt  from  the  elevation  of 
logic  and  Latin.  Yet  when  I  remember  all  the  little  sorrows  and 
joys  that  we  have  shared  together,  and  feel  how  solitary  I  should 


238  MY   NOVEL  J    OR, 

have  been  without  her*— oh,  theh,  I. am  instantly  aware  that  there 
is  between  us  in  common  something  infinitely  closer  and.  better 
than  if  the  same  course  of  study  had  given  us  the  equality  of  ideas; 
and  I  was  forced  to  brace  myself  for  a  combat  of  intellect,  as 
I  am  wlren  I  fall  in  with  a  tiresome  sage  like  yourself.  I  don't  pre- 
tend to  say  that  Mrs.  Riccaboccais  a. Mrs.  Dale, "added  the  Par- 
son, with.lofty  candor — "  there  is  but  one  Mrs.  Dale  in  the  world; 
but  still,  you  Ixave  drawn  a  prize  in  the  wheel  matrimonial !  Think 
of  Socrates,  and  yet  he  was  content  even  with  his — Xantippe  !  " 

Dr.  Riccabocca  called  to  mind  Mrs.  Dale's  "little  tempers," 
and  inly  rejoiced  that  no  second  Mrs.  Dale  had  existed  to  fall 
to  his  own  lot.  His  placid  Jemima  gained  by  the  contrast. 
Nevertheless,  he  had  the  ill  grace  to  reply,  "  Socrates  was  a  man 
beyond,  all  imitation  ! — -Yet  I  believe  that  even  he  spent  very 
fewiof  his  evenings  at  home.  But  revenons  a  nos  moutons,  we 
are  nearly  at  Mrs.  Fairfield's  cottage,  and  you  have  not  yet  told 
me. what  you; have  settled  as  to  Leonard:"'  •'•"  •• 

The  Parson  halted,  took  Riccabocca  by  the  button,  and  in- 
formed him,  in  very  few  words,  that  Leonard  was;  to  go  to  Lans- 
mere  to  see  some  relations  there,  who  had  the  fortune,  if  they 
had  the  will,  to  give. full  career  to  his  abilities. - 

"  The  great  thingj  in  the  meanwhile,"  said, the  Parson,  "would 
be  to  enlighten  him  a  little  as  to  what  he  calls- — enlightenment." 

"Ah  !  "  said  Riccabocca,  diverted,  and  rubbing  his  hands, 
"  I  shall  listen  with  interest  to  what  you  say  on  that  subject." 

"And  must  aid  me  :  for  the  first  step  in  this  modern  march 
of  enlightenment  is  to  leave  the  poor  Parson  behind  ;  and  if  one 
calls  out '  Hold!  and  look  at  the  sign-post,'  the  traveller  hurries 
on  the  faster,  saying  to  himself,  '  Pooh,  pooh  ! — that  is  only  the 
cry, of  the  Parson  ! '  .But  my  gentleman,  when  he  doubts  me, 
will  listen  to  you — you're  a  philosopher  !  " 

"\Vephilosophersareofsomeusenowand  then,even  to  parsons!" 

"  If  you  were  not  so  conceited  a  set  of  deluded  poor  creatures 
already,  I  would  say  'Yes,'  "  replied  the  Parson  generously  ; 
and,  taking  hold  of  Riccabocca's  umbrella,  he  applied  the  brass 
handle,  thereof,  by  way  of  a  knocker,  to  the  cottage  door. 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

CERTAINLY  it  is  a  glorious  fever  that  desire  To  Know  !  And 
there  are  few  sights  in  the  moral  world  more  sublime  than  that 
which  many  a  garret  might  afford/if  Asmodeus  would  bare  the 
roofs  to  our  survey^-fvia.,  a  brave,  patient,  earnest  human  being 
toiling  his  own  arduous  way,  athwart  the  iron  walls  of  penury, 
into  the  magnificent  Infinite,  which  is  luminous  with  starry  souls. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  239 

'.  So  there  sits  Leonard  the  Self-taught  in  the  little  cottage  alone ; 
for;  though- scarcely  past  the  hour  in  which  great  folks  dine,  it 
is  the  hour  in  which  small  folks  go  to  bed,  and  Mrs.  Fairfield 
has  retired  to  rest,  while  Leonard  has  settled  to  his  books. 

He  had  placed  his  table  under  the  lattice,  and  from  time  to 
time  he  looked  up  and  enjoyed  the  stillness  of  the  moon.  Well 
for  him  that,  in  reparation  for  those  hours  stolen  from  night, 
the  hardy  physical  labor  commenced  with  the  dawn.  Students 
would  not  be  the  sad  dyspeptics  they  are,  if  they  worked  as 
many  hours  in  the  open  air  as  my  scholar-peasant.  But  even 
in  him  you  could  see  that  the  mind  had  begun  a  little  to  affect 
the  frame.  They  who  task  the  intellect  must  pay  the  penalty 
with  the  body.  Ill,  believe  me,  would  this  Work-day  world  get 
on  if  all  within  it  were  hard-reading,  studious  animals,  playing 
the  deuce  with  the  ganglionic  apparatus. 

Leonard  started  as  he  heard  the  knock  at  the  door;  the.  Par- 
son's well-known  voice  reassured  him.  In  some  surprise  he 
admitted  his  visitors. 

"We  are  come  to  talk  to  you,  Leonard,"  said  Mr.  Dale,  "but 
I  fear  we  shall  disturb  Mrs.  Fairfield/' 

"Oh  no,  sir!  the  door  to  the  staircase  is  shut,  and  she. sleeps 
soundly." 

"  Why,  this  is  a  French  book— do  you  read  French,.  Leon- 
ard ?  "  asked  Riccabocca. 

"I  have  not  found  French  difficult,  sir.  Once  over  the 
grammar,  and  the  language  is  so.. clear;  it  seems  the  very  lan- 
guage for  reasoning." 

"True,  Voltaire  said  justly,  'Whatever  is  obscure  is  not 
French, '.".observed  Riceabpcca.' 

"  I  wish  I  could  say  the  same  of  English,"  muttered  the  Parson. 

"  But  what  is  this  ? — Latin  too  ? — Virgil  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir.  But  I  find  I  make  little  way  there  without  a  mas- 
ter. I  fear  I  must  give  it  up  "  (and  Leonard  sighed). 

The  two  gentlemen  exchanged  looks  and  seated  themselves. 
The  young  peasant  remained  standing  modestly,  and  in  his  air 
and  mien  there  was  something  that  touched  the  heart  while  it 
pleased  the  eye.  He  was  no  longer  the  timid  boy  who  had  shrunk 
from  the  frown  of  Mr.  Stirn,  nor  that  rude  personation  of  sim- 
ple physical  strength,  roused  to  undisciplined  bravery,  which 
had  received  its  downfall  on  the  village-green  of  Hazeldean. 
The  power  of  thought  was  on  his  brow — somewhat  inquiet  still, 
but  mild  and  earnest.  The  features  had  attained  that  refine- 
ment which  is  often  attributed  to  race,  but  comes,  in  truth,  from 
elegance  of  idea,  whether  caught  from  our  parents  or  learned 


240  MY    NOVEL  ;   OR, 

from  books.  In  his  rich  brown  hair,  thrown  carelessly  from  his 
temples,  and  curling  almost  to  the  shoulders — in  his  large  blue 
eye,  which  was  deepened  to  the  hue  of  the  violet  by  the  long 
dark  lash — -in  .that  firmness  of  lip,  which  comes  from  the  grap- 
ple with  difficulties,  there  was  considerable  beauty,  but  no  longer 
the  beauty  of  the  mere  peasant.  And  yet  there  was  still  about 
the  whole  countenance  that  expression  of  goodness  and  purity 
which  a  painter  would  give  to  his  ideal  of  the  peasant  lover— 
such  as  Tasso  would  have  placed  in  the  Aminta,  or  Fletcher 
have  admitted  to.  the  side  of  the  Faithful  Shepherdess. 

"  You  must  draw  a  chair  here,  and  sit  down  between  us,  Leon- 
ard," said  the  Parson. 

"  If  any  one,"  said  Riccabocca,  "  has  a  right  to  sit,  it  is  the 
one  who  is  to  hear  the  sermon  ;  and  if  any  one  ought  to  stand, 
it  is  the  one  who  is  about  to  preach  it." 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  Leonard,"  said  the  Parson,  graciously; 
"  it  is  only  a  criticism,  not  a  sermon  ";  and  he  pulled  out  Leon- 
ard's Prize  Essay. 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

PARSON.— You  take  for  your  motto  this  aphorism* — "  KnowU 
edge  is  Power." — BACON. 

RICCABOCCA. — Bacon  make  such  an  aphorism !  The  last  man 
in  the  world  to  have  said  anything  so  pert  and  so  shallow. 

LEONARD  (astonished). — Do  you  mean  to  say,  sir,  that  that 
ap-horism  is  not  in  Lord  Bacon  ?  Why,  I  have  seen  it  quoted 
as  his  in  almost  every  newspaper,  and  in  almost  every  speech 
in  favor  of  popular  education. 

RICCABOCCA — Then  that  should  be  a  warning  to  you  never 
again  to  fall  into  the  error  of  the  would-be-scholar — viz.,  quote 
second-hand.  Lord  Bacon  wrote  a  great  book  to  show  in  what 
knowledge  is  power,  how  that  power  should  be  defined,  in  what 
it  might  be  mistaken.  And,  pray,  do  you  think  so  sensible  a  man 
ever  would  have  taken  the  trouble  to  write  a  great  book  upon  the 
subject,  if  he  could  have  packed  up  all  he  had  to  say  into  the  port- 
able dogma,  •' Knowledge  is  power  "?  Pooh!  no  such  aphorism 
is  to  be  found  in  Bacon  from  thefirst  page  of  his  writings  to  the  last. 


master  of  inductive  philosophy,  bacon  has,  it  is  true,  repeatedly  dwelt  on  the  power  of 
knowledge,  but  with  so  many  explanations  and  distinctions,  that  nothing  could  be  more  un- 
just to  bis  general  meaning  than  the  attempt  to.cramp  into  a  sentence  what  it  costs  him  a 
volume  to  define.  Thus,  if  in  one  page  he  appears  to  confound  knowledge  with  power,  in 
another  he  sets  them  in  the  strongest  antithesis  to  each  other,  as  follows — "Adeo,  signanter 
Deus  opera  potentise  et  sapientise  discriminavit."  Hut  it  would  be  as  unfair  to  Bacon  to 
convert  into  an  aphorism  the  sentence  that  discriminates  between  knowledge  and  power,  as 
Jtjs  to  convert  into  an  aphorism  any  sentence  that  confounds  them. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  241 

PARSON  (candidly). — Well,  /supposed  it  was  Lord  Bacon's, 
and  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that  the  aphorism  has  not  the  sanc- 
tion of  his  authority. 

LEONARD  (recovering  his  surprise); — But  why  so  ? 

PARSON. — -Because  it  either  says  a  great  deal  too  much,  or 
just — nothing  at  all. 

LEONARD. — At  least,  sir,  it  seems  to  me  undeniable. 

PARSON. — Well,  grant  that  it  is  undeniable.  Does  it  prove 
much  in  favor  of  knowledge  ?  Pray,  is  not  ignorance  power  too? 

RICCABOCCA. — And  a  power  that  has  had  much  the  best  end 
of  the  quarter-staff. 

PARSON. — All  evil  is  power,  and  does  its  power  make  it  any- 
thing the  better  ? 

RICCABOCCA. — Fanaticism  is  power— and  a  power  that  has 
often  swept  away  knowledge  like  a  whirlwind.  The  Mussul- 
man burns  the  library  of  a  world — and  forces  the  Koran  and  the 
sword  from  the  schools  of  Byzantium  to  the  colleges  of  Hfndostan. 

PARSON  (bearing  on  with  a  new  column  of  illustration). — 
Hunger  is  power.  The  barbarians,  starved  out  of  their  forests 
by  their  own  swarming  population,  swept  into  Italy  and  anni- 
hilated letters.  The  Romans,  however  degraded,  had  more 
knowledge,  at  least,  than  the  Gaul  and  the  Visigoth. 

RICCABOCCA  (bringing  up  the  reserve).— And  even  in  Greece, 
when  Greek  met  Greek,  the  Athenians — our  masters  in  all  knowl- 
edge— were  beat  by  the  Spartans,  who  held  learning  in  contempt. 

PARSON. — Wherefore  you  see,Leonard,that  though  knowledge 
be  power,it  is  only  one  of  the  powersof  the  world ;  that  thereare  oth- 
ers as  strong,  and  often  much  stronger;  and  the  assertion  either 
means  but  a  barren  truism,  not  worth  so  frequent  a  repetition,  or 
it  means  something  that  you  would  find  it  very  difficult  to  prove. 

LEONARD. — One  nation  may  be  beaten  by  another  that  has 
more  physical  strength  and  more  military  discipline;  which  last, 
permit  me  to  say,  sir,  is  a  species  of  knowledge. 

RICCABOCCA. — Yes  ;  but  your  knowledge-mongers  at  present 
call  upon  us  to  discard  military  discipline,  and  the  qualities  that 
produce  it,  from  the  list  of  the  useful  arts.  And  in  your  own 
Essay,  you  insist  upon  knowledge  as  the  great  disbander  of 
armies,  and  the  foe  of  all  military  discipline  ! 

PARSON. — Let  the  young  man  proceed.  Nations,  you  say, 
may  be  beaten  by  other  nations  less  learned  and  civilized  ? 

LEONARD. — But  knowledge  elevates  a  class.  I  invite  the 
members  of  my  own  humble  order  to  knowledge,  because 
knowledge  will  lift  them  into  power. 

RICCABOCCA. — What  do  you  say  to  that,  Mr.  Dale  ? 


242  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

PARSCXN, — -In  the  first  place.is  it  true  that  the  class  which  has  the 
most  knowledge  gets  the  most  power?  I  suppose  philosophers, like 
my  friend  Dr.Riccabocca,  think  they  have  the  most  knowledge. 
And  pray,  in  what  age  have  philosophers  governed  the  world  ? 
Are  they  not  always  grumbling  that  nobody  attends  to  them  ? 

RICCABOCCA. — Per  Bacco,  if  people  had  attended  to  us,  it 
would  have  been  a  droll  sort  of  world  by  this  time  ! 

PARSON. — Very  likely.  But,  as  a  general  rule,  those  have  the 
knowledge  who  give  themselves  up  to  it  the  most.  Let  us  put 
out  of  the  question  philosophers  (who  are  often  but  ingenious 
lunatics),  and  speak  only  of  erudite  scholars,  men  of  letters  and 
practical  science,  professors,  tutors,  and  fellows  of  colleges.  I  fan- 
cy any  member  of  Parliament  would  tell  us  that  there  is  no  class  of 
men  which  has  less  actual  influenceon  public  affairs.  These  schol- 
ars have  more  knowledge  than  manufacturers  and  ship-owners, 
squires  and  farmers;  but,  do  you  find  that  they  have  more  power 
over  the  Government  and  the  votes  of  the  House  of  Commons  ? 

"  They  ought  to  have,"  said  Leonard. 

"  Ought  they  ?  "  said  the  Parson  ;  "  we'll  consider  that  later. 
Meanwhile,  you  must  not  escape  from  your  own  proposition, 
which,  is,  that  knowledge  is  power — not  that  it  ought  to  be. 
Now,  even  granting  your  corollary,  that  the  power  of  a  class  is 
therefore  proportioned  to  its  knowledge — pray,  do  you  suppose 
that  while  your  order,  the  operatives,  are  instructing  themselves, 
all  the  rest  of , the  community  are  to  be  at  a  stand-still  !  Dif- 
fuse knowledge  as  you  may,  you  will  never  produce  equality  of 
knowledge. :  Those  who  have  most  leisure,  application,  and  apti- 
tude for  learning,  will  still  know  the  most.  Nay,  by  a  very 
natural  law,  the  more  general  the  appetite  for  knowledge,  the 
more  the  increased  competition  will  favor  those  most  adapted 
to  excel  by  circumstance  and  nature.  At  this  day,  there  is  a 
vast  increase  of  knowledge  spread  overall  society,  compared 
with  that  in  the  Middle  Ages;  but,  is  there  not  a  still  greater  dis- 
tinction between  the  highly  educated  gentleman  and  the  intelli- 
gent mechanic,  then  there  was  then  between  the  baron  who  could 
not  sign  his  name  and  the  churl  at  the  plough  ?  between  the 
accomplished  statesman,  versed  in  all  historical  lore,  and  the 
voter  whose  politics  are  formed  by  his  newspapers,  than  there 
was  between  the  legislator  who  passed  laws  against  witches,  and 
the  burgher  who  defended  his  guild  from  some  feudal  aggression? 
between  the  enlightened  scholar  and  the  dunce  of  to-day,  than 
there  was  between  the  monkish  alchemist  and  the  blockhead  of 
yesterday?  Peasant,  voter,  and  dunce  of  this  century  are  no 
doubt  wiser  than  the  churl,  burgher,and  blockhead  of  the  twelfth. 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  243 

But  the  gentleman,  statesman,  and  scholar  of  the  present  age 
are  at  least  quite  as  favorable  a  contrast  to  the  alchemist,  witch- 
burner,  and  baron  of  old.  As  the  progress  of  enlightenment  has 
done  hitherto,  so  will  it  ever  do.  Knowledge  is  like  capital  ; 
the  more  there  is  in  a  country, the  greater  the  disparities  in  wealth 
between  one  man  and  another.  Therefore,  if  the  working  class 
increase  in  knowledge,  so  do  the  other  classes;  and  if  the  working 
class  rise  peacefully  and  legitimately  into  power,  it  is  not  in  propor- 
tion to  their  own  knowledge  alone,  but  rather  according  as  it  seems 
to  the  knowledge  of  the  other  orders  of  the  community,  that  such 
augmentation  of  proportional  power  is  just,  and  safe,  and  wise." 

Placed  between  the  Parson  and  the  Philosopher,  Leonard  felt 
that  his  position  was  not  favorable  to  the  display  of  his  forces. 
Insensibly  he  edged  his  chair  somewhat  away,  and  said  mourn- 
fully— 

"  Then,  according  to  you, the  reign  of  knowledge  would  be  no 
great  advance  in  the  aggregate  freedom  and  welfare  of  man  ?  " 

PARSON. — Let  us  define.  By  knowledge,  do  you  mean  intel- 
lectual cultivation  ?— by  the  reign  of  knowledge,  the  ascendency 
of  the  most  cultivated  minds  ? 

LEONARD  (after  a  pause).— Yes. 

RICCABOCCA. — Oh,  indiscreet  young  man  !  that  is  an  unfortu- 
nate concesssion  of  yours  :  for  the  ascendency  of  the  most  cul- 
tivated minds  would  be  a  terrible  oligarchy  ! 

PARSON. — Perfectly  true  ;  and  we  now  reply  to  your  asser- 
tion, that  men  who,  by  profession,  have  most  learning,  ought  to 
have  more  influence  than  squires  and  merchants,  farmers  and 
mechanics.  Observe,  all  the  knowledge  that  we  mortals  can 
acquire  is  not  knowledge  positive  and  perfect,  but  knowledge 
comparative,  and  subject  to  the  errors  and  passions  of  humanity. 
And  suppose  that  you  could  establish,  as  the  sole  regulators  of 
affairs,  those  who  had  the  most  mental  cultivation,  do  you;think 
they  would  not  like  that  power  well  enough  to  take  all  means 
which  their  superior  intelligence  could  devise  to  keep  it  to  them- 
selves ?  The  experiment  was  tried  of  old  by  the  priests  of 
Egypt  ;  and  in  the  empire  of  China,  at  this  day,  the  aristocracy 
are  elected  from  those  who  have  most  distinguished  themselves 
in  learned  colleges.  If  I  may  call  myself  a  member  of  that  body, 
"the  people,"  I  would  rather  bean  Englishman,  however  much 
displeased -with  dull  Ministers  and  blundering  Parliaments,  than 
I  would  be  a  Chinese  under  the  rule  of  the  picked  sages  of  the 
Celestial  Empire.  Happily,  therefore,  my  dear  Leonard,  nations 
are  governed  by  many  things  besides  what  is  commonly  called 
knowledge;  andthe  greatest  practical  ministers,who,like Themis- 


244  MY  tfOVEL  ;  OR, 

.tocles.have  made  small  statesgreat — and  themostdominant  races, 
who,  like  the  Romans,  have  stretched  their  rule  from  a  village  half 
over  the  universe— have  been  distinguished,  by  various  qualities 
which  a  philosopher  would  sneer  .at,  and  a  knowledge-monger 
would  call  "  sad  prejudices,"  and  ''lamentable  errors  of  reason." 

LEONARD  (bitterly).— Sir,  you  make  use  of  knowledge  itself 
to  argue  against  knowledge. 

.  PARSON. — I  make  use  of  the  little  I  know  to  prove  the  fool- 
ishness of  idolatry.  I  do  not  argue  against  knowledge,  I  argue 
against  knowledge-worship.  For  here,  I  see  in  your  Essay,  that 
you  are  not  contented  with  raising  human  knowledge  into  some- 
thing like  divine  omnipotence,  you  must  also  confound  her  with 
virtue.  According  to  you,  it  is  but  to  diffuse  the  intelligence  of 
the  few  among  the  many,  and  all  at  which  we  preachers  aim  is 
accomplished.  Nay,  more  ;  for,  whereas,  we  humble  preachers 
have  never  presumed  to  say,  with  the  heathen  Stoic,  that  even 
virtue  is  sure  of  happiness  below  (though  it  be  the  best  road  to 
it),  you  tell  us  plainly  that  this  knowledge  of  yours  gives  not  only 
the  virtue  of  a  saint,  but  bestows  the  bliss  of  a  god.  Before  the 
steps  of  your  idol,  the  evils  of  life  disappear.  To  hear  you,  one 
has  but  "  to  know,"  in  order  to  be  exempt  from  the  sin  and  sor- 
rows of  the  ignorant.  Has  it  ever  been  so?  Grant  that  you 
diffuse  amongst  the  many  all  the  knowledge  ever  attained  by  the 
few.  Have  the  wise  few  been  so  unerring  and  so  happy  ?  You 
supposed  that  your  motto  was  accurately  cited  from  Bacon. 
What  was  Bacon  himself  ?  The  poet  tells  you — 

"  The  wisest,  brightest,  meanest  of  mankind  !" 

Can  you  hope  to  bestow  upon  the  vast  mass  of  your  order  the 
luminous  intelligence  of  this  "  Lord  Chancellor  of  Nature  !" 
Grant  that  you  do  so — and  what  guarantee  have  you  for  the  vir- 
tue and  the  happiness  which  you  assume  as  the  concomitants  of 
the  gift  ?  See  Bacon  himself :  what  black  ingratitude !  what  mis- 
erable self-seeking  !  what  truckling  servility  !  what  abject  and 
pitiful  spirit !  So  far  from  intellectual  knowledge,  in  its  highest 
form  and  type,  insuring  virtue  and  bliss,  it  is  by  no  means  uncom- 
mon to  find  great  mental  cultivation  combined  with  great  moral 
corruption.  [Aside  to  Riccabocca — "Push  on,  will  you  ?"} 

RICCABOCCA. — A  combination  remarkable  in  eras  as  in  indi- 
viduals. Petronius  shows  us  a  state  of  morals  at  which  a  common- 
place devil  would  blush,  in  the  midst  of  a  society  more  intellectual- 
ly cultivated  than  certainly  was  that  which  produced  Regulusor  the 
Horatii.  And  the  most  learned  eras  in  modern  Italy  were  precise- 
ly those  which  brought  the  vices  into  the  most  ghastly  refinement, 

LEONARD  (rising  in  great  agitation,  and  clasping  his  hands). 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  245 

— I  cannot  contend  with  you,  who  produce  agumst  information 
so  slender  and  crude  as  mine  the  stores  which  have  been  locked 
from  my  reach.  But  I  feel  that  there  must  be  another  side  to 
this  shield — a  shield  that  you  will  not  even  allow  to  be  silver. 
And,  oh,  if  you  thus  speak  of  knowledge,  why  have  you  encour- 
aged me  to  know  ? 

CHAPTER  XX. 

"An,  my  son!"  said  the  Parson,  "if  I  wished  to  prove  the  value 
of  Religion,  would  you  think  I  served  it  much,  if  I  took  as  my 
motto, '  Religion  is  power  '  ?  Would  not  that  be  a  base  and  sor- 
did view  of  its  advantages?  And  would  you  not  say,  he  who  re- 
gards religion  as  a  power  intends  to  abuse  it  as  a  priestcraft  ?  " 

"  Well  put  ?  "  said  Riccabocca. 

"Waitamoment — letme think  !  Ah — I  see, sir  !  "said Leonard. 

PARSON. — If  the  cause  be  holy,  do  not  weigh  it  in  the  scales 
of  the  market ;  if  its  objects  be  peaceful,  do  not  seek  to  arm  it 
with  the  weapons  of  strife ;  if  it  is  to  be  the  cement  of  society, 
do  not  vaunt  it  as  the  triumph  of  class  against  class. 

LEONARD  (ingenuously). — You  correct  me  nobly,  sir.  Knowl- 
edge is  power,  but  not  in  the  sense  in  which  I  have  interpreted 
the  saying. 

PARSON. — Knowledge  is  one  of  the  powers  in  the  moral  world, 
but  one  that,  in  its  immediate  result,  is  not  always  of  the  most 
worldly  advantage  to  the  possessor.  It  is  one  of  the  slowest,  be- 
cause one  of  the  most  durable,  of  agencies.  It  may  take  a  thou- 
sand years  for  a  thought  to  come  into  power  !  and  the  thinker 
who  originated  it  might  have  died  in  rags  or  in  chains. 

RICCABOCCA.— Our  Italian  proverb  saith  that  "the  teacher  is 
like  the  candle,  which  lights  others  in  consuming  itself." 

PARSON.: — Thereforehewho  hasthetrueambition  of  knowledge 
should  entertain  it  for  the  power  of  his  idea,  not  for  the  power  it 
may  bestow  on  himself  ;  it  should  be  lodged  in  the  conscience, 
and,  like  the  conscience,  look  for  no  certain  reward  this  side  of 
the  grave.  And  since  knowledge  is  compatible  with  good  and 
with  evil,  would  not  it  be  better  to  say,  "  Knowledge  is  a  trust  "? 

"You  are  right,  sir,"  said  Leonard,  cheerfully  ;  "pray  proceed." 

PARSON. — You  ask  me  why  we  encourage  you  to  KNOW.  First, 
because  (as  you  say  yourself  in  your  Essay)  knowledge,  irre- 
spective of  gain,  is  in  itself  a  delight,  and  ought  to  be  something 
far  more.  Like  liberty,  like  religion,  it  may  be  abused  ;  but  I 
have  no  more  right  to  say  that  the  poor  shall  be  ignorant,  than  I 
have  to  say  that  the  rich  only  shall  be  free,  and  that  the  clergy 
alone  shall  learn  the  truths  of  redemption.  You  truly  observe  in 


246  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

your  treatise  that  knowledge  opens  to  us  other  excitements  than 
those  of  the  senses,  and  another  life  than  that  of  the  moment. 
The  difference  between  us  is  this,  that  you  forget  that  the  same 
refinement  which  brings  us  new  pleasures,  exposes  us  to  nevvpains 
— the  horny  hand  of  the  peasant  feels  not  the  nettles  which  sting 
the  fine  skin  of  the  scholar.  You  forget  also,  that  whatever  widens 
the  sphere  of  the  desires,  opens  to  them  also  new  temptations. 
Vanity,  the  desire  of  applause,  pride,  the  sense  of  superiority — 
gnawing  discontent  where  that  superiority  is  not  recognized — 
morbid  susceptibility,  which  comes  with  all  new  feelings — the 
underrating  of  simple  pleasures  apart  from  the  intellectual — the 
chase  of  the  imagination,  often  unduly  stimulated,  for  things 
unattainable  below — all  these  are  surely  amongst  the  first  temp- 
tations that  beset  the  entrance  into  knowledge. 

Leonard  shaded  his  face  with  his  hand. 

"Hence,"  continued  the  Parson,  benignantly — "hence,  so  far 
from  considering  that  we  do  all  that  is  needful  to  accomplish 
ourselves  as  men,  when  we  cultivate  only  the  intellect,  we  should 
remember  that  we  thereby  continually  increase  the  range  of  our 
desires,  and  therefore  of  our  temptations;  and  we  should  en- 
deavor, simultaneously,  to  cultivate  both  those  affections  of  the 
heart  which  prove  the  ignorant  to  be  God's  children  no  less  than 
the  wise,  and  those  moral  qualities  which  have  made  men  great  and 
good  when  reading  and  writing  were  scarcely  known:  to  wit., — pa- 
tienceand  fortitude  underpovertyanddistress:humilityandbenef- 
icence  amidst  grandeur  and  wealth;  and,  in  counteraction  to  that 
egotism  which  all  superiority,  mental  or  worldly,  is  apt  to  inspire, 
Justice,  the  father  of  all  the  more  solid  virtues, softened  by  Char- 
ity, which  is  their  loving  mother.  Thus  accompanied, Knowledge 
indeed  becomesthemagnificentcrownpf  humanity, — nottheimpe- 
rious  despot,but  the  checked  and  tempered  sovereign  of  the  soul." 

The  Parson  paused,  and  Leonard,  coming  near  him,  timidly 
took  his  hand,  with- a  child's  affectionate  and  grateful  impulse. 

RICCABOCCA. — -And  if,  Leonard,  you  are  not  satisfied  with  our 
Parson's  excellent  definitions,  you  have  only  to  read  what  Lord 
Bacon  himself  has  said  upon  the  true  ends  of  knowledge,  to 
comprehend  at  once  how  angry  the'poor  great  man  whom  Dr. 
Dale  treats  so  harshly,  would  have  been  with  those  who  have 
stinted  his  elaborate  distinctions  and  provident  cautions  into 
that  coxcombical  little  aphorism,  and  then  misconstrued  all  he 
designed  to  prove  in  favor  of  the  commandment,  and  authority 
6f  learning.  For  [added  the  sage,  looking  up  as  a  man  does  when 
he  is  taxing  his  memory]  I  think  it  is  thus  that,  after  saying  the 
greatest  error  of  all  is  the  mistaking  pr  misplacing  the  end  of 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  247 

knowledge,  and  denouncing  the  various  objects  for  which  it  is 
vulgarly  sought — I  think  it  is  thus  that  Lord  Bacon  proceeds. . . . 
"  Knowledge  is  not  a  shop  for  profit  or  sale,  but  a  rich  store- 
house for  the  glory  of  the  Creator,and  the  relief  of  men's  estate."* 

PARSON  (remorsefully). — Are  those  Lord  Bacon's  words  ?    I 
am  very  sorry  I  spoke  so  uncharitable  of  his  life.     I  must  ex- 
amine it  again.     I  may  find  excuses  for  it  now  that  I  could  not 
when  I  first  formed  my  judgment.     I  was  then  a  raw  lad  at  Ox-  . 
ford.  But  I  see,  Leonard,  there  is  still  something,  on  your  mind. 

LEONARD. — It  is  true,  sir  ;  I  would  but  ask  whether  it  is  not 
by  knowledge  that  we  arrive  at  the  qualities  and  virtues  you  so 
well  describe,  but  which  you  seem  to  consider  as  coming  to  us 
through  channels  apart  from  knowledge  ? 

PARSON. — If  you  mean  by  the  word  knowledge  something 
very  different  from  what  you  express  in  your  Essay;  and  which 
those  contending  for  mental  instruction,  irrespective  of  religion 
and  ethics,  appear  also  to  convey  by  the  word,  you  are  right  ; 
but  remember,  we  have  already  agreed  that  by  the  word  knowl- 
edge we  mean  culture  purely  intellectual. 

LEONARD. — That  is  true,  we  so  understood  it. 

PARSON. — Thus,  when  this  great  Lord  Bacon  erred,  you  may 
say  that  he  erred  from  want  of  knowledge — the  knowledge  which 
moralists  and  preachers  would  convey.  But  Lord  Bacon  had 
read  all  that  moralists  and  preachers  could  say  on  such  matters; 
and  he  certainly  did  not  err  from  want  of  intellectual  cultiva- 
tion. Let  me  here,  my  child,  invite  you  to  observe,  that  He  who 
knew  most  of  our  humarJ  hearts  and  our  immortal  destinies,  did 
not  insist  on  this  intellectual  culture  as  essential  to  the  virtues 
that  form  our  well-being  here,  and  conduce  to  our  salvation 
hereafter.  Had  it  been  essential, the  Allwise  One  would  not  have 
selected  humble  fishermen  for  the  teachers  of  His  doctrine,  in- 
stead of  culling  His  disciples  from  Roman  portico  or  Athenian 
academe.  And  this,  which  distinguishes  so  remarkably  the  Gos- 
pel from  the  ethics  of  heathen  philosophy,  wherein  knowledge 
is  declared  to  be  necessary  to  virtue,  is  a  proof  how  slight  was 

*  "  But  the  greatest  error  of  all  the  rest  is  the  mistaking  or  misplacing  of  the  last  or  farthest  . 
end  of  knowledge  ;  for  men  have  entered  into  a  desire  of  learning  and'  knowledge,  so'me- 
times  upon  a  natural  curiosity  and  inquisitive  appetite  ;  sometimes  to  entertaiij  their  minds 
with  variety  and  delight  ;  sometimes  for  ornament  and  reputation  ;  and  sometimes  to  en- 
able them  to  victory  Ol  wit  and  contradiction  ;  and  most  times  for  lucre  and  profession  " 
[that  is,  for  most  of  those  objects  which  are  meant  by  the  ordinary  citers  of  the  sayings 
"  Knowledge  is  power  "1  — "  and  seldom  sincerely  to  give  a  true  account  of  these  gifts  of 
reason  to  the  benefit  and  usr  of  men  ;  as  if  there  were  sought  in  knowledge  a  couch  where- 
upon to  re»t  a  searching  and  restless  spirit ;  or  a  terrace  for  a  wandering  and  variable  mind 
to  walk  up  and  down,  with  a  fair  prospect  ;  or  a  tower  of  state  for  a  proud  mind  to  raise  itself 
upon,  or  a  fort  or  commanding  ground  for  strife  and  contention  ;  or  a  shopforprofit  or  sale — 
and  not  a  rich  storehouse  for  the  glory  of  the  Creator,  and  the  relief  of  men's  estate." — Ap- 
VANCBMKNT  OF  LEARNING,  Book  I. 


248  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

the  heathen  sage's  insight  into  the  nature  of  mankind,  when 
compared  with  the  Saviour's  ;  for  hard,  indeed,  would  it  be  to 
men,  whether  high  or  low,  rich  or  poor,  if  science  and  learning, 
or  contemplative  philosophy,  were  the  sole  avenues  to  peace  and 
redemption  ;  since,in  this  state  of  ordeal  requiring  active  duties, 
very  few  in  any  age,  whether  they  be  high  or  low,  rich  or  poor, 
ever  are  or  can  be  devoted  to  pursuits  merely  mental.  Christ 
does  not  represent  heaven  as  a  college  for  the  learned;  therefore 
the  rules  of  the  Celestial  Legislator  are  rendered  clear  to  tha 
simplest  understanding  as  to  the  deepest. 

RICCABOCCA. — And  that  which  Plato  and  Zeno,  Pythagora* 
and  Socrates,  could  not  do,  was  done  by  men  whose  ignorance 
would  have  been  a  by- word  in  the  schools  of  the  Greek.  The 
gods  of  the  vulgar  were  dethroned  ;  the  face  of  the  world  was 
changed  !  This  thought  may  make  us  allow,  indeed,  that  there 
are  agencies  more  powerful  than  mere  knowledge,  and  ask,  aftei 
all,  what  is  the  mission  which  knowledge  should  achieve  ? 

PARSON. — The  Sacred  Book  tells  us  even  that  ;  for  after  es^ 
tablishing  the  truth  that,  for  the  multitude,  knowledge  is  not  es. 
sential  to  happiness  and  good,  it  accords  still  to  knowledge  itn 
sublime  part  in  the  revelation  prepared  and  announced.  When 
an  instrument  of  more  than  ordinary  intelligence  was  required 
fora  purpose  divine, — when  the  Gospel  recorded  by  the  simple, 
was  lo  be  explained  by  the  acute,  enforced  by  the  energetic, 
carried  home  to  the  doubts  of  the  Gentile,  the  Supreme  Will 
joined  to  the  zeal  of  the  earlier  apostles  the  learning  and  genius 
of  St.  Paul-^-not  holier  than  others, — calling  himself  the  least, 
yet  laboring  more  abundantly  than  them  all, — making  himself 
all  thirtgs  unto  all  men,  so  that  some  might  be  saved.  The  ig- 
norant may  be  saved  no  less  surely  than  the  wise;  but  here  comes 
the  wise  man  who  helps  to  save  !  And  how  the  fulness  and  ani- 
mation of  this  grand  Presence,  of  this  indomitable  Energy,  seem 
to  vivify  the  toil, and  to  speed  the  work!—"  In  journeyings  often, 
in  perils  of  waters,  in  perils  of  robbers,  in  perils  of  mine  own 
countrymen;  in  perils  by  the  heathen,  in  perils  in  the  city,  in 
perils  in  the  wilderness,  in  perils  in  the  sea,  in  perils  among  false 
brethren."  Behold,  my  son  !  does  not  Heaven  here  seem  to 
reveal  the  true  type  of  Knowledge, — a  sleepless  activity,  a  per- 
vading agency,  a  dauntless  heroism,  an  all-supporting  faith  ? — 
a  power — a  power  indeed, — a  power  apart  from  the  aggrandize- 
ment of  self, — a  power  that  brings  to  him  who  owns  and  trans- 
mits it  but  "  weariness  and  painfulness  ;  in  watchings  often,  in 
hunger. and  thirst,  in  fastings  often,  in  cold  and  nakedness," — 
but  a  power  distinct  from  the  mere  circumstance  of  the  man, 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  249 

rushing  from  him  as  rays  from  the  sun  ;  borne  through  the  air, 
and  clothing  it  with  light,— piercing  under  earth,  and  calling 
forth  the  harvest !  Worship  not  knowledge, — worship  not  the 
sun,  O  my  child  !  Let  the  sun  but  proclaim  the  Creator  ;  let 
the  knowledge  but  illumine  the  worship  ! 

The  good  man,  overcome  by  his  own  earnestness,  paused ; 
his  head  drooped  on  the  young  student's  breast,  and  all  three 
were  long  silent. 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

WHATEVER  ridicule  may  be  thrown  upon  Mr.  Dale's  disserta- 
tions by  the  wit  of  the  enlightened,  they  had  a  considerable,  and 
I  think  a  beneficial,  effect  upon  Leonard  Fairfield — an  effect 
which  may  perhaps  create  less  surprise  when  the  reader  remem- 
bers that  Leonard  was  unaccustomed  to  argument  'and  still  re- 
tained many  of  the  prejudices  natural  to  his  rustic  breeding. 
Nay,  he  actually  thought  it  possible  that,  as  both  Riccabocca 
and  Mr.  Dale  were  more  than  double  his  age,  and  had  had 
opportunities  not  only  of  reading  twice  as  many  books,  but  of 
gathering  up  experience  in  wider  ranges  of  life — he  actually,  I 
say,  thought  it  possible  that  they  might  be  better  acquainted 
with  the  properties  and  distinctions  of  knowledge  than,  himself. 
As  all  events,  the  Parson's  words  were  so  far  well-timed,  that 
they  produced  in  Leonard  very  much  of  that  state  of  mind  which 
Mr.  Dale  desired  to  effect  before  communicating  to  him  the 
startling  intelligence  that  he  was  to  visit  relations  whom  he  had 
never  seen,  of  whom  he  had  heard  but  little,  and  that  it  was  at 
least  possible  that  the  result  of  that  visit  might  be  to  open  to  him 
greater  facilities  for  instruction,  and  a  higher  degree  in  life. 

Without  some  such  preparation,  I  fear  that  Leonard  would 
have  gone  forth  into  the  world  with  an  exaggerated  notion  of 
his  own  acquirements,  and  with  a  notion  yet  more  exaggerated 
as  to  the  kind  of  power  that  such  knowledge  as  he  possessed 
would  obtain  for  itself.  As  it  was,  when  Mr.  Dale  broke  to  him 
the  news  of  the  experimental  journey  before  him,  cautioning  him 
against  being  over-sanguine,  Leonard  received  the  intelligence 
with  a  serious  meekness,  and  thoughts  that  were  nobly  solemn. 

When  the  door  closed  on  his  visitors,he  remained  for  some  mo- 
ments motionless,  and  in  deep  meditation  ;  then  he  unclosed 
the  door  and  stole  forth.  The  night  was  already  far  advanced,  the 
heavens  were  luminous  with  all  the  host  of  stars.  "I  think,"  said 
the  student,  referring,  in  later  life,  to  that  crisis  in  his  destiny — 
"  I  think  it  was  then,  as  I  stood  alone,  yet  surrounded  by  worlds  so 
numberless,  that  I  first  felt  the  distinction  between  w/Wand  soul," 


250  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Riccabocca,  as  he  parted  company  with  Mr. 
Dale,  "  whether  you  would  have  given  to  Frank  Hazeldean,  on 
entering  life,  the  same  lecture  on  the  limits  and  ends  of  knowl- 
edge which  you  have  bestowed  on  Leonard  Fairfield  ?-" 

"  My  friend,"  quoth  the  Parson,  with  a  touch  of  human  conceit, 
"|I  have  ridden  on  horseback,  and  I  know  that  some  horses  should 
be  guided  by  the  bridle,  and  some  should  be  urged  by  the  spur." 

"  Cospetto!"  said  Riccabocca,  "  you  contrive  to  put  every  ex- 
perience of  yours  to  some  use — even  your  journey  on  Mr.Hazel- 
dean'spad.  And  now  I  see  why,  in  this  little  world  of  a  village, 
you  have  picked  up  so  general  an  acquaintance  with  life." 

"  Did  you  ever  read  White's  Natural  History  of  Selbortie?  " 

"  No." 

"Do  so,  and  you  will  find  that  you  need  not  go  far  to  learn 
the  habits  of  birds,  and  know  the  difference  between  a  swallow 
and  a  swift.  Learn  the  difference  in  a  village,  and  you  know 
the  difference  wherever  swallows  and  swifts  skim  the  air." 

"  Swallows  and  swifts  1— true  :  but  men — " 

"  Are  with  us  all  the  year  round — which  is  more  than  we  can 
say  of  swallows  and  swifts." 

"  Mr.  Dale,"  said  Riccabocca,  taking  off  his  hat  with  great 
formality,  "  if  ever  again  I  find  myself  in  a  dilemma,  I  will  come 
to  you  instead  of  to  Machiavelli." 

"  Ah  !  ".  cried  the  Parson,  "  if  I  could  but  have  a  calm  hour's 
talk  with  you  on  the  errors  of  the  Papal  relig — " 

Riccabocca  was  off  like  a  shot. 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  next  day,  Mr.  Dale  had  a  long  conversation  with  Mrs. 
Fairfield.  At  first,  he  found  some  difficulty  in  getting  over  her 
pride,  and  inducing  her  to  accept  overtures  from  parents  who 
had  so  long  slighted  both  Leonard  and  herself.  And  it  would 
have  been  in  vain  to  have  put  before  the  good  woman  the 
worldly  advantages  which  such  overtures  implied.  But  when 
Mr.  Dale  said,  almost  sternly,  "  Your  parents  are  old,  your  father 
infirm;  their  least  wish  should  be  as  binding  to  you  as  their  com- 
mand,"— the  widow  bowed  her  head,  and  said — =• 

"  God  bless  them,  sir,  I  was  very  sinful — '  Honor  your  father 
and  mother.'  I'm  no  scollard,  but  I  know  the  Commandments. 
Let  Lenny  go.  But  he'll  soon  forget  me,  and  mayhap  he'll 
learn  to  be  ashamed  of  me." 

"There  I  will  trust  him,"  said  the  Parson  ;  and  he  contrived 
easily  to  reassure  and  soothe  her. 

It  was  not  till  all  this  was  settled  that  Mr.  Dale  drew  forth 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  251 

an  unsealed  letter  which  Mr.  Richard  Avenel,  taking  his  hint, 
had  given  to  him  as  from  Leonard's  grandparents,  and  said — 
"  This  is  for  you,  and  it  contains  an  enclosure  of  some  value." 

"  Will  you  read  it,  sir?     As  I  said  before,  I'm  no  scollard." 

"  But  Leonard  is,  and  he  will  read  it  to  you." 

When  Leonard  returned  home  that  evening,  Mrs.  Fairfield 
showed  him  the  letter.  It  ran  thus — 

"  DEAR  JANE, — Mr.  Dale  will  tell  you  that  we  wish  Leonard 
to  come  to  us.  We  are  glad  to  hear  that  you  are  well.  We  for- 
ward, by  Mr.  Dale,  a  bank-note  for  ^£50,  which  comes  from 
Richard,  your  brother.  So  no  more  at  present  from  your  affec- 
tionate parents,  JOHN  AND  MARGARET  AVENEL." 

The  letter  was  in  a  stiff  female  scrawl,  and  Leonard  observed 
that  two  or  three  mistakes  in  spelling  had  been  corrected,  either 
in  another  pen  or  in  a  different  hand. 

"  Dear  brother  Dick,  ,how  good  in  him  !  "  cried  the  widow. 
"  When  I  saw  there  was  money,  I  thought  it  must  be  him.  How 
I  should  like  to  see  Dick  again  !  But  I  s'pose  he's  in  Amerikay. 
Well,  well,  this  will  buy  clothes  for  you." 

"No;youmustkeepitall,mother,andputitintheSavings  Bank." 

"  I'm  not  quite  so  silly  as  that,"  cried  Mrs.  Fairfield,  with 
contempt ;  and  she  put  the  fifty  pounds  into  a  cracked  teapot. 

"  It  must  not  stay  there  when  I'm  gone.  You  may  be 
robbed,  mother." 

"  Dear  me,  dear  me,  that's  true.  What  shall  I  do  with  it  ? — 
what  do  I  want  with  it,  too  ?  Dear  me,  I  wish  they  hadn't  sent 
it.  I  shan't  sleep  in  peace.  You  must  e'en  put  it  in  your  pouch, 
and  button  it  up  tight,  boy." 

Lenny  smiled,  and  took  the  note  ;  but  he  gave  it  to  Mr.  Dale, 
and  begged  him  to  put  it  into  the  Savings  Bank  for  his  mother. 

The  day  following  he  went  to  take  leave  of  his  master,  of  Jack- 
eymo,  of  the  fountain,  the  garden.  But  after  he  had  gone  through 
thefirstof  these  adieus,  with  Jackeymo— who, poorman,  indulged 
in  all  the  lively  gesticulations  of  grief  which  make  half  the  elo- 
quence of  his  countrymen,  and  then,  absolutely  blubbering,  hur- 
ried away — Leonard  himself  was  so  affected  that  he  could  not 
proceed  at  once  to  the  house,  but  stood  beside  the  fountain,  try- 
ing hard  to  keep  back  his  tears. 

"You,  Leonard — and  you  are  going!  "said  a  soft  voice;  and  the 
tears  fell  faster  than  ever,  for  he  recognized  the  voice  of  Viol-ante. 

"  Do  not  cry,"  continued  the  child,  with  a  kind  of  tender 
gravity.  "  You  are  going,  but  papa  says  it  would  be  selfish  in  us 
to  grieve,  for  it  is  for  your  good  ;  and  we  should  be  glad.  But  I 
am  selfish,  Leonard,  and  I  do  grieve.  I  shall  miss  you  sadly." 


252  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  You,  young  lady — you  miss  me  ?  " 

"  Yes.  But  I  do  not  cry,  Leonard,  for  I  envy  you,  and  I  wish 
I  were  a  boy  ;  I  wish  I  could  do  as  you." 

The  girl  clasped  her  hands,  and  reared  her  slight  form,  with 
a  kind  of  passionate  dignity. 

"  Do  as  me,  and  part  from  all  those  you  love  !  " 

"  But  to  serve  those  you  love.  One  day  you  will  come  back  to 
your  mother's  cottage,  and  say,  '  I  have  conquered  fortune.'  O 
that  I  could  go  forth  and  return,  as  you  will  !  But  my  father 
has  no  country,  and  his  only  child  is  a  useless  girl." 

As  Violante  spoke,  Leonard  had  dried  his  tears  ;  her  emotion 
had  distracted  him  from  his  own. 

"Oh,"continuedViolante,againraisingher  head  loftily, "whatit 
istobeaman!  A  womansighs'Iwish/butamanshouldsay'Iwill."  " 

Occasionallybefore Leonard  had  noted  fitful  flashestof  anature 
grand  and  heroic  in  the  Italian  child,  especially  of  late — flashes 
the  more  remarkable  from  their  contrast  to  a  form  most  exqui- 
sitely feminine,  and  to  a  sweetness  of  temper  which  made  even 
her  pride  gentle.  But  now  it  seemed  as  if  the  child  spoke  with 
the  command  of  a  queen — almost  with  the  inspiration  of  aMuse. 
A  strange  and  new  sense  of  courage  entered  within  him. 

"  May  I  remember  these  words  !  "  he  murmured,  half  audibly. 

The  girl  turned  and  surveyed  him  with  eyes  brighter  for  their 
moisture.  She  then  extended  her  hand  to  him,  with  a  quick  move- 
ment, and  as  he  bent  over  it,  with  a  grace  taught  to  him  by  genuine 
emotion,  she  said, "  And  if  you  do,  then,  girl  and  child  as  I  am,  shall 
think  I  have  aided  a  brave  heart  in  the  great  strife  for  honor  !  " 

She  lingered  a  moment,  smiled  as  if  to  herself,  and  thenr 
gliding  away,  was  lost  among  the  trees. 

.After  a  long  pause,  in  which  Leonard  recovered  slowly  from 
the  surprise  and  agitation  into  which  Violante  had  thrown  his 
spirits — -previously  excited  as  they  were — he  went,  murmuring 
to  himself,  toward  the  house.  But  Riccabocca  was  from  home. 
Leonard  turned  mechanically  to  the  terrace,  and  busied  himself 
with  the  flowers.  But  the  dark  eyes  of  Violante  shone  on  his 
thoughts,  and  her  voice  rang  in  his  ear. 

At  length  Riccabocca  appeared  on  the  road,  attended  by  a 
laborer,  who  carried  something  indistinct  under  his  arm. 

The  Italian  beckoned  to  Leonard  to  follow  him  into  the  par- 
lor, and  after  conversing  with  him  kindly,  and  at  some  length, 
and  packing  up,  as  it  were  a  considerable  provision  of  wisdom 
in  the  portable  shape  of  aphorisms  and  proverbs,  the  sage  left 
him  alone  for  a  few  moments.  Riccabocca  then  returned  wit* 
his  wife,  and  bearing  a  small  knapsack: — 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  253 

"  It  is  not  much  we  can  do  for  you,  Leonard,  and  money  is 
the  worst  gift  in  the  world  for  a  keepsake  ;  but  my  wife  and  I 
have  put  our  heads  together  to  furnish  you  with  a  little  outfit. 
Giacomo,  who  was  in  our  secret,  assures  us  that  the  clothes  will 
fit;  and  stole,  I  fancy,  a  coat  of  yours,  to  have  the  right  measure. 
Put  them  on  when  you  go  to  your  relations  :  it  is  astonishing 
what  a  difference  it  makes  in  the  ideas  people  form  of  us,  ac- 
cording as  our  coats  are  cut  one  way  or  another.  I  should  not 
be  presentable  in  London  thus;  and  nothing  is  more  true  than 
that  a  tailor  is  often  the  making  of  a  man." 

"  The  shirts,  too,  are  very  good  holland,"  said  Mrs.  Ricca- 
bocca, about  to  open  the  knapsack. 

"  Never  mind  details,  my  dear,"  cried  the  wise  man;  "  shirts 
are  comprehended  in  the  general  principle  of  clothes.  And, 
Leonardos  a  remembrance  somewhat  morepersonal,accept  this, 
which  I  have  worn  many  a  year -when  time  was  a  thing  of  im- 
portance to  me,  and  nobler  fates  than  mine  hung  on  a  moment. 
We  missed  the  moment,  or  abused  it  ;  and  here  I  am,  a  waif  on 
a  foreign  shore.  Methinks  I  have  done  with  Time." 

The  exile,  as  he  thus  spoke,  placed  in  Leonard's '  reluctant 
hands"  a  watch  that  would  have  delighted  an  antiquary,  and 
shocked  a  dandy.  It  was  exceedingly  thick,  having  an  outer 
case  of  enamel,  and  an  inner  one  of  gold.  The  hands  and  the 
figures  of  the  hours  had  originally  been  formed  of  brilliants; 
but  the  brilliants  had  long  since  vanished.  Still,  even  thus  be- 
reft, the  watch  was  much  more  in  character  with  the  giver  than 
the  receiver,  and  was  as  little  suited  to  Leonard  as  would  have 
been  the  red  silk  umbrella. 

"It  is  old-fashioned,"  said  Mrs.  Riccabocca;  "  but  it  goes 
better  than  any  clock  in  the  county.  I  really  think  it  will  la$t 
to  the  end  of  the  world." 

"  Carissima  mia  /"  cried  the  Doctor,  "I  thought  I  had  con- 
vinced you  that  the  world  is  by  no  means  come  to  its  last  legs." 

"  Oh,  I  did  not  mean  anything,  Alphonso,"  said  Mrs.  Ricca- 
bocca, coloring. 

"  And  that  is  all  we  do  mean  when  we  talk  about  that  of  which 
wecan  know  nothing/'saidtheDoctor,  less  gallantly  than  usual, for 
he  resented  thatepithetof  "old:fashioned, "as  applieditothewatch. 

Leonard,  we  see,  had  been  silent  all  this  time;  he  could  not 
speak — literally  and  truly,  he  could  not  speak.  How  he  got 
out  of  his  embarrassment,  and  how  he  got  out  of  the  room,  he 
never  explained  to  my  satisfaction;  but,  a  few; minutes  after- 
ward, he  was  seen  Hurrying  down  the  road  very  briskly. 

Riccabocca  and  his  wife  stood  at  the  window  gazing  after  him. 


254  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

"  There  is  a  depth  in  that  boy's  heart,"  said  the  sage,  "  which 
might  float  an  Argosy." 

"  Poor  dear  boy  !  I  think  we  have  put  everything  into  the 
knapsack  that  he  can  possibly  want,"  said  good  Mrs.  Ricca- 
bocca,  musingly. 

The  DOCTOR  (continuing  his  soliloquy). — They  are  strong, 
but  not  immediately  apparent. 

MRS.  RICCABOCCA  (resuming  hers).— They  are  at  the  bottom 
of  the  knapsack. 

The  DOCTOR. — They  will  stand  long  wear  and  tear. 

MRS.  RICCABOCCA. — Ayear,atleast,!withpropercareatthewash. 

The  DOCTOR  (startled).— Care  at  the  wash  !  What  on  earth 
are  you  talking. of,  ma'am  ? 

MRS.  RICCABOCCA  (mildly). — The  shirts,  to  be  sure,  my  love! 
And  you  ? 

The  DOCTOR  (withaheavysigh). — Thefeelings,ma'am!  [Then, 
after  a  pause,  taking  his  wife's  hand  affectionately] — But  you 
did  quite  right  to  think  of  the  shirts;  Mr.  Dale  said  very  truly — 

MRS.  RICCABOCCA. — What? 

The  DOCTOR. — That  there  was  a  great  deal  in  common  be- 
tween us — even  when  I  think  of  feelings,  and  you  but  of — shirts! 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

MR.  and  Mrs.  Avenel  sat  within  the  parlor— Mr.  Richard 
stood  on  the  hearth-rug,  whistling  Yankee  Doodle.  "  The  Par- 
son writes  word  that  the  lad  will  come  to-day,"  said  Richard, 
suddenly — "  let  me  see  the  letter — ay,  to-day.  If  he  took  the 

coach  as  far  as — ,  he  might  walk  the- rest  of  the  way  in.  two  or 

three  hours.  He  should  be  pretty  nearly  here.  I  have  a  great 
mind  to  go  and  meet  him  ;  it  will  save  his  asking  question?,  and 
hearing  about  me.  I  can  clear  the  town  by  the  back  w,ay,  and 
get  out  at  the  high-road." 

"You'll  not  know  him  from  a«ny  one  else,"  said  Mrs.  Avenel. 

"  Well,  that  is  a  good  one  !  Not  know  an  Avenel  !  We've 
all  the  same  cut  of  the  jib — have  not  we,  father  ?" 

Poor  John  laughed  heartily,  till  the  tears  rolled  down  his  Cheeks. 

"  We  were  always  a  well-favored  fam'ly,"  said  John,  recompos- 
inghimself.  "  There  was  Luke,  but  he's  gone  ;  andHarry,but 
he's  dead  too  ;  and  Dick,  but  he's  in  Amerikay— -  no,  he's  here  ; 
and  my  darling  Nora,  but — " 

"Hush  !  "  interrupted  Mrs.  Avenel  ;  "hush,  John  !  " 

The  old  man  stared  at  her,  and  then  put  his  tremulous  hand 
to  his  brow.  "And  Nora's  gone  top  !  "  said  he,  in  a  voice  of 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  255 

profound  woe.  Both  hands  then  fell  on  his  knees,  and  his  head 
drooped  on-  his  breast. 

Mrs.  Avenel  rose,  kissed  her  husband  on  the  forehead,  and 
walked  away  to  the  window.  Richard:  took  up  his  hatrand  brushed 
the  nap  carefully  with  his  handkerchief;  but  his  lips  quivered. 

"  I'm  going,"  said  he  abruptly.  "  Never  mind,  mother,  not  a 
word  about  Uncle  Richard  yet ;  we  must  first  see  how  we  like 
each  other,  and,"  in  a  low  whisper,  "  you'll  try  and  get  that  into 
my  poor  father's  head  ? " 

"  Ay,  Richard,"  said  Mrs.  Avenel,  quietly.  Richard  put  on 
his  hat  and  went  out  by  the  back  way.  He  stole  along  the  fields 
that  skirted  the  town,  and  had  only  once  to  cross  the  street  be- 
fore he  got  into  the  high-road. 

He  walked  on  till  he  came  to  the  first  milestone.  There  he 
seated  himself,lighte.d  his  cigar.and  awaited  his  nephew.  It  was 
now  nearly  the  hour  of  sunset,  and  the  road  before  him  lay  west- 
ward. Richard,  from  time  to  time,  looked  along  the  road, 
shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand  ;  .and  at  length,  just  as  the  disc 
of  the  sun  had  half  sunk  down  the  horizon,  a  solitary  figure  came 
up  the  way.  It  emerged  suddenly  from  the  turn  in  the  road  ; 
the  reddening  beams  colored  all  the  atmosphere  around  it. 
Solitary  and  silent,  it  came  as  from  a  Land  of  Light. 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

"You  have  been  walking  far,  young  man?"  said  Richard  Avenel. 

"  No,  sir,  not  very.     That  is  Lansmere  before  me,  is  it  not?" 

"  Yes,  it  is  Lansmere  ;  you  stop  there,  I  guess  ?  " 

Leonard  made. a  sign  in  the  affirmative,  and  walked  on  a  few 
paces  ;  then,  seeing  the  stranger  who  had  accosted  him  still  by 
his  side,  he  said — 

"  If  you  know  the  town,  sir,  perhaps  you  will  have  the  good- 
ness to  tell  me  whereabouts  Mr.  Avenel  lives  ?  " 

"  I  can  put  you  into  a  straight  cut  across  the  fields,  that  will 
bring  you  just  behind  the  house." 

"  You  are  very  kind,,  but  it  will  take  you  out  of  your  way." 

"  No,  it  is  in  my  way.  So  you  are  going  to  Mr.  Aven'el's  ? — 
a  good  old  gentleman." 

"  I've. always  heard  so  ;  and  Mrs.. : Avenel — " 

"  A  particular  superior  woman,"  said  Richard.  "Any  one 
else  to  ask  after  ? — I  know  the  family  well." 

"  No,  thank  you,  sir." 

"  They  have  a  son,  I  believe  ;  but  he's  in  America,  is  not  he  ?" 

"J  believe  he  is,  sir." 


256  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

'    V.I  see  the  Parson  has  kept  faith  with  me,"  muttered  Richard. 

"  If  you  can  tell  me  anything  about  him"  said  Leonard,  "  I 
should  be  very  glad." 

"  Why  so,  young  man  ?  perhaps  he  is  hanged  by  this  time." 

"  Hanged  ! " 

u  He  was  a  sad  dog,  I  am  told." 

"Then  you  have  been  told  very  falsely,"  said  Leonard, coloring. 

<;  A  sad  wild  dog — his  parents  were  so  glad  when  he  cut  and 
rim — went  off  to  the  States.  They  say  he  made  money;  but, 
if  so,  he  neglected  his  relations  shamefully." 

"  Sir,"  said  Leonard,  "  you  are  wholly  misinformed.  He  has 
been  most  generous  to  a  relation  who  has  little  claim  on  him; 
and  I  never  heard  his  namementioned  but  with  love  and  praise." 

Richard  instantly  fell  to  whistling  Yankee  Doodle,  and  walked 
on  several  paces  without  saying  a  word.  He  then  made  a  slight 
apology  for  his  impertinence — hoped  no  offence — and,  with  his 
usual  bold  but  astute  style  of  talk,  contrived  to  bring  out  some- 
thing of  his  companion's  mind.  He  was  evidently  struck  with 
clearness  and  propriety  with  which  Leonard  expressed  himself, 
raised  his  eyebrows  in  surprise  more  than  once,  and  looked  him 
full  in  the  face  with  an  attentive  arid-pleased  survey. — Leonard 
had  put  on  the  new  clothes  with  which  Riceabocca  arrd  wife  had 
provided  him.  They  were  those  appropriate  to  a  young  country 
tradesman  in  good  circumstances;  but  as  Leonard  did  not  think 
about  the  clothes,  so  he  had  unconsciously  something  of  the 
ease  of  the  gentleman. 

They  now  came  into  the  fields.  Leonard  paused  before  a  slip 
of  ground  sown  with  rye. 

"  I  should  have  thought  grass  land  would  have  answered 
better,  so  near  a  town,"  said  he. 

"  No  doubt  it  would,"  answered  Richard;  "  but  they  are  sadly 
behindhand  in  these  parts.  You  see  the  great  park  yonder,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  road  ?  That  would  answer  better  for  rye 
than  grass  ;  but  then,  what  would  become  of  my  Lord's  deer  ? 
The  aristocracy  eat  us  up,  young  man." 

"  But  the  aristocracy  did  not  sow  this  piece  with  rye,  I  sup- 
pose !  "  said  Leonard,  smiling. 

"  And  what  do  you  conclude  from  that  ? " 

"  Let  every  man  look  to  his  own  ground,"  said  Leonard,  with 
a  cleverness  of  repartee  caught  from  Dr.  Riceabocca. 

"  'Cute  lad  you  are/'  said  Richard;  "and  we'll  talk  more  ef 
these  matters  another  time." 

They  now  came  within  sight  of  Mr.  Avenel's  house.. 

"  You  can  get  through  the  gap  in  the  hedge,  by  the  old  pol- 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  257 

lard  oak,"  said  Richard,  "  and  come  round  by  the  front,  of  the 
house.     Why,  you're  not  afraid— are  you  ?" 
"  I  am  a  stranger." 

"Shall  I  introduce  you?   I  told  you  that  I  knew  the  old  couple." 
"  Oh  no,  sir  !     I  would  rather  meet  them  alone." 
"Go;  and — wait  a  bit — harkye,  young  man,  Mrs.  Avenel  is 
a  cold-mannered  woman  ;  but  don't  be  abashed  by  that." 

Leonard  thanked  the  good-natured  stranger,  crossed  the  field, 
passed  the  gap,  and  paused  a  moment  under  the  stinted  shade 
of  the  old  hollow-hearted  oak.  The  ravens  were  returning  to 
their  nests.  At  the  sight  of  a  human  form  under  the  tree,  they 
wheeled  round,  and  watched  him  from  afar.  From  the  thick 
of  the  boughs,  the  young  ravens  sent  their  hoarse  low  cry.  * 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  young  man  entered  the  neat,  prim,  formal  parlor. 

**  You  are  welcome  !  "  said  Mrs.  Avenel,  in  a  firm  voice. 

"  The  gentleman  is  heartily  welcome,"  cried  poor  John. 

"  It  is  3rour  grandson,  Leonard  Fairfield,"  said  Mrs.  Avenel. 

But  John,  who  had  risen  with  knocking  knees,  gazed  hard  at 
Leonard,  and  then  fell  on  his  breast,  sobbing  aloud — "  Nora's 
eyes  ! — he  has  a  blink  in  his  eye  like  Nora's." 

Mrs.  Avenel  approached  with  a  steady  step,  and  drew  away 
the  old  man  tenderly. 

"He  is  a  poor  creature,"  she  whispered  ta  Leonard — "  you 
excite  him.  Come  away,  I  will  show  you  your  jroom." 

Leonard  followed  her  up  the  stairs,  and  came  into  a  room — 
neatly,  and  even  prettily,  furnished.  The  carpet  and  curtains 
were  faded  by  the  sun,  and  of  old-fashioned  pattern;  there  was 
a  look  about  the  room  as  if  it  had  been  long  disused. 

Mrs.  Avenel  sank  down  on  the  first  chair  on  entering. 

Leonard  drew  his  arm  round  her  waist  affectionately.  "  I 
fear  that  I  have  put  you  out  sadly — my  dear. grandmother." 

Mrs.  Avenel  glided  hastily  from  his  arm,  and  her  countenance 
worked  much — every  nerve  in  it  twitching,  as  it  .were  ;  then, 
placing  her  hand  on  his  locks,  she  said  with  passion,  "  Goc}  bless 
you,  my  grandson,"  and  left  the  room. 

Leonard  dropped  his  knapsack'on  the  floor,  and  lookedaround 
him  wistfully.  The  room  seemed  as  if  it  had  once  been  occupied 
by  a  female.  There  was  a  workrbox  on  the  chest  of  drawers,  and 
over  it  hanging  shelves  for  books,  suspended  by  ribbons  that  had 

*  It  so  rarely  happens  that  ravens  are  found  to  build  near  a  dwelling-house,  that  it  is  per- 
haps necessary  to  observe  that  the  instance  here  referred  to  is^founded  on  a  fact  stated  to  the 
author  on  good  authority. 


258  MY    NOVEL  ;   OR, 

once  been  blue,  with  silk  and  fringe  appended  to  each  shelf,  and 
knots  and  tassels  here  and  there — the  taste  of  a  woman,  or  rather 
of  a  girl,  who  seeks  to  give  a  grace  to  the  commonest  things 
around  her.  With  the  mechanical  habits  of  a  student,  Leonard 
took  down  one  or  two  of  the  volumes  still  left  on  the  shelves. 
He  found  SPENSER'S  Fairy  Queen,  RACINE  in  French,  TASSO  in 
Italian  ;  andon  thefly-leaf  of  each  volume,  in  theexquisitehand- 
writing  familiar  to  his  memory,  the  name  "  Leonora."  He  kissed 
the  books,  and  replaced  them  with  a  feeling  akin  both  to  tender- 
ness and  awe. 

He  had  not  been  alone  in  the  room  more  than  a  quarter  of  an 
hour,  before  the  maid-servant  knocked  at  his  door  and  sum- 
moned him  to  tea. 

Poor  John  had  recovered  his  spirits,  and  his  wife  sat  by  his 
side  holding  his  hand  m  hers.  Poor  John  was  even  gay.  He 
asked  many  questions  about  his  daughter  Jane,  and  did  not  wait 
for  the  answers.  Then  he  spoke  about  the  Squire,  whom  he  con- 
founded with  Audley  Egerton,  and  talked  of  elections  and  the 
Blue  party,  and  hoped  Leonard  would  always  be  a  good  Blue  ; 
and  then  he  fell  to  his  tea  and  toast,  and  said  no  more. 

Mrs.  Avenel  spoke  little,  but  she  eyed  Leonard  askant,  as  it 
were,  from  time  to  time  ;  and,  after  each  glance,  the  nerves  of 
the  poor  severe  face  twitched  again. 

A  little  after  nine  o'clock,  Mrs.  Avenel  lighted  a  candle,  and 
placing  it  in  Leonard's  hand,  said,  "  You  must  be  tired — you 
know  your  own  room  now.  Good-night." 

Leonard  took  the  light,  and,  as  was  .his  wont  with  his  mother, 
kissed  Mrs.  Avenel  on  the  cheek.  Then  he  look  John's  hand.and 
kissed  him  too.  The  old  man  was  half  asleep,  and  murmured 
dreamily,  "  That's  Nora." 

Leonard  had  retired  to  his  room  about  half  an  hour,  when 
Richard  Avenel  entered  the  house  softly,  and  joined  his  parents. 

"  Well,  mother  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Well,  Richard— )rou  have  seen  him?" 

•'And  like  him.  Do  you  know,  he  has  a  great  look  of  poor 
Nora  ? — more  like  her  than  Jane." 

"  Yes;  he  is  handsomer  than  Jane  ever  was,  but  more  like  your 
fatherthananyone.  Johnwassocomely.  You  taketotheboy,  then!" 

"  Ay,  that  I  do.  Just  tell  him  in  the  morning  that  he  is  to  go 
with  a  gentlemen  who  will  be  his  friend,  and  don't  say  more. 
The  chaise  shall  be  at  the  door  after  breakfast.  Let  him  get 
into  it  ;  I  shall  wait  for  him  out  of  the  town.  What's  the  room 
you  gave  him  ?  " 

"  The  room  you  would  not  take." 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  259 

"  The  room  in  which  Nora  slept  ?  Oh  no  !  I  could  not  have 
slept  a  wink  there.  What  a  charm  there  was  in  that  girl — how 
we  all  loved  her  !  But  she  was  too  beautiful  and  good  for  us — 
too  good  to  live  !  " 

"  None  of  us  are  too  good,"  said  Mrs.  A  vend,  with  great 
austerity,"  and  I  beg  you  will  not  talk  in  that  way.  Good  night — 
I  must  get  your  poor  father  to  bed." 

When  Leonard  opened  his  eyes  the  next  morning,  they  rested 
on  the  face  of  Mrs.  Avenel,  which  was  bending  over  his  pillow. 
But  it  was  long  before  he  could  recognize  that  countenance,  so 
changed  was  its  expression — so  tender,  so  mother-like.  Nay, 
the  face  of  his  own  mother  had  never  seemed  to  him  so:  soft 
with  a  mother's  passion. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  murmured,  half  rising  and  flinging  his  young  arms 
around  her  neck.  Mrs.  Avenel,  this  time  taken  by,  surprise, 
warmly  returned  the  embrace  ;  she  clasped  him  to  her  breast, 
she  kissed  him  again  and  again.  At  length,  with  a  quick  start, 
she  escaped,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  pressing  her 
hands  tightly  together.  When  she  halted,  her  face  had  recovered 
its  usual  severity  and  cold  precision. 

"  It  is  time  for  you  to  rise,  Leonard,"  said  she.  "  You  will 
leave  us  to-day.  A  gentleman  has  promised  to  take  charge  of 
you,  and  do  for  you  more  than  we  can.  A  chaise  jvill  be  at  the 
door  soon — make  haste." 

John  was  absent  from  the  breakfast-table;  His  wife  said  that 
he  never  rose  till  late,  and  must  not  be  disturbed. 

The  meal  was  scarcely  over  before  a  chaise  and  pair  came  to 
the  door. 

"  You  must  not  keep  the  chaise  waiting — the  gentleman  is 
very  punctual." 

"  But  he  is  not  come." 

"  No  ;  he  has  walked  on  before,  and  will  get  in  after  you  are 
out  of  the  town." 

"Whatishisname,  and  why  shouldhe  care  forme,  grandmother?" 

"  He  will  tell  you  himself.     Be  quick." 

"But  you  will  bless  meagain,grandmother.  I  love  you  already." 

"  I  do  bless  you,"  said  Mrs.  Avenel,  firmly.  "  Be  honest  and 
good,  and  beware  of  the  first  false  step."  She  pressed  his  hand 
with  a  convulsive  grasp,  and  led  him  to  the  outer  door.  . 

The  postboy  clanked  his  whip,  the  chaise  rattled  off.  Leonard 
put  his  head  out  of  the  window  to  catch  a  last  glimpse  of  the  aid 
woman;  but  the  boughs  of  the  pollard  oak,  and  its  gnarled 
decaying  trunk,  hid  her  from  his  eye  ;  and  look  as  he  would, 
till  the  road  turned,  he  saw  but  the  melancholy  tree. 


260  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 


BOOK  FIFTH.— INITIAL  CHAPTER. 

CONTAINING  MR.C  AXTON's  UNA  VAILING  CAUTION  NOT  TO  BE  DULL. 

"  I  HOPE,  Pisistratus,"  said  my  father,  "  that  you  do  not  intend 
to  be  dull  ?" 

"  Heaven  forbid,  sir  !  What  could  make  you  ask  such  a  ques- 
tion ?  Intend!  No  !  if  I  am  dull,  it  is  from  innocence." 

"  A  very  long  discourse  upon  knowledge  !  "  said  my  father; 
"  very  long.  I  should  cut  it  out !  " 

I  looked  upon  my  father  as  a  Byzantian  sage  might  have  looked 
on  a  Vandal.  "  Cut  it  out—!  "' 

"  Stops  the  action,  sir  !  "  said  my  father,  dogmatically. 

"  Action  !     But  a  novel  is  not  a  drama." 

"  No,  it  is  a  great  deal  longer — twenty  times  as  long,  I  dare 
say,"  replied  Mr.  Caxton,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Well,  sir — well  !  I  think  my  Discourse  upon  Knowledge  has 
much  to  do  with  the  subject — ris  vitally  essential  to  the  subject; 
does  not  stop  the  action— only  explains  and  elucidates  the  ac- 
tion. And  I  am  astonished,  sir,  that  you,  a  scholar,  and  a  cul- 
tivator of  knowledge — " 

"  There— there  !  "  cried  my  father,  deprecatingly.  "  I  yield — 
I  yield.  What  better  could  I  expect  when  I  set  up  for  a  critic! 
What  author  ever  lived  that  did  not  fly  into  a  passion,  even  with 
his  own  father,  if  his  father  presumed  to  say-—'  Cut  out ! ' ' 

MRS.  CAXTON.— -My  dear  Austin,!  am  sure  Pisistratus  did  not 
mean  to  offend  vou,  and  I  have  no  doubt  he  will  take  your — 

PISISTRATUS  (hastily). — Advice  for  the  future,  certainly.  I 
will  quicken  the  action,  and — *• 

"  Go  on  with  the  Novel,"  whispered  Roland,  looking  up  from 
his  eternal  account  book.  "  We  have  lost  ^200  by  our  barley!" 

Therewith  I  plijnged  my  pen  into  the  ink,  and  my  thoughts 
into  the  "  Fair  Shadow-land." 

CHAPTER  II. 

"HALT!"  cried  a  voice:  and  not  a  little  surprised  was 
Leonard  when  the  stranger  who  had  accosted  him  the  preced- 
ing evening  got  into  the  chaise. 

"  Well,"  said  Richard,  "  I  am  not  the  sort  of  man  you  expect- 
ed, eh?  Take  time  to  recover  yourself."  And  with  these  words 
Richard  drew  forth  a  book  from  his  pocket,  threw  himself  back, 
.and  began  to  read.  Leonard  stole  many  a  glance  at  the  acute, 
•hardy,  handsome  face  of  his  companion,  and. gradually  recog- 
nized a  family  likeness  to  poor  John,  in  whom,  despite  age:and 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  261 

infirmity,  the  traces  of  no  common  share  of  physical  beauty  were 
still  evident.  And,  with  that  quick  link  in  ideas  which  mathe- 
matical aptitude  bestows,  the  young  student  at  once  conjectured 
that  he  saw  before  him  his  uncle  Richard.  He  had  the  discre- 
tion, however,  to  leave  that  gentleman  free  to  choose  his  own 
time  for  introducing  "himself,  and  silently  revolved  the  new 
thoughts  produced  by  the  novelty  of  his  situation.  Mr.  Rich- 
ard read  with  notable  quickness — sometimes  cutting  the  leaves 
of  the  book  with  his  penknife,  sometimes  tearing  them  open  with 
his  four  fingers,  sometimes  skipping  whole  pages  altogether. 
Thus  he  galloped  to  the  end  of  the  volume — flung  it  aside — 
lighted  his  cigar,  and  began  to  talk. 

He  put  many  questions  to  Leonard  relative  to  his  rearing,  and 
especially  to  the  mode  by  which  he  had  acquired  his  education  ; 
and  Leonard,  confirmed  in  the  idea  that  he  was  replying  to  a 
kinsman,  answered  frankly. 

Richard  did  not  think  it  strange  that  Leonard  should  have 
acquired  so  much  instruction  with  so  little  direct  tuition.  Rich- 
ard Avenel  himself  had  been  tutor  to  himself.  He  had  lived 
too  longjwith  our  go-ahead  brethren,  who  Stride  the  world  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Atlantic  with  the  seven-leagued  boots  of  the 
Giant-killer,  not  to  have  caught  their  glorious  fever  for  reading. 
But  it  was  for  a  reading  wholly  different  from  that  which  was 
familiar  to  Leonard.  The  books  he  read  must  be  new;  to  read  old 
books  would  have  seemed  to  him  going  back  in  the  world.  He 
fancied  that  new  books  necessarily  contained  new  ideas — a  com-, 
mon  mistake — and  our  lucky  adventurer  was  the  man  of  his  day. 

Tired  with  talking,  he  at  length  chucked  the  book  he  had  run 
through  to  Leonard,  and,  taking  out  a  pocket-book  and  pencil, 
amused  himself  with  calculations  on  some  detail  of  his  busi- 
ness, after  which  he  fell  into  an  absorbed  train  of  thought-^- 
part  pecuniary,  part  ambitious. 

Leonard  found  the  book  interesting  ;  it  was  one  of  the  nu- 
merous works,  half  statistic,  half  declamatory,  relating  to  the 
condition  of  the  working-classes,  which  peculiarly  distinguish 
our  century,  and  ought  to  bind  together  rich  and  poor,  by  prov- 
ing the  grave  attention  which  modern  society  bestows  upon  all 
that  can  affect  the  welfare  of  the  last. 

"  Dull  stuff — theory — claptrap/'said  Richard,  rousing  himself 
from  his  reverie  at  last ;  "  it  can't  interest  you." 

"All  books  interest  me,  I  think,"  said  Leonard,  "and  this  es- 
pecially; for  it  relates  to  the  working-class, and  I  am  one  of  them." 

"You  were  yesterday,  but  you  mayn't  be  to-morrow,"  an- 
swered Richard  good-humor'edly,  and  patting  him  on  the  shoul- 


262  MY    HOVEL  ;    OR, 

fler.  "  You  see,  my  lad,  that  it  is  the  middle-class  which  ought 
to  govern  the  country.  What  the  book  says  about  the  ignorance 
of  country  magistrates  is  very  good  ;  but  the  man  writes  pretty 
considerable  trash  when  he  wants  to  regulate  the  number  of 
hours  a  free-born  boy  should  work  at  a  factory — only  ten  hours 
a  day — ^pooh  !  and  so  lose  two  hours  to  -the  nation  !  Labor  is 
wealth:  and  if  we  could  get  men  to  work  twenty-four  hours  a  day, 
we  should  be  just  twice  as  rich.  If  the  march  of  civilization 
is  to  proceed,"  continued  Richard,  loftily,  "men,  and  boys  too, 
must  not  lie  abed  doing  nothing  all  night,  sir."  Then, with  a  com- 
placent tone —  "We  shall  get  to  the  twenty -four  hours  at  last ;  and, 
by  gad,  we  must,  or  we  shan't  flog  the  Europeans  as  we  do  now." 

On  arriving  at  the  inn  at  which  Richard  had  first  made  ac- 
quaintance with  Mr.  Dale,  the  coach  by  which  he  had  intended 
to  perform  the  rest  of  the  journey  was  found  to  be  full.  Rich- 
ard continued  to  perform  the  journey  in  post-chaises,  not  with- 
out some  grumbling  at  the  expense,  and  incessant  orders  to  the 
post-boys  to  make  the  best  of  their  way.  "Slow  country  this,  in 
spite  of  all  its  brag,"said  he — "very  slow.  Time  is  money — they 
know  that  in  the  States;  for  why,  they  are  all  men  of  business 
there.  Always  slow  in  a  country  where  a  parcel  of  lazy,  idle 
lords,  and  dukes,  and  baronets,  seem  to  think  'time  is  pleasure.'  '• 

Toward  evening  the  chaise,  approached  the  confines  of  a  very 
large  town,  and  Richard  began  to  grow  fidgety.  His  easy,  cav- 
alier air  was  abandoned.  He  withdrew  his  legs  from  the  win- 
dow, out  of  which  they  had  been  luxurioiisly  dangling  ;  pulled 
down  his  waistcoat;  buckled  more  tightly  his  stock;  it  was  clear 
.that  he  was  resuming  the  decorous  dignity  that  belongs  to  state. 
He  was  like  a  monarch,  who,  after  travelling  happy  and  incog- 
nito, returns  to  his  capital.  Leonard  divined  at  once  that  they 
were  nearing  their  journey's  end. 

Humble  foot-passengers  now  looked  at  the  chaise,  and  touched 
their  hats.  Richard  returned  the  salutation  with  a  nod — a  nod  less 
gracious  than  condescending.  The  chaise  turned  rapidly  to  the 
left,and  stopped  before(asmalllodge,very  new,  very  white,adorned 
with  two  Doric  columns  in  stucco,  andflanked  by  a  large  pair  of 
gates.  "  Hollo  !  "  cried  the  post-boy,  and  cracked  his  whip. 

Two  children  were  playing  before  the  lodge,  and  some  clothes 
were  hanging  out  to  dry  on  the  shrubs  and  pales  round  the  neat 
little  building. 

"  Hang  those  brats  !  they  are  actually  playing,"  growled 
Dick.  "As  Hive,  the  jade  has  been  washing  again!  Stop,  boy." 
During  this  soliloquy,  a  good-looking  young  woman  had  rushed 
from  the  door— t-slapped  the  children  as,  catching  sight  of  tV-* 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  263 

chaise.theyran  toward  the  house — opened  the  gates,anddropping 
a  curtsey  to  the  ground,  seemed  to  wish  that  she  could  drop  into 
it  altogether,  so  frightened  and  so  trembling  seemed  she  to  shrink 
from  the  wrathfulf  ace  which  the  master  now  put  out  of  the  window. 

"  Did  I  tell  you,  or  did  I  not,"  said  Dick,  "  that  I  would  not 
have  those  horrid,  disreputable  cubs  of  yours  playing  just  be- 
fore my  lodge-gates  ? " 

"  Please,  sir- — " 

"  Don't  answer  me.  And  did  I  tell  you,  or  did  I  not,  that  the 
next  time  I  saw  you  making  a  drying-ground  of  my  lilacs,  you 
should  go  out,  neck  and  crop—" 

"Oh,  please,  sir — " 

"You  leave  my  lodge  next  Saturday  !  'drive  on,  boy.  The 
ingratitude  and  insolence  of  those  common  people  are  disgrace- 
ful to  human  nature,"  muttered  Richard,  with  an  accent  of  the 
bitterest  misanthropy. 

The  chaise  wheeled  along  the  smoothest  and  freshest  of  gravel 
roads,  and  through  fields  of  the  finest  land,  in  the  highest  state 
of  cultivation.  Rapid  as  was  Leonard's  survey,  his  rural  eye  de- 
tected the  signs  of  a  master  in  the  art  agronomial.  Hitherto 
he  had  considered  the  Squire's  model  farm  as  the  nearest  ap- 
proach to  good  husbandry  he  had  seen;  for  Jackeymo's  finer 
skill  was  developed  rather  on  the  minute  scale  of  market-garden- 
ing than  what  can  fairly  be  called  husbandry.  But  the  Squire's 
farm  was  degraded  by  many  old-fashioned  notions,  and  conces- 
sions to  the  whim  of  the  eye,  which  would  not  be  found  in  model 
farms  now-a-days- — large  tangled  hedgerows, which,  though  they 
constitute  one  of  the  beauties  most  picturesque  in  old  England, 
make  sad  deductions  from  produce;  great  trees,  overshadowing 
the  corn,  and  harboring  the  birds;  little  patches  of  rough  sward 
left  to  waste}  and  angles  of  \yoodland  running  into  fields,  ex- 
posing them  to  rabbits,  and  blocking  out  the  sun, — these  and 
such-like  blots  on  a  gentleman-farmer's  agriculture,  common- 
sense  and  Giacomo  had  made  clear  to  the  acute  comprehension 
of  Leonard.  No  such  faults  were  perceptible  in  Richard  Ave- 
nel's  domain.  The  fields  lay  in  broad  divisions,  the  hedges  were 
clipped  and  narrowed  into  their  proper  destination  of  mere 
boundaries.  Not  a  blade  of  wheat  withered  under  the  cold  shade 
of  a  tree;  not  a  yard  of  land  lay  waste;  not  a  weed  was  to  be  seen, 
not  a  thistle  to  waft  its  baleful  seed  through  the  air;  some  young 
plantations  were  placed,  not  where  the  artist  would  put  them,  but 
just  where  the  farmer  wanted  a  fence  from  the  wind.  Was  there  no 
beauty  in  this?  Yes,  there  was;  beauty  of  its  kind — beauty  at  once 
recognizable  to  the  initiated--— beauty  of  use  and  profit — beauty 


£64  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR 

that  could  bear  a  monstrous  high  rent.  And  Leonard  uttered  a  cry 
of  admiration  which  thrilled  through  the  heart  of  Richard  Avenel. 

"This  is  farming  !  "  said  the  villager. 

"  Wellj  I  guess  it  is,"  answered  Richard,  all  his  ill-humor  van- 
ishing. "  You  should  have  seen  the  land  when  I  bought  it. 
But  we  new  men,  as  they  call  us  (damn  their  impertinence) 
are  the  new  blood  of  this  country." 

Richard  Avenel  never  said  anything  more  true.  Long  may 
the  new  blood  circulate  through  the  veins  of  the  mighty  giantess; 
but  let  the  grand  heart  be  the  same  as  it  has  beat  for  proud  ages. 

The  chaise  now  passed  through  a  pretty  shrubbery,  and  the 
house  came  into  gradual  view — a  house  with  a  portico — all 
the  offices  carefully  thrust  out  of  sight. 

The  post-boy  dismounted,  and  rang  the  bell. 

"  I  almost  think  they  are  going  to  keep  me  waiting,"  said  Mr. 
Richard,  well-nigh  in  the  very  words  of  Louis  XIV. 

But  that  fear  was  not  realized — the  door  opened  ;  a  well-fed 
servant  out  of  livery  presented  himself.  There  was  no  hearty 
welcoming  smile -on  his  face,  but  he  opened  the  chaise-door 
with  demure  and  taciturn  respect. 

"  Where's  George  ?  why  does  not  he  come  to  the  door  ? " 
askeid  Richard,  descending  from  the  chaise  slowly,  and  leaning 
on  the.  servant's  outstretched  arm  with  as  much  precaution  as 
if  he  had  had  the  gout. 

Fortunately  George  here  came  into  sight,  settling  himself 
hastily  into  his  livery-coat. 

"  See  to  the  things,  both  of  you,"  said  Richard,  as  he  paid 
the  post-boy. 

Leonard  stood  on  the  gravel  sweep,  gazing  at  the  square 
white  house. 

"  Handsome  elevation — classical,  I  take  it— eh  ?  "  said  Rich- 
ard, joining  him.  "  But  you  should  see  the  offices." 

He  then,  with  familiar  kindness,  took  Leonard  by  the  arm, 
and  drew  him  within.  He  showed  him  the  hall,  with  a  carved 
mahogany  stand  for  hats  -,  he  showed  him  the  drawing-room, 
and  pointed  out  all  its  beauties — though  it  was  summer,  tlve 
drawing-room  looked  cold,  as  will  look  rooms  newly  furnished, 
with  walls  newly  papered,  in  houses  newly  built.  The  furniture 
was  handsome,  and  suited  to  the  rank  of  a  rich  trader.  There 
was  no  pretense  about  it,  and  therefore  no  vulgarity,  which  is 
more  than  can  be  said  for  the  houses  of  many  ah  honorable  Mrs. 
Somebody  in  Mayfair,  with  rooms  twelve  feet  square,  chokeful 
of  buhl,  that  would  have  had  its  proper  place  in  the  Tuileriest 
Then  Richard  showed  him  the  library,Avith  'mahogany  book' 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  265 

cases  and  plate-glass,  and  the  fashionable  authors  handsomely 
bound.  Your  new  men  are  much  better  friends  to  living  authors 
than  your  old  families  who  live  in  the  country,  and  at  most  sub- 
scribe  to  a  book-club.  Then  Richard  took  him  upstairs,  and 
led  him  through  the  bed-rooms-; — all  very  clean  and  comforta- 
ble, and  wjth  every  modern  convenience  ;  and,  pausing  in  a 
very  pretty  single-gentleman's  chamber,  said,  "  This  is  your  den. 
And  now,  can  you  guess  who  I  am  ?  " 

"  No  one  but  my  uncle  Richard  could  be  so  kind,"  answered 
Leonard. 

But  the  compliment  did  not  flatter  Richard.  He  was  ex- 
tremely disconcerted  and  disappointed.  He  had  hoped  that  he 
should  be  taken  for  a  lord  at  least,  forgetful  of  all  that  he  had 
said  in,,  disparagement  of  lords. 

"  Pish  !  "  said  he  at  last,  biting  his  lip — "  so  you  don't  think 
that  I  look  like  a  gentleman  ?  Come,  now,  speak  honestly." 

Leonard,  wonderingly,  saw  he  had  given  pain,  and,  with  the 
good-breeding  which  comes  instinctively  from  good-nature,  re- 
plied—" I  judge  you  by  your  heart,  sir,  and  your  likeness  to  my 
grandfather— otherwise  I  should  never  have  presumed  to  fancy 
we  could  be  relations." 

"  Hum  !  "  answered  Richard.  "  You  can  just  wash  your 
hands,  and  then  come  down  to  dinner  ;  you  will  hear  the  gong 
in  ten  minutes.  There's  the  bell— ring  for  what  you  want." 

With  that  he  turned  on  his  heel  ;  and,  descending  the  stairs, 
gave  a  look  into  the  dining-room,  and  admired  the  plated  silver 
on  the  sideboard,  and  the  king's-pattern  spoons  and  forks  on  the 
table.  Then  he  walked  to  the  looking-glass  over  the  mantel- 
piece ;  and,  wishing  to  survey  the  whole  effect  of  his  form, 
mounted  a  chair.  He  was  just  getting  into  an  attitude  which 
be  thought  imposing,  when  the  butler  entered,  and,  being  Lon- 
don bred,  had  the  discretion  to  try  to  escape  unseen  ;  but  Rich- 
ard caught  sight  of  him  in  the  looking-glass,  and  colored  up  to 
the  temples. 

"  Jarvis,"  said  he,  mildly — "  Jarvis,  put  me  in  mind  to  have 
these  inexpressibles  altered.". 

CHAPTER  III. 

APROPOS  of  the  inexpressibles,  Mr.  Richard  did  not  forget  to 
provide  his  nephew  with  a  much  larger  wardrobe  than  could 
have  been  thrust  into  Dr.  Riccabocca's  knapsack.  There  was 
a  very  good  tailor  in  the  town,  and  the  clothes  were  very  well 
made.  And,  but  for  an  air  more  ingenuous,  and  a  cheek  that, 
despite  study  and  night  vigils,  retained  much  of  the  sunburnt 


266  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

bloom  of  the  rustic,  Leonard  Fairfield  might  now  have  almost 
passed,  without  disparaging  comment,  by  the  bow-window  at 
White's.  Richard  burst  into  an  immoderate  fit  of  laughter  when 
he  first  saw  the  watch  which  the  poor  Italian  had  bestowed 
upon  Leonard  ;  but,  to  atone  for  the  laughter,  he  made  him 
a  present  of  a  very  pretty  substitute,  and  bade  him  "lock  up  his 
turnip."  Leonard  was  more  hurt  by  the  jeer  at  his  old  patron's 
gift  than  pleased  by  his  uncle's.  But  Richard  Avenel  had  no 
conception  of  sentiment.  It  was  not  for  many  days  that  Leon- 
ard could  reconcile  himself  to  his  uncle's  manner.  Not  that  the 
peasant  could  pretend  to  judge  of  its  mere  conventional  de- 
fects £but  there  is  an  ill-breeding  to  which,whatever  our  rank  and 
nurture,  we  are  almost  equally  sensitive— the  ill-breeding  that 
comes  from  want  of  consideration  for  others.  Now,  the  Squire 
was  as  homely  in  his  way  as  Richard  Avenel,  but  the  Squire's 
bluntness  rarely  hurt  the  feelings;  and  when  it  did  so,  the  Squire 
perceived  and  hastened  to  repair  his  blunder.  But  Mr.  Rich- 
ard, whether  kind  or  cross,  was  always  wounding  you  in  some 
little  delicate  fibre— not  from  malice,  but  from  the  absence  of 
any  little  delicate  fibres  of  his  own.  He  was  really,  in  many  re 
spects,  a  most  excellent  man,  and  certainly  a  very  valuable  citi- 
zen. But  his  merits  wanted  the  fine  tints  and  fluent  curves  that 
constitute  beauty  of  character.  He  was  honest, 'but  sharp  in 
his  practice,  and  with  a  keen  eye  to  his  interests.  He  was  just, 
but  as  a  matter  of  business.  He  made  no  allowances,  and  did 
not  leave  to  his  justice  the  large  margin  of  tenderness  alid  mercy. 
He  was  generous,  but  rather  from  an  idea  of  what  was  due  to 
himself  than  with  much  thought  of  the  pleasure  he'gave  to 
others  ;  and  he  even  regarded  generosity  as  a  capital  put  out  to 
interest.  He  expected  a  great  deal  of  gratitude  in  return,  and, 
when  he  obliged  a  man,  considered  that  he  had  bought  a  slave. 
Every  needy  voter  knew  where  to  come,  if  he  wanted  relief  or  a 
loan  ;  but  woe  to  him  if  he  had  ventured  to  express  hesitation 
when  Mr.  Avenel  told  him  how  he  must  vote. 

In  this  town  Richard  had  settled  after  his  return  from 
America,  in  which  country  he  had  enriched  himself— -first,  by 
spirit  and  industry — lastly,  by  bold  speculation  and  good  luck. 
He  invested  his  fortune  in  business— became  a  partner  in  a  large 
brewery — soon  bought  out  his  associates1— and  then  took  a  prin- 
cipal share  in  a  flourishing  corn-mill.  He  prospered  rapidly- 
bought  a  property  of  some  two  or  three  hundred  acres,  built  a 
house,  and  resolved  to  enjoy  himself,  and  make  a  figure.  He 
had  now  became  the  leading  man  of  the  town,  and  the  boast  to 
Audley  Egerton  that  he  could  return  one  of  the  members,  per- 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  2&J 

haps  both,  was  by  no  means  an  exaggerated  estimate  of  his  power. 
Nor  was  his  proposition,  according  to  his  own  views,  so  unprin- 
cipled as  it  appeared  to  the  statesman.  He  had  taken  a  great 
dislike  to  both  the  sitting  members — a  dislike  natural  toa  sensible 
man  of  moderate  politics,  who  had  something  to  lose.  For  Mr. 
Slappe,  the  active  member — who  was  head-over-ears  in  debt — 
was  one  of  the  furious  democrats  rare  before  the  Reform  Bill— 
and  whose  opinions  were  held  dangerous  even  by  the  mass  of  a 
liberal  constituency;  while  Mr.  Sleekie,  the  gentleman  member, , 
who  laid  by  ^5000  every  year  from  his  dividends  in  the  Funds, 
was  one  of  those  men  whom  Richard  justly  pronounced  to  be 
"  humbugs  "—men  who  curry  favor  with  the  extreme  party  by 
voting  for  measures  sure  not  to  be  carried  ;  while,  if  there  was 
the  least  probability  of  coming  to  a  decision  that  would  lower 
the  money-market,  Mr.  Sleekie  was  seized  with  a  well-timed  in- 
fluenza. Those  politicians  are  common  enough  now.  Propose 
to  march  to  the  Millenium,  and  they  are  your  men.  Ask  them  to 
march  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  and  they  fall  to  feeling  their  pockets, 
and  trembling  for  fear  of  the  footpads.  They  are  never  so  joyful 
as  when  there  is  no  chance  of  a  victory.  Did  they  beat  the  min- 
ister, they  would  be  carried  out  of  the  House  in  a  fit. 

Richard  Avenel — despising  both  these  gentlemen,  and  not  tak^ 
ing  kindly  to  the  Whigs  since  the  great  Whig  leaders  were  lords 
— had  looked  with  a  friendly  eye  to  the  Government  as  it  then 
existed,  and  especially  to  Audley  Egerton,  the  enlightened 
representative  of  commerce.  But  in  giving  Audley  and  his  col- 
leaguesthebenefit  of  his  influence,  through  conscience,  hethought 
it  all  fair  and  right  to  have  a  quid  pro  guo,  and,  as  he  had  so 
frankly  confessed,  it  was  his  whirrr  to  rise  up  "-  Sir  Richard." 
For  this  worthy  citizen  abused  the  aristocracy  much  on  the  same 
principle  as  the  fair  Olivia  depreciated  Squire  Thorn hiH-'-he 
had  a  sneaking  affection  for  what  he  abused.  The  society  of 
Screwstown  was,  like  most  provincial  capitals>  composed  of  two 
classes— the  commercial  and  the  exclusive.'  These  last  dwelt 
chiefly  apart,  around  the  ruins  of  an  old  abbey  ;  they  affected 
its  antiquity  in  their  pedigrees,  and  had  much  of  its  ruin  in  their 
finances.  Widows  of  rural  thanes  in  the  neighborhood  —gen- 
teel spinsters — officers  retired  on  half-pay — -younger  sons  of  rich 
squires,  who  had  now  become  old  bachelors-^-in  short,  a  very 
respectable,  proud,  aristocratic  set — who  thought  more  of  them- 
selves than  do  al'l  the  Gowers  and  Howards,  Courtenays  and 
Seymours  put  together.  It  had  early  been  the  ambition  of  Richard 
Avenel  to  be  admitted  into  this  sublime  coterie  ;  and,  strange 
to  say,  he  had  partially  succeeded.  He  was  never  more  happy 


268  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

than  when  he  was  asked  to  their  card-parties,  and  never  more 
u-nhappythan  when  he  was  actually  there.  Variouscircumstances 
combined  to  raise  Mr.  Avenel  into  this  elevated  society.  First, 
he  was  unmarried,  still  very  handsome,  and  in  that  society  there 
was  a  large  proportion  of  unwedded  females.  Secondly,  he  was 
the  only  rich  trader  in  Screwstown  who  kept  a  good  cook,  and 
professed  to  give  dinners,  and  the  half-pay  captains  and  colonels 
swallowed  the  host  for  the  sake  of  the  venison.  Thirdly,  and 
principally,  all  these  exclusives  abhorred  the  two  sitting  mem- 
bers, and  idem  nolle  idem  velle  de  republicd,  ea  fir  ma  ami c  Hie 
esf;  that  is,  congeniality  in  politics  pieces  porcelain  and  crock- 
ery together  better  than  the  best  diamond  cement.  The  sturdy 
Richard  Avenel- — who  valued  himself  on  America  independence 
— held  these  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  an  awe  that  was  truly  Brah- 
minical.  Whether  it  was  that,  in  .England,  all  notions,  even  of 
liberty,  are  mixed  up  historically,  traditionally,  socially,  with 
that  fine  and  subtle  element  of  ariistocracy  which,  like  the  press, 
is  the  air  we  breathe  ;  or  whether  Richard  imagined  that  he 
really  became  magnetically  imbued  with  the  virtuesof  these-silver 
pennies  and  gold  seven-shilling  pieces,  distinct  from  the  vulgar 
coinage  in  popular  use,  it  is  hard  to  say.  But  the  truth  must  be 
told — Richard  Avenel  was  a  notable  tuft-hunter.  He  had  a  great 
longing  to  marry  out  of  this  society,  but  he  had  not  yet  seen  any 
onefeufficiently  high-born  and  high-bred  tO: satisfy  his  aspirations. 
In  the  meanwhile,  he  had  convinced  himself  that  his  way  would 
belsmoothcould,he  offer  to  make  his  ultimate  choice"  My  Lady  "; 
and  he  felt  that  it  would  be  a  proud  hour  in  his  life  when  he 
could  walk  before  stiff  Colonel  Pompley  to  the  sound  of  "Sir 
Richard."  Still,  however  disappointed  at  the  ill  success  of  his 
bluff  diplomacy  with  Mr.  Egerton,  and  however  yet  cherishing 
the  most  vindictive  resentment  against  that  individual— he  did 
not,  as  many  would  have  done,  throw  up  his  political  convictions 
out  of  personal  spite.  He  reserved  his  private  grudge  for  some 
special  occasion,  and  continued  still  to  support  the  Adminis- 
tration, and  to  hate  one  of  the  Ministers. 

But,  duly  to  appreciate  the  value  of  Richard  Avenel,  and  in 
just  counterpoise  to  all  his  foibles,  one  ought  to  have  seen  what  he 
had  effected  for  the  town.  Well  might  he  boast  of  "new  blood"; 
he  had  done  as  much  for  the  town  as  he  had  for  his  fields.  His 
energy,  his  quick  comprehension  of  public  utility,  backed  by  his 
«realth,and  bold,  bullying,  imperious  character,  had  sped  the  work 
of  civilization  as  if  with  the  celerity  and  force  of  a  steam-engine. 

If  the  town  were  so  well  paved  and  so  well  lighted — if  half  a 
dozen  squalid  lanes  had  been  transformed  into  a  stately  street — 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  269 

if  half  the  town  no  longer  depended  on  tanks  for  their  water — 
if  the  poor-rates  were  reduced  one-third,  praise  to  the  brisk  new 
blood  which  Richard  Avenel  had  infused  into  vestry  and  cor- 
poration. And  his  example  itself  was  contagious!  "There 
was  not  a  plate-glass  window  in  the  town  when  I  canrre  into  it," 
said  Richard  Avenel;  "and  now  look  down  the  High  Street  !" 
He  took  the  credit  to  himself,  and  justly;  for,  though  his  own 
business  did  not  require  windows  of  plate-glass,  he  had  awak 
ehed  the  spirit  of  enterprise  which  adorns  a  whole  city. 

Mr.  Avenel  did  not  present  Leonard  to  his  friends  formore  than 
a  fortnight.  He  allowed  him  to  wear  off  his  rust.  He  then  gave 
a  grand  dinner,  at  which  his  nephew  was  formally  introduced^ 
and,  to  his  great  wrath  and  disappointment,  never  opened  his 
lips.  How  could  he,  poor  youth,  when  Mrs.  Clarina  Mowbray 
only  talked  upon  high  life;  till  proud  Colonel  Pompley  went  in 
state  through  the  history  of  the  Siege  of  Seringapatam  ? 

CHAPTER  IV. 

WHILE  Leonard  accustoms  himself  gradually  to  the  splendors 
that  surround  him,  and  often  turns  with  a  sigh  to  the  remem- 
brance of  his  mother's  Cottage  and  the  sparkling  fount  in  the  Ital- 
ian's flowery  garden,  we  will  make  with  thee,  O  reader,  a  rapid 
flight  to  the  metropolis,  and  drop  ourselves  amidst  the  gay  groups 
that  loiter  along  the  dusty  ground,  or  loll  over  the  roadside  pal- 
ings of  Hyde  Park.  The  season  is  still  at  its  height;  but  the 
short  day  of  fashionable  London  life,  which  commences  two 
hours  after  noon,  is  in  its  decline.  The  crowd  in  Rotten  Row 
begins  to  thin.  Near  the  statue  of  Achilles,  and  apart  from  all 
other  loungers,  a  gentleman,  with  one  hand  thrust  into  his  waist- 
coat, and  the  other  resting  on  his  cane,  gazed  listlessly  on  the 
horsemen  and  carriages  in  the  brilliant  ring.  He  was  still  in  the 
prime  of  life,  a't  the  age  when  man  is  usually  the  most  social — 
when  the  acquaintances  of  youth  have  ripened  into  friendships, 
and  a  personage  of  some  rank  and  fortune  has  become  a  well- 
known  feature  in  the  mobile  face  of  society.  But  though,  when  his 
contemporaries  were  boys  scarce  at  college,  this  gentleman  had 
blazed  foremost  amongst  the  princes  of  fashion,  and  though  he 
had  all  the  qualities  of  nature  and  circumstance  which  either 
retain  fashion  to  the  last,  or  exchange  its  false  celebrity  for  a 
graver  repute,  he  stood  as  a  stranger  in  that  throng  of  his  coun- 
trymen. Beauties  whirled  by  to  the  toilet — statesmen  passed  on 
to  the  senate — dandies  took  flight  to  the  clubs;  and  neither 
nods,  nor  becks,  nor  wreathed  smiles  said  to  the  solitary  spec- 


270  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

tator,  "..Follow  us— thou  art  one  of  our  set."  Now  and  then,  some 
middle-aged  beau,  nearing  the  post  of  the  loiterer,  turned  round 
to. look  again;  but  the  second  glance  seemed  to  dissipate  the 
recognition  of  the  first,  and  the  beau  silently  continued  his  way. 

"  By  the  tombs  of  my  fathers ! "  said  the  solitary  to  himsels, 
"  I  know  now  what  a  dead  man  might  feel  if  he  came  to  life 
again,  and  took  a  peep  at  the  living." 

;  !tirne  passed  on— the  evening  shades  descended  fast.  Our 
stranger  in  London  had  well-nigh  the  Park  to  himself.  He 
seemed  to  breathe  more  freely  as  he  saw  that  the  space  was  clear, 

"  There's  oxygen  in  the  atmosphere  now,"  said  he,  half  aloud; 
"  and  I  can  walk  without  breathing  in  the  gaseous  fumes  of  the 
.multitude.  O  those  chemists— what  dolts  they  are  !  They  tell 
us  that  crowds  taint  the  air,  byt  they  never  guess  why  !  Pah, 
it  is  not  the  lungs  that  poison  the  element — it  is  the  reek  of  bad 
hearts.  .  When  a  periwig-pated  fellow  breathes  on  me,  I  swallow 
a  mouthful  of  care.  Allans  !  my  friend  Nero;  now  for  a  stroll." 
He  touched  with  his  cane  a  large  Newfoundland  dog,  who  lay 
stretched  near  his  feet;  and  dog  and  man  went  slow  through  the 
growing  twilight,  and  over  the  brown  dry  turf.  At  length  our 
solitary  paused,  and  threw  himself  on  a  bench  under  a  tree. 
"  Half-past  eight  !  "  said  he,  looking  at  his  watch—"  one  may 
smoke  one's  cigar  without  shocking  the  world." 

He  took  out  his  cigar-case,  struck  a  light,  and  in  another  mo- 
ment reclinedatlength  on  the  bench — seemed  absorbed  in  regard- 
ing the  .smoke,  that  scarce  colored,  ere  it  vanished  into  the  air. 

"  ft  is  the  most  barefaced  lie  in  the  world;  my  Nero,"  said  he, 
addressing  his  dog,  "  this  boasted  liberty  of  man  !  Now  here  am 
I, a  free-born  Englishman, a  citizen  of  the  world,  caring — I  often 
say  to  myself — caring  not  a  jot  for  Kaisar  or  Mob;  and  yet  I  no 
more  dare  smoke  this  cigar  in  the  Park  at  half-past  six,  when  all 
the  world  is  abroad,  than  I  dare  pick  my  Lord  Chancellor's 
pocket,  or  hit  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  a  thump  on  the 
nose,  yet  no  law  in  England  forbids  me  my  cigar,  Nero  !  What 
is  law  at  half-past  eight  was  not  crime  at  six  and  a  half  \  Bri- 
tannia says,  '  Man,  thou  art  free,'  and  she  lies  like  a  common- 
place woman.  O  Nero,  Nero  !  you  enviable  dog  ! — you  serve  but 
from  liking.  No  thought  of  the  world  costs  you  one  wag  of  the 
tail.  Your  big  heart  and  true  instinct  suffice  you  for  reason  and 
law.  You  would  want  nothing  to  your  felicity,  if  in  these  mo- 
ments of  ennui  you  would  but  smoke  a  cigar.  Try  it,  Nero! — try 
it  J  "  And,  rising  from  his  incumbent  posture,  he  sought  to  force 
the  end  of  the  weed  between  the  teeth  of  the  dog. 

While  thus  gravely  engaged,  two  figures  had  approached  the 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  271 

place.  The  one  was  a  man  who  seemed  weak  and  sickly:  his 
threadbare  coat  was  buttoned  to  the  chin,  but  hung  large  on  his 
shrunken  breast.  The  other  was  a  girl'  who  might  be  from 
twelve  to  fourteen,  on  whose  arm  he  leant  heavily:  her  cheek 
was  wan,  and  there  was  a  patient  sad  look  on  her  face,  which 
seemed  so  settled  that  you  would  think  she  could  never  have 
known  the  mirthfulness  of  childhood. 

"  Pray  rest  here,  papa,"  said  the  child  softly;  and  she  pointed 
to  the  bench,  without  taking  heed  of  itsp're-occupant,  who  now, 
indeed,  confined  to  one  corner  of  the  seat,  was  almost  hidden 
by  the  shadow  of  the  tree. 

The  man  sate  down,  with  a  feeble  sigh;  and  then,  observing  the 
stranger,raisedhishat,andsaid,in  that  tone  of  voice  which  betrays 
theusages  of  polished  society,  "Forgivemeif  lintrudeon  you, sir." 

The  stranger  looked  up  from  his  dog,  and  seeing  that  the  girl 
was  standing,rose  at  once,as  if  to  make  room  for  her  on  the  bench. 

But  still  the  girl  did  not  heed  him. .  She  hung  aver  her  father, 
and  wiped  his  brow  .tenderly  with  a  little  kerchief  which  she 
took  from  her  own  neck  for  the  purpose. 

Nero,  delighted  to  escape  the  cigar,  had  taken  to  some  unwieldy 
curvets  and  gambols,  to  vent  theexcitement  into  which  he  had  been 
thrown;  and  now  returning,  approached  the  bench  with  a  low 
growl  of  surprise,  and  sniffed  at  the  intruders  on  his  master's 
privacy. 

"Come  here,  sir,"  said  the  master.  "  You  need  not  fear  him," 
he  added,  addressing  himself  to  the  girl. 

But  the  girl,without  turning  round  to  him, cried  in  a  voice  rath- 
er of  anguish  than  alarm,"  He  has  fainted  !  Father  !  father  !  " 

The  stranger  kicked  aside  his  dog,  which  was  in  the  way,  and 
loosened  the  poor  man's  stiff  military  stock.  While  thus 
charitably  engaged,  the  moon  broke  out,  and  the  light  fell  full 
.on  the  pale  careworn  face  of  the  unconscious  sufferer. 

"  This  face  seems  not  unfamiliar  to  rne,though  sadly  changed," 
said  the  stranger  to  himself  ;  and  bending  toward  the  girl,  who 
had  sunk  on  her  knees,  and  was  chafing  her  father's  hands,  he 
asked,  "  My  child,  what  is  your  father's  name  ? " 

The  child  continued  her  task,  too  absorbed  to  answer. 

The  stranger  put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  and  repeated,  the 
question. 

"  Digby,"  answered  the  child,  almost  unconsciously  ;  and  as 

she  spoke,  the  man's  senses  began  to  return.     In  a  few  minutes 

more  he  had  sufficiently  recovered  to  falter  forth  his  thanks  to 

>the  stranger.     But  the  last  took  his  hand,  and  said,  in  a  voice 

at  once  tremulous  and  soothing,/'  Is  it  possible  that  I  see  once 


272  MY   NOVEL  J   OR, 

more  an  old  brother  in  arms  ?  Algernon  Digby,  I  do  not  for- 
get you  ;  but  it  seems  England  has  forgotten." 

A  hectic  flush  spread  over  the  soldier's  face,  and  he  looked 
away  from  the  speaker  as  he  answered— 

"  My  name  is  Digby,  it  is  true,  sir;  but  I  do  notthink  we  have 
met  befofe.  Come,  Helen,  I  am  well  now — we  will  go  home." 

".Try  and  play  with  that  great  dog,  my  child,"  said  the 
stranger, — "  I  want  to  talk  with  your  father." 

The  child  bowed  her  submissive  head,  and  moved  away  ;  but 
she  did  not  play  with  the  dog. 

"  I  must  reintroduce  myself  formally,!  see,"quoth  the  stranger. 
"  You  were  in  the  same  regiment  with  myself,  and  my  name  is 
L'Estrange." 

"  My  lord,"  said  the  soldier,  rising,  "  forgive  me  that—" 

"  I  don't  think  that  it  was  the  fashion  to  call  me  '  my  lord  'at 
the  mess-table.  Come, what  has  happened  to  you? — on  half-pay?" 

Mr.  Digby  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"Digby,  old  fellow,  can  you  lend  me  j£ioo?"  said  LordL'Es- 
trange,clapping  his  «'-dtow// brother  officer  on  the  shoulder,  and  in 
a  tone  of  voice  that  seemed  like  a  boy's— so  impudent  was  It,  and 
devil-me-carish.  "No!  Well, that's  lucky, for  lean /lend it'to you/' 

Mr.  Digby  burst  into  tears. 

Lord  L'Estrange  did  not  seem  to  observe  the  emotion,  btit 
went  on  carelessly — 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  know  that,  besides  being  heir  to 'a  father 
who  is  not  only  very  rich  but  very  liberal,  I  inherited,  on  coming 
of  age,  from  a  maternal  relation,  a  fortune  so  large  that  it  wbuld 
bore  me  to  death  if  I  were  obliged  to  live  up  to  it.  But  in  the 
days  of  our  old  acquaintance,  I  fear  we  were  both  extravagant 
fellows,  and  I  dare  say  I  borrowed  of  you  pretty  freely." 

"  Me  !     Oh,  Lord  L'Estrange  !  " 

"  You  have  married  since  then,  and  refonried,  I  suppose. 
Tell  me,  old  friend,  all  about  it." 

Mr.  Digby,  who  by  this  time  had  succeeded  in  restoring  some 
calm  to  his  shattered  nerves,  now  rose,  and  said  in  brief  sen- 
tences, but  clear  firm  tones, — 

"  My  lord,  it  is  idle  to  talk  to  me — useless  to  help  me.  I  am  fast 
dying.  But  my  child  there,  my  only  child, "he paused  for  an  in- 
stant, and  went  on  rapidly — "I  have  relations  in  a  distant  county, 
if  I  could  but  get  to  them — I  think  they  would,  at  least,  provide 
for  her.  This  has  been  for  weeks  my  hope,  my  dream,  my  prayer. 
I  cannot  afford  the  journey  except  by  your  help.  I  havebegged 
without  shame  for  myself;  shall  I  beashamed,theTi,tobegforher?" 

"  Digby,"  said  L'Estrange,  with  some  grave  alteration  of  man- 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  273 

ner,  "  talk  neither  of  dying  nor  begging.  You  were  nearer  death 
when  the  balls  whistled  round  you  at  Waterloo.  If  soldier  meets 
soldier  and  says/  Friend, thy  purse,'  it  is  not  begging,  but  brother- 
hood. Ashamed!  Bythesouljof  Belisarius!  if  I  needed  money, 
I  would  stand  at  a  crossing  with  my  Wate'rloo  medal  over  my 
breast,  and  say  to  each  sleek  citizen  I  had  helped  to  save  from  the 
sword  of  the  Frenchman,  '  It  is  your  shame  if  I  starve.'  Now, 
lean  upon  n<e;  I  see  you  should  be  at  home — which  way?  " 

The  poor  soldier  pointed  his  hand  toward  Oxford  Street,  and 
reluctantly  accepted  the  proffered  arm. 

"  Arid  when  yoa  return  from  your  relations,  you  will  call  on 
me.  What ! — hesitate  ?  Come,  promise." 

"  I  will." 

"  On  your  honor." 

"  If  I  live,  on  my  honor." 

"  I  am  staying  at  present  at  Knightsbridge,  with  my  father; 
but  you  will  always  hear  of  my  address  at  No.  —  Grbsyenor 
Square,  Mr.  Egerton's.  So  you  have  a  long  journey  before  you  ?" 

"Very  long." 

"  Do  not  fatigue  yourself — travel  slowly.  Ho,  you  foolish 
child  !— I  see  you  are  jealous  of  me.  Your  father  has  another 
arm  to  spare  you." 

Thus  talking,  and  getting  but  short  answers,  Lord  L'Estrange 
continued  to  exhibit  those  whimisical  peculiarities  of  character, 
which  had  obtained  for  him  the  repute  of  heartlessness  in  the 
world.  Perhaps  the  reader  may  think  the  world  was  not  in  the 
right.  But  if  ever  the  world  does  judge  rightly  of  the  character 
of  a  man  who  does  not  live  for  the  world,  nor  talk  for  the'world, 
feel  with  the  world,  it  will  be  centuries  after  the  soul  of  Harley 

L'Estrange  has  done  with  this  planet. 

• 
CHAPTER  V. 

LORD  L'ESTRANGE  parted  company  with  Mr.  Digby  at  the 
entrance  of  Oxford  Street.  The  father  and  child  there  took  a 
cabriolet.  Mr.  Digby  directed  the  driver  to  go  down  the  Edge- 
ware  Road.  He  refused  to  tell  L'Estrange  his  address,  and  this 
with  such  evident  pain,  from  the  sores  of  pride,  that  L'Estrange 
could  not  press  the  point.  Reminding  the  soldier  of  his  promise 
to  call,  Harley  thrust  a  pocket-book  into  his  hand,  and  walked 
off  hastily  toward  Grosvenor  Square. 

He  reached  Audley  Egerton's  door  just  as  that  gentleman  was 
getting  out  of  his  carriage;  and  the  two  friends  entered  the 
house  together. 

"  Does  the  nation  take  a  nap  to-night?"  asks  L'Estrange. 


274  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

"  Poor  old  lady  !     She  hears  so  much  of  her  affairs,  that  she 
may  well  boast  of  her  constitution:  it  must  be  of  iron," 

"  The  House  is  still  sitting,"  answered  Audley,  seriously,  and 
with  small  heed  of  his  friend's  witticism.  "  But  it  is  not  a  Gov- 
ernment motion,  and  the  division  will  be  late,  so  I  came  hcyne; 
and  if  I  had  not  found  you  here,  I  should  have  gone  into  the  Park 
to  look  for  you." 

"  Yes-i-one  always  knows  where  to  find  me  at  this  hour,  9 
;  o'clock,  P.M. — cigar — Hyde  Park.     There  is  not  a  man  in  Eng- 
land so  regular  in  his  habits." 

Here  the  friends  reached  a  drawing-room  in  which  the  Mem- 
ber of  Parliament  seldom  sat,  for  his  private  apartments  were 
all  on  the  ground-floor. 

"  But  it  is  the  strangest  whim  of  yours,  Harley,"  said  he. 

"What?" 

"To  affect  detestation  of  ground-floors." 
r"  Affect !  O  sophisticated  man,  of  the  earth,  earthy-!  Affect! — 
nothing  less  natural  to  the  human  soul  than  a  ground-floor.    We 
are  quite  far  enough  from  heaven,  mount  as  many  stairs  as  we 
will,  without  grovelling  by  preference." 

"  According  to  that  symbolical  view  of  the  case,"  said  Audley, 
"  you  should  lodge  in  an  attic." 

"  So  I  would,  but  that  I  abhor  new  slippers.  As  for  hair- 
brushes, I  am  different." 

'  What  have  slippers  and  hair-brushes  to  do  with  attics  ?  " 

'  Try  !  Make  your  bed  in  an  attic,  and  the  next  morning 
you  will  have  neither  slippers  nor  hair-brushes  !  " 

'  What  shall  I  have  done  with  them  !  " 

'Shied  them  at  the  cats  !  " 

'What  odd  things  you  say,  Harley?" 

'  Odd  !    By  Apollo  and  his  nine  spinsters  !    there  is  no  human 
being  who  has  so  little  imagination  as  a  distinguished  member 
.  of  Parliament.     Answer  me  this,  thou  solemn  Right.  Honora- 
ble,— Hast  thou  climbed  to  the  heights  of  august  contemplation  ? 
.  Hast  thou  gazed  on  the  stars  with  the  rapt  eye  of  song  ?  Hast 
thou  dreamed  of  a  love  known  to  the  angels,  or  sought  to  seize 
in  the  Infinite  the  mystery  of  life  ?" 

"  Not  I,  indeed,  my  poor  Harley." 

/'Then  no  wonder,  poor  Audley,  that  you  cannot  conjecture 
why  he  who  makes  his  bed  in  an  attic,  disturbed  by  base  catter- 
wauls,  shies  his  slippers  at  cats.  Bring  a  chair  into  the  balcony. 
Nero  spoiled  my  cigar  to-night.  I  am  going  to  smoke  now.  You 
never  smoke.  You  can  look  on  the  shrubs  in  the  square." 

Audley  slightly  shrugged  his  shoulders,  but  he  followed  his 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  275 

friend's  counsel  and  example,  and  brought  his  chair  into  the  bal- 
cony. Nero  came  too,  but  at  sight  and  smell  of  the  cigar  prudently 
retreated,  and  took  refuge  under  the  table. 

"  Audley  Egerton,  I  want  something  from  Government/' 

"  I  am  delighted  to  hear  it." 

"  There  was  a  cornet  in  my  regiment,  who  would  have  done 
better  not  to  have  come  into  it.  We  were,  for  the  most  part  of 
us,  puppies  and  fops." 

"  You  all  fought  well,  however." 

"  Puppies  and  fops  do  fight  well.  Vanity  and  valor  generally 
go  together.  Caesar,  who  scratched  histhead  with  due, -care  of  his 
scanty  curls,  and  even,  in  dying,  thought  of  the  folds  in  his  toga  ; 
Walter  Raleigh,  who  could  not  walk  twenty  yards,  because  of  the 
gems  in  his  shoes  ;  Alcibiades,  who  lounged  into  the  Agora  with 
doves  in  his  bosom,  and  an  apple  in  his  hand  ;  Murat,  bedizened 
in  gold  lace  and  furs  ;  and  Demetrius,  the  City-Taker,  who  made 
himself  up  like  a  French  Marquise — were  all  pretty  good  fellows 
at  fighting.  A  slovenly  hero  like  Cromwell  is  a  paradox  in  nature, 
and  a  marvel  in  history.  But  to  return  to  my  cornet.  We  were 
rich  ;  he  was  poor.  When  the  pot  of  clay  swims  down  the  stream 
with  the  brass  pots,  it  is  sure  of  a  smash.  Men  said  Digby  was 
stingy  ;  I  saw  he  was  extravagant.  But  every  one,  I  fear,  would 
be  rather  thought  stingy  than  poor.  Bref. — I  left  the  army,  and 
saw  him  no  more  till  to-night.  There  was  never  shabby  poor 
gentleman  on  the  stage  more  awfully  shabby,  more  pathetically 
gentleman.  But,  look  ye,  this  man  has  fought  for  England.  It 
was  no  child's  play  at  Waterloo,  let  me  tell  you,  Mr.  Ege-rton  ; 
and,  but  for  such  men,  you  would  be  at  best  a  sons-prtfet,  and 
your  Parliament  a  Provincial  Assembly.  You  must  do  some- 
thing for  Digby.  What  shall  it  be?" 

"  Why,  really,  my  dear  Harley,  this  man  was  no  great  friend 
of  yours- — eh  ?  " 

"  If  he  were,  he  would  not  want  the  Government  to  help  him — 
he  would  not  be  ashamed  of  taking  money  from  me." 

"That  is  all  very  fine,  Harley;  but  there  are  so  many  poor 
officers,  and  so  little  to  give.  It  is  the  most  difficult  thing  in  the 
world  that  which  you  ask  me.  Indeed,  I  know  nothing  can  be 
done  :  he  has  his  half-pay  ? " 

"  I  think  not ;  or,  if  he  has  it,  no  doubt  it  all  goes  on  his  debts. 
That's  nothing  to  us:  the  man  and  his  child  are  starving." 

"  But  if  it  is  his  own  fault,— if  he  has  been  imprudent  ? " 

"  Ah — well,  well.     Where  the  devil  is  Nero  ?  " 

"  I  am  so  sorry  I  can't  oblige  yon.  If  it  were  anything  else: — " 

"  There   is   something  else.      My  valet — I    can't  turn   him 


276  MY   NOVEL  ;  OR, 

adrift — excellent  fellow,  but  gets  drunk  now  and  then.  Will 
you  find  him  a  place  in  the  Stamp-office  ? " 

"With  pleasure." 

"^o,now  I  think  of  it — theman  knowsmy  ways:  I  must  keephim, 
But  my  old  wine-merchant — civil  man,  never  dunned — is  a  bank- 
rupt. I  am  under  obligationsto  him, and  he  hasaveryprettydaugh- 
ter.  Do  you  thinkyou  could  thrust  him  intosomesmallplacein  the 
colonies,ormakehimaKing'sMessenger,orsomethingofthesort?" 

"  If  you  very  much  wish  it,  no  doubt  I  can." 

"  My  dear  Audley,  I  am  but  feeling  my  way  :  the  fact  is,  I 
tfant  something  for  myself." 

"  Ah,  that  indeed  gives  me  pleasure  !  "  cried  Egerton,  with 
animation. 

"The  mission  to  Florencewill  soon  bevacant — Iknowitprivate- 
ly.  The  place  would  quite  suit  me.  Pleasant  city;  thebestfigsinlt- 
aly — very  little  to  do.  Youcould  sound  Lord on  the  subject." 

"  I  will  answer  beforehand.  Lord  — —  would  be  enchanted 
to  secure  to  the  public  service  a  man  so  accomplished  as  your- 
self, and  the  son  of  a  peer  like  Lord  Lansmere." 

Harley  L'Estrange  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  flung  his  cigar  in 
the  face  of  a  stately  policeman  who  was  looking  up  at  the  balcony. 

"Infamous  and  bloodless  official!  "  cried  Harley  L'Estrange; 
"so  you  could  providefor  a  pimple-nosed  lackey, — for  awine-mer- 
chantwhohasbeen  poisoningthe  king'ssubjects  with  white-leador 
sloe-juice, — ^foranidlesybarite,whowouldcomplainof  a  crumpled 
rose-leaf;  and  nothing,  in  all  the  vast  patronage  of  England  for  a 
broken-down  soldier,  whose  dauntless  breast  was  her  rampart." 

"  Harley,"  said  the  Member  of  Parliament,  with  his  calm,  sen- 
sible smile,  "  this  would  be  a  very  good  clap-trap  at  a  small 
theatre;  but  there  is  nothing  in  which  Parliament  demands  such 
rigid  economy  as  the  military  brarjch  of  the  public  service;  and 
no  man  for  whom  it  is  so  hard  to  effect  what  we  must  plainly  call 
a  job  as  a  subaltern  officer  who  has  done  nothing  more  than  his 
duty — and  all  military  men  do  that.  Still,  as  you  take  it  so 
earnestly,  I  will  use  what  interest  I  can  at  the  War  Office,  and 
get  him,  perhaps,  the  mastership  of  a  barrack." 

"You  had  better  ;  for,  if  you  do  not,  I  swear  I  will  turn 
Radical,  and  come  down  to  your  own  city  to  oppose  you,  with 
Hunt  and  Cobbett  to  canvass  for  me." 

"  I  should  be  very  glad  to  see  you  come  into  Parliament,  even 
as  a  Radical,  and  at  my  expense,"  said  Audley,  with  great  kind- 
ness. "  But  the  air  is  growing  cold,  and  you  are  not  accus- 
tomed to  our  climate.  Nay,  if  you  are  too  poetic  for  catarrhs 
and  rheums,  I'm  not — come  in." 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  277 

CHAPTER  VI. 

LORD  L'ESTRANGE  threw  himself  onasofa,and  leant  his  cheek 
on  his  hand  thoughtfully.  Audley  Egerton  sate  near  him,  with 
his  arms  folded,  and  gazed  on  his  friend's  face  with  a  soft  ex- 
pression of  aspect,  which  was  very  unusual  to  the  firm  outline 
of  his  handsome  features.  The  two  men  were  as  dissimilar  in 
person  as  the  reader  will  have  divined  that  they  were  in  char- 
acter. All  about  Egerton  was  so  rigid,  all  about  L'Estrange  so 
easy.  In  every  posture  of  Harley's  there  was  the  unconscious 
grace  of  a  child.  The  very  fashion  of  his  garments  showed  his 
abhorrence  of  restraint.  His  clothes  were  wide  and  loose;  his 
neckcloth,  tied  carelessly,  left  his  throat  half  bare.  You  cQuld 
see  that  he  had  lived  much  in  warm  and  southern  lands,  and 
contracted  a  contempt  for  conventionalities  ;  there  was  as  little 
in  his  dress  as  in  his  talk  of  the  North.  He  was  three  or  four 
years  younger  than  Audley,  but  .he  looked  a,t  least  twelve  years 
younger.  In  fact,  he  was  one  of.  those  men  to  whom  old  age 
seems  impossible — voice,look,figure,  had  all  the  charm  of  youth; 
and  perhaps  it  was  from  this  gracious  youthfulness — at  all  events 
it  was  characteristic  of  the  kind  of  love  he  inspired-^— that  neither 
his  parents,  nor  the  few  friends  admitted  into  his  intimacy,  ever 
called  him,  in  their  habitual  intercourse,  by  the  name  of  his  title. 
He  was  not  L'Estrange  with  them,  he  was  Haiiey  ;  and  by  that 
familiar  baptismal  I  will  usually  designate  him.  He  was  not 
one  of  those  men  whom  author  or  reader  wish  to  view  at  a  dis- 
tance, and  remember  as  "my  Lord,"  it  was  so  rarely  that  he  re- 
membered it  himself.  For  the  rest,  it-had  been  said  of  him  by 
a  shrewd:  wit,—"  He  is  so  natural,  that  every  one  calls  him 
affected."  Harley  L'Estrange  was  not  so  critically  handsome 
as  Audley  Egerton  ;  to  a  commonplace  observer  he  was  only 
rather  good-looking  than  otherwise.  But  women  said  that  he 
had  "a  beautiful  countenance" — and  they  were  not  wrong.  He 
wore  his  hair,  which  was  of  a  fair  chestnut,  long,  and  in  loose 
curls  ;  and  instead  of  the  Englishman's  whiskers,  indulged  in 
the  foreigner's  mustache.  His  complexion  was, delicate,  though 
not  effeminate;  it  was  rather  the  delicacy  of  a  student  than  of  a 
woman.  But  in  his  clear  gray  eye  there  was  wonderful  vigor  of 
life.  A  skilful  physiologist,  looking  only  into  that  eye, would  have 
recognized  rare  stamina  of  constitution,-^-a  nature  so  rich,  that 
while  easily  disturbed,  it  would  require  all  the  effects, of  time, 
or  all  the  fell  combinations  of  passion  and  grief,  to  exhaust  it. 
Even  now,  though'so thoughtful, and  even  sad,  the  rays  otf  that  eye 
were  concentrated  and  steadfast  as  the  light  of  the  diamond. 


278  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"You  were  only,  then,  in  jest,"  said  Audley,  after  a  long 
silence,  "  when  you  spoke  of  this  mission  to  Florence  ?  You 
have  still  no  idea  of  entering  into  public  life  ? " 

"None." 

"  I  had  hoped  better  things  when  I  got  your  promise  to  pass 
one  season  in  London.  But  indeed,  you  have  kept  your  promise 
to  the  ear  to  break  it  to  the  spirit.  I  could  not  presuppose  that 
you  would  shun  all  society,  and  be  as  much  of  a  hermit  here  as 
under  the  vines  of  Como." 

"  I  have  sate  in  the  Strangers'  Gallery,  and  heard  your  great 
speakers;  I  have  been  in  the  pit  of  the  opera,  and  seen  your  fine 
ladies;  I  have  walked  your  streets;  I  have  lounged  in  your 
parks, — and  I  say  that  I  can't  fall  in  love  with  a  faded  dowager, 
because  she  fills  up  her  wrinkles  with  rouge." 

4<  Of  what  dowager  do  you  speak  ?  "  asks  the  matter-of-fact 
Audley. 

"  She  has  a  great  many  titles.  Some  people  call  her  Fashion — 
you  busy  men,  Politics:  it  is  all  one — tricked  out  and  artificial. 
I  mean  London  Life.  'No,  I  can't  fall  in  love  with  he^  fawning 
old  harridan  ! " 

"'•I  wish  you  could  fall  in  love  with  something." 

"  I  wish  I  could,  with  all  my  heart." 

"  But  you  are  so  blast." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  am  so  fresh.  Look  out  of  the  window — 
what  do  you  see  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"  Nothing  !  " 

"  Nothing  but  houses  and  dusty  lilacs,  my  coachman  dozing 
on  his  box,  and  two  women  in  pattens  crossing  the  kennel." 

"  I  see  not  those  where  I  lie  on  the  sofa.  I  see  but  the  stars. 
And  I  feel  for  them  as  I  did  when  I  was  a  school-boy  at  Eton. 
It  is  you  who  are  bias/,  and  not  I.  Enough  of  this.  You  do 
not  forget  my  commission  with  respect  to  the  exile  who  has 
married  into  your  brother's  family  ?" 

"  No;  but  here  you  set  me  a  task  more  difficult  than  that  of 
saddling  your  cornet  on  the  War  Office." 

"  I  know  it  is  difficult,  for  the  counter  influence  is  vigilant  and 
strong;  but  on  the  other  hand, the  enemy  is  so  damn  able  a  traitor 
that  one  must  have  the  Fates  and  the  household  gods  on  one  side." 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  the  practical  Audley,  bending  over  a 
book  on  'the  table;  "  I  think  that  the  best  plan  would  be  to  at- 
tempt a  compromise  with  the  traitor." 

-  *'  To  ju<3ge  of  others  by  myself,"  answered  Harle-y,  with  spirit, 
"  it  were  less  bitter  to  put  up  with  wrong  than  to  palter  with  it 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  279 

for  compensation.  And  such  wrong  !  Compromise  with  the 
open  foe — that  may  be  done  with  honor:  but  with  the  perjured 
friend — that  were  to  forgive  the  perjury  !  " 

"You  are  too  vindictive,"  said  Egerton;  "  there  may  be  ex- 
cuse's for  the  friend,  which  palliate  even — " 

"  Hush  !  Audley,  hush  !  or  I  shall  think  the  world  has  indeed 
corrupted  you.     Excuse  for  the  friend  who  deceives,  who  be-  : 
trays  !  No,  such  is  the  true  outlaw  of  Humanity;   and  the  Furies 
surround  Turn  even  while  he  sleeps  in  the  temple." 

The  man  of  the  world  lifted  his  eye  slowly  on  the  animated 
face  of  one  still  natural  enough  for  the  passions.  He  then  once 
more  returned  to  his  book,  and  said,  after  a  pause,  "  It  is  time 
you  should  marry,  Harley." 

"No,"  answered  L'Estrange,  with  a  smile  at  this  turn  in  the 
conversation — "not  time  yet;  for  my  chief  objection  to  that 
change  in  life  is,  that  the  women  nowadays  are  too  old  for  me, 
or  I  am  too  young  for  them.  A  few,  indeed,  are  so  infantine 
that  one  is  ashamed  to  be  their  toy;  but  most  are  so  knowing 
that  one  is  afraid  to  be  their  dupe.  The  first,  if  they  conde- 
scend to  love  you,  love  you  as  the  biggest  doll  they  have  yet 
dandled,  and  for  a  doll's  good  qualities — your  pretty  blue  eyes 
and  your  exquisite  millinery.  The  last,  if  they  prudently  ac- 
cept you,  do  so  on  algebraical  principles;  you  are  but  the  X  or  Y 
that  represents  a  certain  aggregate  of  goods  matrimonial — pedi- ' 
gree,  title,  rent-roll,  diamonds,  pin-money,  opera-box.  They 
cast  you  up  with  the  help  of  mamma,  and  you  wake  some  morn- 
ing to  find  that  plus  wife  minus  affections  equals — the  Devil  !  " 

"Nonsense,"  said  Audley  with  his  quiet  grave  laugh.  "I 
grant  that  it  is  often  the  misfortune  of  a  man  in  your  station  to  be 
married  rather  for  what  he  has,  than  for  what  he  is;  but  you  are 
tolerably  penetrating,  and  not  likely  to  be  deceived  in  the  char- 
acter of  the  woman  you  court." 

"  Of  the  woman  I  court  ? — No  !  But  of  the  woman  I  marry, 
very  likely  indeed.  Woman  is  a  changeable  thing,  as  our  Virgil 
informed  us  at  school;  but  her  change  par  excellence  is  from  the 
fairy  you  woo  to  the  brownie  you  wed.  It  is  not  that  she  has 
been  a  hypocrite,  it  is  that  she  is  a  transmigration.  You  marry 
a  girl  for  her  accomplishments.  She  paints  charmingly,  or 
plays  like  St.  Cecilia.  Clap  a  ring  on  her  finger,  and  she  never 
draws  again — except  perhaps  your  caricature  on  the  back  of  a 
letter,  and  never  opens  a  piano  after  the  honeymoon.  You 
marry  her  for  sweet  temper;  and  next  year,  her  nerves  are  so 
shattered  that  you  can't  contradict  her  but  you  are  whirled  into 
a  storm  of  hysterics.  You  marry  her  because  she  declares  she 


28o  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

hates  balls  and  likes  quiet;  and  ten  to  one  but  what  she  becomes 
a  patroness  at  Almack's,  or  a  lady-in-waiting." 

"  Yet  most  men  marry,  and  most  men  survive  the  operation." 

"  If  it  were  only  necessary  to  live,  that  would  be  a  consola- 
tory and  encouraging  reflection.  But. to  live  with  peace,  to  live 
with  dignity,  to  live  with  freedom,  to  live  in  harmony  with  your 
thoughts,  your  habits,your  aspirations — and  this  in  the  perpetual 
companionship  of  a  person  to  whom  you  have  given  the  power 
to  wound  your  peace,  to  assail  your  dignity,  to  cripple  your 
freedom,  to  jar  on  each  thought  and  each  habit,  and  bring  you 
down  to  the  meanest  details  of  earth,  when  you  invite  her,  poor 
soul,  to  soar  to  the  spheres — that  makes  the  To  Be  01  Not  To 
Be,  which  is  the  question." 

'*  If  I  were  you,  Harley,  I  would  do  as  I  have  heard  the  author 
of  Sanford  and  Merton  did — choose  out  a  child  and  educate  her 
yourself,  after  your  own  heart." 

"  You  have  hit  it,"  answered  Harley,  seriously.  "That  has 
long  been  my  idea — a  very  vague  one,  I  confess.  But  I  fear  I 
shall  be  an  old  man  before  I  find  even  the  child." 

"  Ah  !  "  he  continued,  yet  more  earnestly,  while  the  whole 
character  of  his  varying  countenance  changed  again — "  Ah  !  if 
indeed  I  could  discover  what  I  seek- — one  who,  with  the  heart 
of  a  child,  has  the  mind  of  a  woma.n;  one  who  beholds  in  nature 
the  variety,  the  charm,  the  never  feverish,  ever  healthful  ex- 
citement that  others  vainly  seek  in  the  bastard  sentimentalities  of 
a  life  false  with  artificial  forms,  one  who  can  comprehend, as  by  in- 
tuition, the  rich  poetry  with  which  creation  is  clothed — poetry 
so  clear  to  the  child  when  enraptured  with  the  flower.or  when  won- 
dering at  the  star  !  If  on  me.  such,  exquisite  companionship 
were  bestowed — why,  then — "  -He  paused,  sighed  deeply,  and, 
covering  his  face  with  his  hand,  resumed,  in  faltering  accents, — 

"  But  once — but  once  only,  did  such  vision  of  the  Beautiful 
made  Human  rise  before  me — rise  amidst  '.golden  exhalations 
of  the  dawn.'  It  beggared  my  life  iu  vanishing.  You  know 
only — you  only — how^how — " 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  the  tears  forced  themselves  through 
his  clenched  fingers. 

"  So  long  ago  !  "  said  Audley,  sharing  his  friend's  emotion. 
"  Years  so  long  and  so  weary,  yet  still  thus  tenacious  of  a  mere 
boyish  memory  !  " 

"Away  with  it  then!  "  cried  Harley,  springing  to  his  feet,  and 
with  a  laugh  of  strange  merriment.  "Your  carriage  still  waits: 
set  me  home  before  you  go  to  the  House." 

Then  laying  his  hand  lightly  on  his  .friend's  shoulder,  he  said, 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  251 

"  Is  it  for  you,  Audley  Egerton,  to  speak  sneeringly  of  boyish 
memories  ?  What  else  is  it  that  binds  us  together?  What  else 
warms  my  heart  when  I  meet  you?  What  else  draws  your  thoughts 
from  blue-books  and  beer-bills,  to  waste  them  on  a  vagrant  like 
me  ?  Shake  hands.  Oh,  friend  of  my  boyhood  !  recollect  the 
oar  that  we  plied  and  the  bats  that  we  wielded  in  the  old  time, 
or  the  murmured  talk  on  the  moss-grown  bank,  as  we  sate  to- 
gether,building  in  the  summer  air  castles  mightier  than  Windsor. 
Ah!  they  are  strong  ties,  those  boyish  memories,  believe  me!  I 
remember,  as  if  it  were  yesterday,  my  translation  of  that  lovely 
passage  in  Persius,  beginning — let  me  see — ah  ! — 

1  Qaum  primum  patido  custos  mihi  purpura  cernet,' 
that  passage  on  friendship  which  gushes  out  so  livingly  from  the 

stern  heart  of  the  satirist:  And  whenold  — complimented  me 

on  my  verses,  my  eye  sought  yours.     Verily,  I  now  say  as  then, 
'  Nescio  quod,  certe  est  quod  me  tibi  temperet  astrum.' "  * 

Audley  turned  away  his  head  as  he  returned  the  grasp  of  his 
friend's  hand;  and  while  Harley,  with  his  light  elastic  footstep, 
descended  the  stairs,  Egerton  lingered  behind,  and  there  was 
no  trace  of  the  worldly  man  upon  his  countenance  when  he  took 
his  place  in  the  carriage  by  his  companion's  side. 

Two  hours  afterward,  weary  cries  of  "  Question,  question  !  " 
"Divide,  divide  !  "  sank  into  reluctant  silence  as  Audley  Eger- 
ton rose  to  conclude  the  debate — the  man  of  men  to  speak  late 
at  night,  and  to  impatient  benches:  a  man  who  would  be  heard; 
whom  a  Bedlam  broke  loose  would  not  have  roared  down; 
with  a  voice  clear  and  sound  as  a  bell,  and  a  form  firmly  set  on 
the  ground  as  a  church-tower.  Aiid  while,  on  the  dullest  of  dull 
questions,  Audley  Egerton  thus,  not  too  lively  himself,  enforced 
attention,  where  was  Harley  L'Estrange  ?  Standing  alone  by 
the  river  at  Richmond,  and  murmuring  low  fantastic  thoughts 
as  he  gazed  on  the  moonlit  tide. 

When  Audley  left  him  at  home,  he  had  joined  his  parents, 
made  them  gay  with  his  careless  gayety,  seen  the  old-fashioned 
folks  retire  to  rest,  and  then — while  they,  perhaps,  deemed  him 
once  more  the  hero  of  ball-rooms  and  the  cynosure  of  clubs — 
he  drove  slowly  through  the  soft  summer  night,  amidst  the  per- 
fumes of  many  a  garden  and  many  a  gleaming  chestnut  grove, 
with  no  other  aim.  before  him  than  to  reach  the  loveliest  margin 
oflEngland'Siloveliest  river,  at  the  hour  when  the  moon  was  fullest 
and  the  song  of  the  nightingale  most  sweet.  And  so  eccentric  a 
humorist  was  this  man,  that  I  believe,  as  he  there  loitered — no  one 

*  "  What  was  the  star  I  know  not,  but  certainly  some  star  it  was    that  attuned  me  unW 
thee." 


282  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

near  to  cry  "  How  affected  !  "  or  "  How  romantic  !' ' — he  enjoyed 
himself  more  than  if  he  had  been  exchanging  the  politest  "  how- 
d'ye-dos  "  in  the  hottest  of  London  drawing-rooms,  or  betting 
His  hundreds  on  the  odd  trick  with  Lord  DeR — for  his  partner. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

LEONARD  had  been  about  six  weeks  with  his  uncle,  and  those 
weeks  were  well  spent.  Mr.  Richard  had  taken  him  to  his  count- 
ing-house, and  initiated  him  into  business  and  the  mysteries  of 
double-entry  ;  and,  in  return  for  the  young  man's  readiness  and 
zeal  in  matters  which  the  acute  trader  instinctively  felt  not  exactly 
to  his  tastes,  Richard  engaged  the  best  master  the  town  afforded 
to  read  with  his  nephew  in  the  evening.  This  gentleman  was  the 
head  usher  of  a  large  school — who  had  his  hours  to  himself  after 
eight  o'clock — and  was  pleased  to  vary  the  dull  routine  of  en- 
forced lessons  by  instruction  to  a  pupil  who  took  delightedly — 
even  to  the  Latin  grammar.  Leonard  made  rapid  strides,  and 
learned  more  in  those  six  weeks  than  many  a  cleverish  boy  does 
in  twice  as  many  months.  These  hours  which  Leonard  devoted 
to  study  Richard  usually  spent  from  home — sometimes  at  the 
houses  of  his  grand  acquaintances  in  the  Abbey  Gardens,  some- 
times in  the  Reading-room  appropriated  to  those  aristocrats.  If 
he  stayed  at  home,  it  was  in  company  with  his  head  clerk,  and 
for  the  purpose  of  checking  his  account-books,  or  looking  over 
the  names  of  doubtful  electors. 

Leonard  had  naturally  wished  to  communicate  his  altered  pros- 
pects to  his  old  friends,  that  they,  in  turn,  might  rejoice  his  mother 
with  such  good  tidings.  But  he  had  not  been  two  days  in  the  house 
before  Richard  had  strictly  forbidden  all  such  correspondence. 

"  Look  you,"  said  he,  "  at  present  we  are  on  an  experiment — 
we  must  see  if  we  like  each  other.  Suppose  we  don't,  you  will 
only  have  raised  expectations  in  your  mother  which  must  end  in 
bitter  disappointment;  and  suppose  we  do,  it  will  be  time 
enough  to  write  when  something  definite  is  settled.'' 

"  But  my  mother  will  be  so  anxious — " 

"  Make  your  mind  easy  on  that  score.  I  will  write  regularly 
to  Mr.  Dale,  and  he  dan  tell  her  that  you  are  well  and  thriving. 
No  more  words,  my  man — when  I  say  a  thing,  I  say  it."  Then, 
observing  that  Leonard  looked  blank  and  dissatisfied,  Richard 
added,  with  a  good-humored  smile,  "I  havetny  reasons  for  all 
this — you  shall  know  them  later.  And  I  tell  you  what,— if  you 
do  as  I  bid  you,  it  is  my  intention  to  settle  something  handsome 
onyourmother;  butif  you  don't,  devil  apenny  she'll  get  from  me." 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  283 

With  that,  Richard  turned  on  his  heel,  and  in  a  few  moments 
his  voice  was  heard  loud  in  objurgation  with  some  of  his  people. 

About  the  fourth  week  of  Leonard's  residence  at  Mr.  Avenel's, 
his  host  began  to  evince  a  certain  change  of  manner.  He  was 
no  longer  quite  so  cordial  with  Leonard,  nor  did  he  take  the 
same  interest  in  his  progress.  About  the  same  period  he  was  fre- 
quently caught  by  the  London  butler  before  the  looking-glass. 
He  had  always  been  a  smart  man  in  his  dress,  but  he  was  now 
more  particular.  He  would  spoil  three  white  cravats  when- he 
went  out  of  an  evening,  before  he  could  satisfy  himself  as  to  the 
tie.  He  also  bought  a  "  Peerage,"  and  it  became  his  favorite 
study  at  odd  quarters  of  an  hour.  All  these  symptoms  proceeded 
from  a  cause,  and  that  cause  was— woman. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  first  people  at  Screvvstown  were  indisputably  the  Pompleys. 
Colonel  Pompley  was  grand,  but  Mrs.  Pompley  was  grander. 
The  Colonel  was  stately  in  right  of  his  military  rank  and  his 
services  in  India  ;  Mrs.  Pompley  was  majestic  in  right  of  her 
connections.  Indeed,  Colonel  Pompley  himself  would  have  been 
crushed  under  the  weight  of  the  dignities  which  his  lady  heaped 
upon  him,  if  he  had  not  been  enabled  to  prop  his  position  with  a 
"  connection  "  of  his  own.  He  would  never  have  held  his  own, 
nor  been  permitted  to  have  an  independent  opinion  on  matters 
aristocratic,  but  for  the  well-sounding  name  of  his  relations, 
"  the  Digbies."  Perhaps  on  the  principle  that  obscurity  increases 
the  natural  size  of  objects,  and  is  an  element  of  the  Sublime,  the 
Colonel  did  not  too  accurately  define  his  relations  "theDigbies"  : 
he  let  it  be  casually  understood  that  they  were  theDigbies  to  be 
found  in  Debrett.  But  if  some  indiscreet  Vulgarian  (a  favorite 
word  with  both  the  Pompleys)  asked  point-blank  if  he  meant 
"  my  Lord  Digby,"  the  Colonel,  with  a  lofty  air,  answered — 
"  The  elder  branch,  sir."  No  one  at  Screwstown  had  ever  seen 
these  Digbies  :  they  lay  amidst  the  Far — the  Recondite— even 
to  the  wife  of  Colonel  Pompley 's  bosom.  Now  and  then,  when 
the  Colonel  referred  to  the  lapse  of  years,  and  the  uncertainty 
of  human  affections,  he  would  say — "  When  young  Digby  and  I 
were  boys  together,"  and  then  add  with  a  sigh,  "  but  we  shall 
never  meet  again  in  this  world.  His  family  interest  secured  him 
a  valuableappointmentin  a  distant  part  of  the  British  dominions." 
Mrs.  Pompley  was  always  rather  cowed  by  the  Digbies.  She 
could  not  be  skeptical  as  to  this  connection,  for  the  Colonel's 
mother  was  certainly  a  Digby,  and  the  Colonel  impaled  the  Digby 


284  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

arms.  En  revanche,  as  the  French  say,  for  these  marital  con- 
nections, Mrs.  Pompley  had  her  own  favorite  affinity,  which  she 
specially  selected  from  all  others  when  she  most  desired  to  pro- 
duce effect  ;  nay,  even  upon  ordinary  occasions  the  name  rose 
spontaneously  to  her  lips — the  name  of  the  Honorable  Mrs. 
M'Catchley.  Was  the  fashion  of  a  gown  or  cap  admired,  her 
cousin,  Mrs.  M'Catchley,  had  just  sent  to  her  the  pattern  from 
Paris.  Was  it  a  question  whether  the  ministry  would  stand,  Mrs. 
M'Catchley  was  in  the  secret,  but  Mrs.  Pompley  had  been 
requested  not  to  say.  Did  it  freeze, "  My  cousin,  Mrs.  M'Catchley, 
had  written  word  that  the  icebergs  at  the  Pole  were  supposed  to 
be  coming  this  way."  Did  the  sun  glow  with  more  than  usual 
fervor,  Mrs.  M'Catchley  had  informed  her  "  that  it  was  Sir  Henry 
Halford's  decided  opinion  that  it  was  on  account  of  the.cholera." 
The  good  people  knew  all  that  was  doing  at  London,  at  court, 
in  this  world — nay,  almost  in  the  other — through  the  medium  of 
the'HonorableMrs.  M'Catchley.  Mrs.  M'Catchley  was,  moreover, 
the  most  elegant  of  women,  the  wittiest  creature,  the  dearest. 
King  George  the  Fourth  had  presumed  to.admire  Mrs.  M 'Catchley ; 
but  Mrs.  M'Catchley,  though  no  prude,  let  him  see  that  shewas 
proof  against  the  corruptions  of  a  throne.  So  long  had  the  ears 
of  Mrs.  Pompley's  friends  been  filled  with  the  renown  of  Mrs. 
M'Catchley,  that  at  last  Mrs.  M'Catchley  was  secretly  supposed 
to  be  a  myth,  a  creature  of  the  elements,  a  poetic  fiction  of  Mrs. 
Pompley's.  Richard  Avenel,  however,  though  by  no  means  a 
credulous  man,  was  an  implicit  believer  in  Mrs.  M'Catchley. 
He  had  learned  that  she  was  a  widow — an  honorable  by  birth, 
an  honorable  by  marriage — living  on  her  handsome  jointure,  and 
refusing  offers  every  day  that  she  so  lived.  Somehow  or  other, 
whenever  Richard  Avenel  thought  of  a  wife,  he  thought  of  the 
Honorable  Mrs.  M'Catchley.  Perhaps  that  romantic  attachment 
to  the  fair  invisible  preserved  him  heart-whole  amongst  the 
temptations  of  Strewstotvn.  Suddenly,  to  the  astonishment  of 
the  Abbey  Gardens,  Mrs.  M'Catchley  proved  her  identity,  and 
arrived  at  Colonel  Pompley's  in  a  handsome  travelling-carriage, 
attended  by  her  maid  and  footman.  She  had  come  to  stay  some 
weeks — a  tea-party  was  given  in  her  honor.  Mr.  Avenel  and  his 
nephew  were  invited.  Colonel  Pompley,  who  kept  his  head  clear 
in  the  midst  of  the  greatest  excitement,  had  a  desire  to  get  from 
the  Corporation  a  lease  of  a  piece  of  ground  adjoining  his  garden, 
and  he  no  sooner  saw  Richard  Avenel  enter,  than  he  caught  him 
by  the  button,  and  drew  him  into  a  quiet  corner,  in  order  to  secure 
his  interest.  Leonard,  meanwhile,  was  borne  on  by  the  stream, 
till  his  progress  was  arrested  by  a  sofa-table  at  which  sate  Mrs; 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  285 

M'Catchley  herself,  with  Mrs.  Pompley  by  her  side.  For,  on  this 
great  occasion  the  hostess  had  abandoned  her  proper  post  at  the 
entrance,  and,  whether  to  show  her  respect  to  Mrs.  M'Catchley, 
or  to  show  Mrs.  M'Catchley  her  well-bred  contempt  for  the  people 
of  Screwsto.wn,  remained  in  state  by  her  friend,  honoring  only 
the  elite  of  the  town  with  introductions  to  the  illustrious  visitor. 

Mrs.  M'Catchley  was  a  very  fine  woman — a  woman  who  jus- 
tified Mrs.  Pompley 's  pride  in  her.  Her  cheek-bones  were  rather 
high,  itis  true,  but  that  proved  thepurity  of  her  Caledonian  descent; 
for  the  rest,she  hada  brilliantcomplexion, heightened  by  &&oup$on 
of  rouge — good  eyes  and  teeth,  a  showy  figure,  and  all  the  ladies  of 
Screwstown  pronounced  herdress  to  be  perfect.  She  might  have 
arrived  at  that  age  at  which  one  intends  to  stop  for  the  next  ten 
years,  but  even  a  Frenchman  would  not  have  called  her  passe'e — 
that  is,  for  a  widow.  For  a  spinster,  it  would  have  been  different. 

Looking  round  her  with  a  glass,  which  Mrs.  Pompley  was  in 
the  habit  of  declaring  that  "  Mrs.  M'Catchley  used  like  an  angel," 
this  lady  suddenly  perceived  Leonard  Fairfield;  and  his  quiet, 
simple,  thoughtful  air  and  look  so  contrasted  with  the  stiff  beaux 
to  whom  she  had  been  presented,  that,  experienced  in  fashion  as 
so  fine  apersonage  must  be  supposed  to  be,  she  was  nevertheless 
deceived  into  whispering  to  Mrs.  Pompley — 

"  That  young  man  has  really  an  air  distingue— who  is  he  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Pompley,  in  affected  surprise,  "  that  is  the 
nephew  of  the  rich  Vulgarian  I  was  telling  you  of  this  morning." 

"  Ah  !  and  you  say  that  he  is  Mr.  Arundel's  heir  ?  "' 

"  Avenel — not  Arundel — my  sweet  frierid." 

" Avenel  is  not  a  bad  name,"  said  Mrs.  M'Catchley.  "But 
is  the  uncle  really  so  rich  ?  " 

"  The  Colonel  was  trying  this  very  day  to  guess  what  he  is 
worth;  but  he  says  it  is  impossible  to  guess  it." 

"And  the  young  man  is  his;heir  ?  " 

"  It  is  thought  so;  and  reading  for  College,  I  hear.  They  say 
he  is  clever." 

"Present  him,  my  love;  I  like  clever  people,"  said  .Mrs, 
M'Catchley,  falling  back  languidly. 

About  ten  minutes  afterward,  Richard  Avenel  having  effected 
his  escape  from  the  Colonel,  and  his  gaze  being  attracted  to- 
ward the  sofa-table  by  the  buzz  of  the  admiring  crowd,  beheld; 
his  nephew  in  animated  conversation  with  the  long-cherished  idol 
of  his  dreams.  A  fierce  pang  of  jealousy  shot  through  his  breast. 
Hisnephew  had  never  looked  so  handsome  and  so  intelligent;  in 
fact,  poor  Leonard  had  never  before  been  drawn  out  by  a  woman 
of  the  world,  who  had  learned  how  to  make  the  most  of  what  little 


286  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

she  knew.  And,  as  jealousy  operates  like  a  pair  of  bellows  on 
incipient  flames,  so,  at  first  sight  of  the  smile  which  the  fair  widow 
bestowed  upon  Leonard,  the  heart  of  Mr.  Avenel  felt  in  a  blaze. 
He  approached  with  a  step  less  assured  than  usual,  and  over- 
hearing Leonard's  talk,  marvelled  much  at  the  boy's  audacity. 
Mrs.  M'Catchley  had  been  speaking  of  Scotland  and  the  Waver- 
ley  Novels,  about  which  Leonard  knew  nothing.  But  he  knew 
Burns,  and  on  Burns  he  grew  artlessly  eloquent.  Burns  the  poet 
and  peasant;  Leonard  might  well  be  eloquent  on  him.  Mrs. 
M'Catchley  was  amused  and  pleased  with  hisfreshnessandmrnv//, 
so  unlike  anything  she  had  ever  heard  or  seen,  and  she  drew  him 
on  and  on,  till  Leonard  fell  to  quoting:  And  Richard  heard,  with 
less  respect  for  the  sentiment  than  might  be  supposed,  that 

"  Rank  is  but  the  guinea  stamp, 

The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that." 
6 

"  Well  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Avenel  .  "Pretty  piece  of  polite- 
ness to  tell,  that  to  a  lady  like  the  Honorable  Mrs.  M'Catchley. 
You'll  excuse  him,  ma'am." 

"  Sir  !  "  said  Mrs.  M'Catchley,  startled,  and  lifting  her  glass. 
Leonard,  rather  confused,  rose  and  offered  his  chair  to  Richard, 
who  dropped  into  it.  The  lady,  without  waiting  for  formal  in- 
troduction, guessed  that  she  saw  the  rich  uncle. 

"  Such  a  sweet  poet — Burns  !  "  said  she,  dropping  her  glass. 
"And  it  is  so  refreshing  to  find  so  much  youthful  enthusiasm," 
she  added,  pointing  her  fan  toward  Leonard,  who  was  receding 
fast  among  the  crowd. 

"<Well,  he  is  youthful,  my  nephew — rather  green  !  " 

"  Don't  say  green  !  "  said  Mrs.  M'Catchley.  Richard  blushed 
scarlet.  Hewasafraidhehadcommittedhimselftosomeexpression 
low  and  shocking.  The  lady  resumed,  "Say  unsophisticated  ! " 

"  A  tarnation  long  word,"  thought  Richard ;  but  he  prudently 
bowed,  and  held  his  tongue. 

"  Young  men  nowadays,"  continued  Mrs.  M'Catchley,  reset- 
tling herself  on  the  sofa,  "  affect  to  be  so  old.  They  don't  dance, 
and  they  don't  read,  and  they  don't  talk  much;  and  a  great  many 
of  them  wear  toupets  before  they  are  two  and  twenty  !  " 

Richard  mechanically  passed  his  hand  through  his  thick  curls. 
But  he  was  still  mute;  he  was  still  ruefully  chewing  the  cud  of 
the  epithet  green.  What  occult,  horrid  meaning  did  the  word 
convey  to  ears  polite  ?  Why  should  he  not  say  "  green  ? " 

"A  very  fine  young  man,  your  nephew,  sir,"  resumed  Mrs. 
M'Catchley. 

Richard  grunted. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  287 

"  And  seems  full  of  talent.  Not  yet  at  the  University?  Will 
he  go  to  Oxford  or  Cambridge  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  made  up  my  mind,  yet,  if  I  shall  send  him  to  the 
University  at  all." 

"  A  young  man  of  his  expectations!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  M'Catch- 
ley,  artfully. 

"  Expectations!"  repeated  Richard,  firing  up.  "  Has  he  been 
talking  to  you  of  his  expectations  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  sir.  But  the  nephew  of  the  rich  Mr.  Avenel ! 
Ah,  one  hears  a  great  deal,  you  know,  of  rich  people  ;  it  is  the 
penalty  of  wealth,  Mr.  Avenel !  " 

Richard  was  very  much  flattered.     His  crest  rose. 

"  And  they  say,"  continued  Mrs.  M'Catchley,  dropping  out 
her  words  very  slowly,  as  she  adjusted  her  blonde  scarf,  "  that 
Mr.  Aivenel  has  resolved  not  to  marry." 

"The  devil  they  do,  ma'am  !  "  bolted  out  Richard,  gruffly; 
and  then,  ashamed. of  his  lapsus  lingua,  screwed  up  his  lips 
firmly,  and  glared  on  the  company  with  an  eye  of  indignant  fire. 

Mrs.  M'Catchley  observed  him  over  her  fan.  Richard  turned 
abruptly,and  she  withdrew  her  eyes  modestly,and  raised  the  fan. 

"  She's  a  real  beauty,"  said  Richard,  between  his  teeth. 

The  fan  fluttered. 

Five  minutes  afterward,  the  widow  and  the  bachelor  seemed 
so  much  at  their  ease  that  Mrs.  Pompley— who  had  been  forced 
to  leave  her  friend,  in  order  to  receive  the  Dean's  lady— could 
scarcely  believe  her  eyes  when  she  returned  to  the  sofa. 

Now,  it  was  from  that  evening  that  Mr.  Richard  Avenel  ex- 
hibited the  change  of  mood  which  I  have  described.  And  from 
that  evening  he  abstained  from  taking  Leonard  with  him  to  any 
of  the  parties  in  the  Abbey  Gardens. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

SOME  days  after  this  memorable  soirtfe,  Colonel  Pompley  sat 
alone  in  his  study  (which  opened  .pleasantly  on  an  old-fashioned 
garden)  absorbed  in  the  house  bills.  For  Colonel  Pompley  did 
not  leave  that  domestic  care  to  his  lady — perhaps  she  was  too 
grand  for  it.  Colonel  Pompley  with  his  own  sonorous  voice 
ordered  the  joints,  and  with  his  own  heroic  hands  dispensed  the 
stores.  In  justice  to  the  Colonel,  I  must  add— ^at  whatever  risk 
of  offence  to  the  fair  sex — that  there  was  not  a  house  at  Screws- 
town  so  well  managed  as  the  Pompley's:  none  which  so  success- 
fully achieved  the  difficult  art  of  uniting  economy  with  show. 
I  should  despair  of  conveying  to  you  an  idea  of  the  extent  to 
which  Colonel  Pompley  made  his  income  go.  It  was  but  seven 


288  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

hundred  a  year ;  and  many  a  family  contrive  to  do  less  upon 
three  thousand.  To  be  sure,  the  Pompleys  had  no  children  to 
sponge  upon  them.  What  they  had  they  spent  all  on  themselves. 
Neither,  if  the  Pompleys  never  exceeded  their  income,  did  they 
pretend  to  live  much  within  it.  The  two  ends  of  the  year  met 
at  Christmas — just  met,  and  no  more. 

Colonel  Pompley  sate  at  his  desk.  He  was  in  his  well-brushed 
blue  coat — buttoned  across  his  breast — his  gray  trousers  fitted 
tight  to  his  limbs,  and  fastened  under  his  boots  with  a  link 
ehain.  He  saved  a  great  deal  of  money  in  straps.  No  one  ever 
saw  Colonel  Pompley  in  dressing-gown  and  slippers.  He  and 
his  house  were  alike  in  order — always  fit  to  be  seen — 
"  From  morn  till  noon,  from  noon  to  dewy  eve." 

The  Colonel  was  a  short  compact  man,  inclined  to  be  stout — 
with  a  very  red  face,  that  seemed  not  only  shaved,  but  rasped. 
He  wore  his  hair  cropped  close,  except  just  in  front,  where  it 
formed  what  the  hair-dresser  called  a  feather  ;  but  it  seemed  a 
feather  of  iron,  so  stiff  and  so  strong  was  it.  Firmness  and  pre- 
cision were  emphatically  marked  on  the  Colonel's  countenance. 
There  was  a  resolute  strain  on  his  features,  as  if  he  was  always 
employed  in  making  the  two  ends  meet ! 

So  he  sate  before  his  house-book,  with  his  steel-pen  in  his 
hand,  and  making  crosses  here  and  notes  of  interrogation  there. 
"  Mrs.  M'Catchley's  maid,"  said  the  Colonel  to  himself,  "  must 
be  put  upon  rations.  The  tea  that  she  drinks!  Good  Heavens!-^ 
tea  again  !  " 

There  was  a  modest  ring  at  the  outer  door.  "  Too  early  for 
a  visitor!"  thought  the  Colonel.  "  Perhaps  it  is  the  Water-rates." 

The  neat  man-servant — never  seen  beyond  the  offices,  save  in 
grande  tenue,  plushed  and  powdered— entered  and  bowed. 

"A  gentleman,  sir,  wishes  to  see  you." 

"A  gentleman,"  repeated  the- Colonel,  glancing  toward  the 
clock.  "  Are  you  sure  it  is  a  gentleman--?" 

The  man  hesitated.  "  Why,  sir,  I  ben't  exactly  sure;  but  he 
.speaks  like  a  gentleman.  He  do  say  he  comes  from  London 
to  see  you,  sir." 

A  long  and  interesting  correspondence  was  then  being  held 
between  the  Colonel  and  one  of  his  wife's  trustees  touching  the  in- 
vestment of,  Mrs.Pompley's  fortune.  It  must  be  the  trustee — nay, 
it  must  be.  The  trustee  had  tjalked  of  running  down  to  see  him. 

"  Let  him  come  in,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  and  when  I  ring — 
sandwiches  and  sherry  ! " 
|  Beef,  sir  ?| " 

"  Ham." 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  289 

The  Colonel  put  aside  his  house-book,  and  wiped  his  pen. 

In  another  minute  the  door  opened,  and  the  servant  announced 
MR.  DIGBY. 

The  Colonel's  face  fell,  and  he  staggered  back. 

The  door  closed,  and  Mr.  Digby  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  leaning  on  the  great  writing-table  for  support.  The  poor 
soldier  looked  sicklier  and  shabbier,  and  nearer  to  the  end  of 
all  things  in  life  and  fortune,  than  when  Lord  L'Estrange  had 
thrust  the  pocket-book  into  his  hands.  But  still  the  servant 
showed  knowledge  of  the  world  in  calling  him  gentleman  ; 
there  was  no  other  word  to  apply  to  him. 

"  Sir,"  began  Colonel  Pompley,  recovering  himself,  and  with 
great  solemnity,  "  I  did  not  expect  this  pleasure." 

The  poor  visitor  stared  round  him  dizzily,  and  sank  into  a  chair, 
breathinghard.  TheColonellookedasamanonlylooksuponapoor 
relation,  andbuttonedup  first  one  trouserpocket  and  then  theother, 

"  I  thought  you  were  in  Canada,"  said  the  Colonel  at  last. 

Mr.  Digby  had  now  got  breath  to  speak,  and  he  said  meekly, 
"  The  climate  would  have  killed  my  child,  and  it  is  two  years 
since  I  returned." 

"  You  ought  to  have  found  a  very  good  place  in  England,  to 
make  it  worth  your  while  to  leave  Canada." 

"She  could  not  have  lived  through  another  winter  in  Canada — 
the  doctor  said  so." 

"  Pooh,"  quoth  the  Colonel. 

Mr.  Digby  drew  a  long  breath.  "  I  would  not  come  to  you, 
Colonel  Pompley,  while  you  could  think  that  I  came  as  a  beggar 
for  myself." 

The  Colonel's  brow  relaxed.  "  A  very  honorable  sentiment, 
Mr.  Digby." 

"  No  ;  I  have  gone  through  a  great  deal  ;  but  you  see,  Col- 
onel," added  the  poor  relation,  -with  a  faint  smile,  "  the  cam- 
paign is  well-nigh  over,  and  peace  is  at  hand."  •-•»' 

The  Colonel  seemed  touched. 

"  Don't  talk  so,  Digby — I  don't  like  it.  You  are  younger  than 
I  am — nothing  more  disagreeable  than  these  gloomy  views  of 
things.  You  have  got  enough  to  live  upon,yousay— atleastso  I  un- 
derstand you.  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it ;  and,  indeed,  Icould  not 
assist  you — so  many  claims  on  me.  So  it  is  all  very  well,  Digby." 

"  Oh,  Colonel  Pompley,"  cried  the  soldier,  clasping  his  hands, 
and  with  feverish  energy,  "I  am  a  suppliant,  not  for  myself,  but  my 
child !  I  have  but  one — only  one  —a  girl.-  She  has  been  so  good  to 
me.  She  will  cost  you  little.  Take  her  when  I  die ;  promise  her  a 
shelter— a  home.  I  ask  no  more.  You  are  my  nearest  relative.  1 


290  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

have  no  other  to  look  to.  You  have  no  children  of  your  own.  She 
will  be  a  blessing  to  you,  as  she  has  been  all  upon  earth  to  me  !  " 

If  Colonel  Pompley's  face  was  red  in  ordinary  hours,  no  epi- 
thet sufficiently  rubicund  or  sanguineous  can  express  its  color 
at  this  appeal.  "  The  man's  mad,"  he  said,  at  last,  with  a  tone 
of  astonishment  that  almost  concealed  his  wrath — "  stark  mad  !  I 
take  his  child  !—  lodge  and  board  a  great,  positive,  hungry  child! 
Why,  sir,  so  many  and  many  a  time  have  I  said  to  Mrs.  Pompley, 
'  'Tis  a  mercy  we  have  no  children.  We  could  never  live  in  this 
style.ifwehad  children— -never  make  both  ends  meet.  'Child— the 
most  expensive,  ravenous,  ruinous  thing. in  the  world' — a  child  !  " 

"  She  has  been  accustomed  to  starye,"  said  Mr.  Digby,  plain- 
tively. "  Oh,  Colonel,  let  me  see  your  wife.  Her  heart  I  can 
touch — she.  is  a  woman." 

Unlucky  father  !  ,A  more  untoward,  unseasonable  request  the 
Fates  could  not  have  put  into  hts  lips. 

Mrs.  Pompley  see  the  Digbies  !  Mrs,  Pompley  learn  the  con- 
dition of  the  Colonel's  grand  connections  !  The  Colonel  would 
never  have  been  his  own  man  again.  At  the  bare  idea,  he  felt  as 
if  he  could  have  sunk  into  the  earth  with  shame.  In  his  alarm  he 
made  a  stride  to  .the  door,  with  the  intention  of  locking  it.  Good 
Heavens,  if  Mrs.  Pompley  should  come  in !  And  the  man,  too, had 
been  announced  by  name.  Mrs.  Pompley  might  have  learned  al- 
ready that  a  Digby  was  with  her  husband — she  might  be  actually 
dressing  to  receive  him  worthily— there  was  not  amoment  tolose. 

The  Colonel  exploded.  "  Sir, .  J.  wonder  at  your  impudence. 
See  Mrs.  Pompley  !.  Hush,  sir,  hush  ! — hold  your  tongue.  I 
have  disowned  your  connection.  I  will  not  have  my  wife — ;i 
woman,  sir,  of  the  first  family' — disgraced  by  it.  Yes;  you  need 
not  fire  up.  John  Pompley  is  not  a  man  to  be  bullied  in  his  own 
house.  I  say  disgraced.  Did  not  you  run.  into  debt,  and  spend 
your  fortune  ?  Did  not  you  marry  a  low  creature — a  vulgarian — 
a  tradesman's  daughter  ? — and  your  poor  father  such  a  respecta- 
ble man — a  beneficed  clergyman  !  Did  not  you  sell  your  com- 
mission? Heaven  knows what  becanje  of  the  'money  !  Did  not 
you  turn  (I  shudder  to  ;say  it)  a  common  stage-player,  sir  ?  And 
then,  when  you  were  on  your  last  legs,  did  I  not  give  you  ^£200 
out  of  my  own  purse  to  go  to  Canada  ?  And  now  here  you  are 
again-^-anjd  ask  me,  with  coolness  that — that  takes  away  my 
breaths-takes  away — my  breath,  sir— to  provide  for  the  child  you 
have  thought  proper  to  have;  a  child  whose  connections  on  the 
mother's  side  are  of  the  most  abject  and  discreditable  condition. 
Leave  my  house,  leave  it — good  heavens,  sir,  not  thatway  N— this." 
And  the  Colonel  opened  the  glass-door  that  led  into  the  garden. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  2Qt 

"I  will  let  you  out  this  way.  If  Mrs.  Pornpley  should  see  you!  " 
And  with  that  thought  the  Colonel  absolutely  hooked  his  arm 
into  his  poor  relation's  and  hurried  him  into  the  garden. 

Mr.  Digby  said  not  a  word,  but  he  struggled  ineffectually  to 
escape  from  the  Colonel's  arm;  and  his  color  went  and  came, 
came  and  went,  with  a  quickness  that  showed  that  in  those 
shrunken  veins  there  were  still  some  drops  of  a  soldier's  blood. 

But  the  Colonel  had  now  reached  a  little  postern-door  in  the 
garden-wall.  He  opened  the  latch  and  thrust  out  his  poor  cousin. 
Then  looking  down  the  lane,  which  was  long,  straight,  and  nar- 
row, and  seeing  it  was  quite  solitary,  his  eye  fell  upon  the  forlorn 
man,  and  remorse  shot  through  his  heart.  For  a  moment  the 
hardest  of  all  kinds  of  avarice,  that  of  t\ie  genteel,  relaxed  its  gripe. 
For  a  moment  the  most  intolerant  of  all  forms  of  pride,  that 
which  is  based  upon  false  pretences,  hushed  its  voice,  and  the 
Colonel  hastily  drew  out  his  purse.  "  There,"  said  he  "  that 
is  all  I  can  do  for  you.  Do  leave  the  town  as  quick  as  you  can, 
and  don't  mention  your  name  to  any  one.  Your  father  was  such 
a  respectable  man^beneficed  clergyman  !  " 

"And  paid  for  your  commission,  Mr.  Pompley.  My  name! — • 
I  am  not  ashamed  of  it.  But  do  not  fear  I  shall  claim  your  re- 
lationship. No;  I  am  ashamed  of  you." 

The  poor  cousin  put  aside  the  purse,  still  stretched  toward 
him,  with  a  scornful  hand,  and  walked  firmly  down  the  lane. 

Colonel  Eompley  stood  irresolute.  At  that  moment  a  window 
in  his  house  was  thrown  open.  He  heard  the  noise,  turned 
round,  and  saw  his  wife  looking  out. 

Colonel  Pompley  sneaked  back  through  the  shrubbery,  hid- 
ing himself  amongst  the  trees. 

CHAPTER  X. 

"  ILL-LUCK  is  a.  Wise,"  said  the  great  Cardinal  Richelieu;  and 
on  the  long  run,  I  fear,  his  eminence  was  right.  If  you  could 
drop  Dick  Avenel  and  Mr.  Digby  in  the  middle  of  Oxford 
Street — Dick  in  a  fustian  jacket,  Digby  in  a  suit  of  superfine — 
Dick  with  five  shillings  in  his  pocket,  Digby  with  a  thousand 
pounds — and  if,  at  the  end  of  ten  years,  you  looked  up  your  two 
men,  Dick  would  be  on  his  road  to  a  fortune,  Digby — what  we 
have  seen  him  !  Yet  Digby  had  no  vice;  he  did  not  drink,  nor 
gamble.  What  was  he,  then  ?  Helpless.  He  had  been  an  only 
son— a  spoiled  child —  brought  up  as  a  "  gentleman; "  that  is, 
as  a  nian  who  was  not  expected  to  be  able  to  turn  his  hand  to 
anything.  He  entered,  as  we  have  seen,  a  very  expensive  regi- 
ment,wherein  he  found  himself,at  his  father's  death,  with  ^4000, 


292  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

and  the  incapacity  to  say  "  No."  Not  naturally  extravagant, 
but  without  an  idea  of  the  value  of  money — the  easiest,  gentlest, 
best  tempered  man  whom  example  ever  led  astray.  This  part 
of  his  career  comprised  a  very  common  history — the  poor  man 
living  on  equal  terms  with  the  rich.  Debt;  recourse  to  usurers; 
bills  signed  sometimes  for  others,  renewed  at  twenty  ;per  cent. 
the  ^£4000  melted  like  snow;  pathetic  appeal  to  relations;  rela- 
tions have  children  of  their  own;  small  help  given  grudgingly, 
eked  out  by  much  advice,and  coupled  with  conditions.  Amongst 
the  conditions  there  was  a  very  proper  and  prudent  one — ex- 
change into  a  less  expensive  regiment.  Exchange  effected  ; 
peace  ;  obscure  country  quarters  ;  ennui,  flute-playing,  and 
idleness.  Mr.  Digby  had  no  resources  on  a  rainy  day — except 
flute-playing  ;  pretty  girl  of  inferior  rank  ;  all  the- officers  after 
her  ;  Digby  smitten  ;  pretty  girl  very  virtuous  ;  Digby  forms 
honorable  intentions;  excellent  sentiments;  imprudent  mar- 
riage. Digby  falls  in  life  ;  colonel's  lady  will  not  associate 
with  Mrs.  Digby;  Digby  cut  by  his  whole  kith  and  kin;  many 
disagreeable  circumstances  in  regimental  life;  Digby  sells  out; 
love  in  a  cottage;  execution  in  ditto.  Digby  had  been  much  ap- 
plauded as  an  amateur  actor;  thinks  of  the  stage;  genteel  com- 
edy— a  gentleman-like  profession.  Tries  in  a  provincial  town, 
under  another  name;  unhappily  succeeds;  life  of  an  actor;  hand- 
to-mouth  life;  illness;  chest  affected;  Digby's  voice  becomes 
hoarse  and  feeble;  not  aware  of  it;  attributes  failing  to  ignorant 
provincial  public;  appears  in  London;  is  hissed;  returns  to  the 
provinces;  sinks  into  very  small  parts;  prison;  despair;  wife  dies; 
appeal  again  to  relations;  a  subscription  made  to  get  rid  of  him; 
send  him  out  of  the  country;  place  in  Canada— superintendent 
to  an  estate,  ^£150  a  year;  pursued  by  ill-luck;  never  before  fit  for 
business,  not  fit  now;  honest  as  the  day,  but  keeps  slovenly  ac- 
counts; child  cannot  bear  the  winter  of  Canada;  Digby  wrapped 
up  in  the  child;  return  home;  mysterious  life  for  two  years;  child 
patient,  thoughtful,  loving;  has  learned  to  work;  manages  for 
father  ;  often  supports  him  ;  constitution  rapidly  breaking  ; 
thought  of  what  will  become  of  his  child — worst  disease  of  all. 
Poor  Digby  ! — Never  did  a  base,  cruel,  unkind  thing  in  his  life; 
and  here  he  is,  walking  down  the  lane  from  Colonel-Pompley's 
house  !  Now,  if  Digby  had  but  learned  a  little  of  the  world's 
cunning,  I  think  he  would  have  succeeded  even  with  Colonel 
Pompley.  Had  he  spent  the  ^"100  received  from  Lord  L'Es- 
trange  with  a  view  to  effect — had  he  bestowed  a  fitting  wardrobe 
On  himself  and  his  pretty  Helen;  had  he  stopped  at  the  last  stage, 
taken  thence  a  smart  chaise  and  pair,  and  presented  himself  at 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  293 

Colonel  Pompley's  in  a  way  that  would  not  have  discredited  the 
Colonel's  connection,  and  then,  instead  of  praying  for  home  and 
shelter,  asked  the  Colonel  to  become  guardian  to  his  child  in 
case  of  his  death,  I  have  a  strong, notion  that  the  Colonel,  in 
spite  of  his  avarice,  would  have  stretched  both  ends  so  as  to  take 
in  Helen  Digby.  But  our  poor  friend  had  no  such  arts.  Indeed, 
of  the  ^100  he  had  already  very  little  left,  for  before  leaving 
town  he  had  committed  what  Sheridan  considered  the  extreme 
of  extravagance — frittered  away  his  money  in  paying  his  debts; 
and  as  for  dressing  up  Helen  and  himself — if  that  thought  had 
ever  occurred  to  him,  he  would  have  rejected  it  as  foolish.  He 
would  have  thought  that  the  more  he  showed  his  poverty,  the 
more  he  would  be  pitied — the  worst  mistake  a  poor  cousin  can 
commit.  According  to  Theophrastus,  the  partridge  of  Paphla- 
gonia  has  two  hearts;  so  have  most  men;  it  is  the  common  mis- 
take of  the  unlucky  to  knock  at  the  wrong  one. 

CHAPTER  XI. 

MR.  DIGBY  entered  the  room  of  the  inn  in  which  he  had  left 
Helen.  She  was  seated  by  the  window,  and  looking  out  wistfully 
on  the  narrow  street,  perhaps  at  the  children  at  play.  There  had 
never  been  a  play-time  for  Helen  Digby.  She  sprang  forward 
as  her  father  came  in.  His  coming  was  her  holiday. 

"  We  must  go  back  to  London,"  said  Mr.  Digby,  sinking  help- 
lessly on  the  chair.  Then  with  his  sort  of  sickly  smile — for  he 
was  bland  even  to  his  child—1-"  Will  you  kindly  inquire  when  the 
first  coach  leaves  ?  " 

All  the  active  cares  of  their  careful  life  devolved  upon  that 
quiet  child.  She  kissed  her  father,  placed  before  him  a  cough  mix- 
ture which  he  had  brought  from  London,  and  went  out  silently 
to  make  the  necessary  inquiries,  and  prepare  for  thejourney  back. 

At  eight  o'clock  the  father  and  child  were  seated  in  the  night- 
coach,  withoneother  passenger--aman  muffled  up  to  thechin.  Af- 
ter the  first  mile,  the  man  let  down  one  of  the  windows.  Though  it 
wassummer,theairwaschilland  raw.  Digby  shivered  and  coughed. 

Helen  placed  her  hand  on  the  window,  and,  leaning  toward 
the  passenger,  whispered  softly. 

"Eh!  "said  the  passenger,  "  draw  up  the  windows!  You 
have  got  your  own  window  ;  this  is  mine.  Oxygen,  young 
lady,"  he  added  solemnly,  "  oxygen  is  the  breath  of  life.  Cott, 
child!"  he  continued  with  suppressed  choler,  and  a  Welsh  pro- 
nunciation, "  Cott  !  let  us  breathe  and  live." 

Helen  was  frightened,  and  recoiled. 


294  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Her  father,  who  had  not  heard,  or  had  not  heeded,  this  col- 
loquy, retreated  into  the  corner,  put  up  the  collar  of  his  coat, 
and  coughed  again.  - 

"  It  is  cold,  my  dear,"  said  he  languidly  to  Helen. 

The  passenger  caught  the  word,  and  replied  indignantly,  but 
as  if  soliloquizing — n 

"  Cold — ugh!  I  do  believe  the  English  are  the  stuffiest  people! 
Look  at  their  four-post  beds! — all  the  curtains  drawn,  shutters 
closed,  board  before  the  chimney-— not  a  house  with  a  ventila- 
tor ?  Cold— ugh  !  " 

The  window  next  Mr.  Digby  did  not  fit  well  into  its  frame. 

"  There  is  a  sad  draught,"  said  the  invalid. 

Helen  instantly  occupied  herself  in  stopping  up  the  chinks  of 
the  window  with  her  handkerchief.  Mr.  Digby  glanced  ruefully 
at ' the  :«*ther  window.  The  look,  which  was  very  eloquent, 
aroused  yet  more  the  traveller's  spleen. 

"  Pleasant !  "  said  he.  "  Cott!  I  suppose  you  will  ask  me  to 
go  outside  next!  But  people  who.  travel  in  a  coach  should 
know  the  law  of  a  coach.  I  don't  interfere  with  your  window; 
you  have  no  business  to  interfere  with-mine." 

"  Sir,  I  did  not  speak,"  said  Mr.  Digby,  meekly. 

"But  Miss  here  did." 

"Ah,  sir !  "said  Helen,  plaintively, "  if  you  knew  how  papa  suf- 
fers ! "  And  her  hand  again  moved  toward  the  obnoxious  window. 

"  No,  my  dear;  the  gentleman  is  in  his  right,"  said  Mr.  Digby; 
and,  bowing  with  his  wonted  suavity,  he  added,  "  Excuse  her, 
sir.  She  thinks  a  great  deal  too  much  of  me." 

The  passenger  said  nothing,  and  Helen  nestled  closer  to  her 
father,-  and  strove  to  screen  him  from  the  air. 

The.  passenger  moved  uneasily.  "  Well,"  said  he,  with  a  sort 
of  snort,  "  air  is  air,  and  right  is  right  :  but  here  goes  " — and 
he  hastily  drew  up  the  window. 

Helen  turned  her  face  full  toward  the  passenger  with  a  grate- 
ful expression,  visible  even  in  the  dim  light. 

"  Yoti  are  very  kind,  sir,"  said  poor  Mr.  Digby;  "I  am 
ashamed  to"— his  cough  choked  the  rest  of  the  sentence. 

The  passenger,  who  was  a  plethoric,  sanguineous  man,  felt  as 
if  he  was  stifling.  But  he  took  off  his  wrappers,  and  resigned  the 
oxygen  like  a  hero. 

Presently  he  drew  nearer  to  the  sufferer,  and  laid  hand  on  his 
wrist. 

"  You  are  feverish.  I  fear.  I  am  a  medical  man.  St! — one — 
two.  Cott !  you  should  not  travel ;  you  are  not  fit  f oar  it." 

Mr.  Digby  shook  his  head;;  he  was  too  feeble  to  reply. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  295 

The  passenger  thrust  his  hand  into  his  coat-pocket,  and  drew 
out  what  seemed  a  cigar-case,  but  what,  in  fact,  was  a  leathern 
repertory,  containing  a  variety  of  minute  phials.  From  one  of 
these  phials  he  extracted  two  tiny  globules.  •  "  There,"  said  he, 
"  open  your  mouth — put  those  on  the  tip  of  your  tongue.  They 
will  lower  the  pulse — check  the  fever.  Be  better  presently— but 
should  not  travel — want  rest — you  should  be  in  bed.  Aconite! — 
Henbane  ! — hum  !  Your  papa  is  of  fair  complexion— a  timid 
character,  I  should  say — a  horror  of.  work,  perhaps.  Eh, child?" 

"  Sir  !  "  faltered  Helen,  astonished  and  alarmed. — Was  the 
man  a  conjuror? 

"A  case  f  or  Phosphor!"  cried  the  passenger :  "that  fool  Browne 
would  have  said  arsenic.  Don't  be  persuaded  to  take  arsenic  ! " 

"  Arsenic,  sir  !"  echoed  the.  mild  Digby.  "  No  ;  however 
unfortunate  a  man  may  be,  I  think,  sir,  that  suicide  is — tempting, 
perhaps,  but  highly  criminal." 

"Suicide,"  said  the  passenger  tranquilly — "suicide  is  my 
hobby  !  You  have  no  symptom  of  that  kind,  you  say  !  "  H 

"  Good  heavens  !     No  sir." 

"  If  ever  you  feel  violently  compelled  to  drown  yourself,  take 
puhatilla.  But  if  you  feel  a  preference  toward  blowing  out  your 
brains,  accompanied  with  weight  in  the  limbs,  loss  of  appetite, 
dry  cough,and  bad  corns — Sulphuret  of  antimony.  Don't  forget." 

Though  poor  Mr.  Digby  confusedly  thotiight  that  the  gentle- 
man was  out  of  his  mind,  yet  he  tried  politely  to  say  "thathe  was 
much  obliged,  and  would  be  sure  to  remember";  but  his  tongue 
failed  him,  and  his  own  ideas  grew  perplexed.  His  head  fell  back 
heavily,  and  he  sank  into  a  silence  which  seemed  that  of  sleep. 

The  traveller  looked  hard  at  Helen,  as  she  gently  drew  her 
father's  head  on  her  shoulder,  and  there  piilowed  it  with  a  ten- 
derness which  was  more  that  of  mother  than  child. 

"  Moral  affections — soft — compassionate! — a  good  child,  and 
would  go  well  with — puhatilla."  , 

Helen  held  up  her  finger,  and  glanced  from  her  father  to  the 
traveller,  and  then  to  her  father  again. 

"  Certainly — pukatilla  !  "  muttered  the  homosopathist  ;  and, 
ensconcing  himself  in  his  own  corner,  he  also  sought  to  sleep.;  But 
after  vain  efforts,  accompanied  by  restless  gestures  and  move- 
ments, he  suddenly  started  up,and  again  extracted  his  phial-book. 

"  What  the  deuce  are  they  to  me  !  "  ,he  muttered.  "  Morbid 
sensibility  of  character — Coffee?  No!- — accompanied  by  vivacity 
and  violence— nux/"  He  brought  his  book  to  the  window,  con- 
trived to  read  a  label  on  a  pigmy  bottle.  "Nux  !  that's  it,"  he 
said — and  he  swallowed  a  globule! 


296  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

*'  Now,"  quoth  he,  after  a  pause,  "  I  don't  care  a  straw  for.the 
misfortunes  of  other  people — nay, — I  have  half  a  mind  to  let 
down  the  window." 

Helen  looked  up. 

"  But  I'll  not,"  he  added  resolutely  ;  and  this  time  he  fell 
fairly  asleep. 

.  CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  coach  stopped  at  eleven  o'clock  to  allow  the  passengers  to 
sap.  The  homceopathist  woke  up,  got  out,  gave  himself  a  shake, 
and  inhaled  the  fresh  air  into  his  vigorous  lungs  with  an  evident 
sensation  of  delight.  He  then  turned  and  looked  into  the  coach. 

"  Let  your  father  get  out,  my  dear,"  said  he,  with  a  tone  more 
gentle  than  usual.  "  I  should  like  to  see  him  in-doors — perhaps 
I  can  do  him  good." 

But  what  was  Helen's  terror  when  she  found  that  her  father 
did  not  stir!  He  was  in  a  deep  swoon,  and  still  quite  insensi- 
ble when  they  lifted  him  from  the  carriage.  When  he  recovered 
his  senses,  his  cough  returned,  and  the  effort  brought  up  blood. 

It  was  impossible  for  him  to  proceed  farther.  The  homceopa- 
thist assisted  to  undress  and  put  him  to  bed.  And  having  ad- 
ministered another  of  his  mysterious  globules,  he  inquired  of  the 
landlady  how  far  it  was  to  the  nearest  doctor — for  the  inn  stood 
by  itself  in  a  small  hamlet.  There  was  the  parish  apothecary 
three  miles  off.  But  on  hearing  that  the  gentlefolks  employed 
Dr.  Dosewell,  and  it  was  a  good  seven  miles  to  his  house,  the 
homoeopathist  fetched  a  deep  breath.  The  coach  only  stopped 
a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

"  Cott ! "  said  he  angrily,  to  himself— u  the  nux  was  a  failure. 
My  sensibility  is  chronic.  I  must  go  through  a  long  course  to 
get  rid  of  it.  Hollo,  guard  !  get  out  my  carpet-bag.  I  shan't 
go  on  to-night." 

And  the  good  man,  after  a  very  slight  supper,  went  up  stairs 
again  to  the  sufferer/-  iw.» •:'• 

"Shall  I  send  for  Dr.  Dosewell,  sir  ?"  asked  the  landlady, 
stopping  him  at  the  door. 

Hum  !  At  what  hour  to-morrow  does  the  next  coach  to 
London  pass  ? " 

"  Not  before  eight,  sir." 

"  Well,  send  for  the  doctor  to  be  here  at  seven.  That  leaves 
us  at  least  some  hours  free  from  allopathy  and  murder,"  grunted 
the  disciple  of  Hahnemann,  as  he  entered  the  room. 

Whether  it  was  the  globule  that  the  homceopathist  had  ad- 
ministered; or  the  effect  of  nature  aided  by  repose,  that  checked 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  297 

the  effusion  of  blood,  and  restored  some  temporary  strength  to 
the  poor  sufferer,  is  more  than  it  becomes  one  not  of  the  faculty  to 
opine.  But  certainly  Mr.  Digby  seemed  better,  and  he  gradually 
fellintoaprofoundsleep,  but  not  till  thedoctor  had  put  his  ear  tohis 
chest,  tapped  it  with  his  hand,and  asked  several  questions;  after 
whichthehomceopathistretiredintoacornerof  the  room, and  lean- 
ing his  face  on  his  hand,  seemed  to  meditate.  From  his  thoughts  he 
was  disturbed  by  a  gentle  touch.  Helen  was  kneeling  at  his  feet. 

"  Is  he  very  ill- — very  ?  "  said  she;  and  her  fond  wistful ;eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  physician's  with  all  the  earnestness  of  despair. 

"Your  father  «•  very  ill,"  replied  ;  the  doctpr,-after  a  short 
pause.  "  He  cannot  move  hence  for  some  days  at  least.  I  am 
going  to  London — shall  I  call  on  your  relations,  and  tell  some 
of  them  to  join  you  ?"  .  . 

"  No,  thank  you,  sir,"  answered  Helen,  coloring,  "  But  do 
not  fear;  I  can  nurse  papa.  I  think  he  has  been  worse  before — 
that  is,  he  has  complained  more." 

The  homoeopathist  rose,  and  took  two  strides  across  the  room, 
then  he  paused  by  the  bed,  and  listened  to  the  breathing  of  the 
sleeping  man. 

He  stole  back  to  the  child  who  was  still  kneeling,  took  her  in 
his  arms  and  kissed  her.  "  Tam  it,"  said,  he  angrily,  and  putting 
her  down,  "  go  to  bed  now — you  are  not  wanted  any  more." 

"  Please,  sir,"  said  Helen,  "  I  cannot  leave  him  so.  If  he 
wakes,  he  would  miss  me." 

The  doctor's  hand  trembled;  he  had  recourse  to  his  globules. 
"  Anxiety— grief  suppressed,"  muttered  he.  "Don't  you  want  to 
cry,  my  dear  ?  Cry — do  !  ' ' 

"  I  can't,"  murmured  Helen. 

"  Pulsatilla!  "  said  the  doctor,  almost  with  triumph.    "  I  said 
so  from  the  first.     Open  your  mouth — here  !    Good  night.  My 
room  is  opposite — No.  6;  call  me  if  he  wakes." 
• 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

AT  seven  o'clock  Dr.  Dosewell  arrived,  and  was  shown  into 
the  room  of  the  homoeopathist,  who,  already  up  and  dressed, 
had  visited  his  patient, 

"  My  name  is  Morgan,"  said  the  homceopathist — "  I  aim  a 
physician.  I  leave  in  your  hands  a  patient  whom,  I  fear,  neither 
you  nor  I  can  restore.  Come  and  look  at  him." 

The  two  doctors  went  into  the  sick-room.  Mr.  Digby  was 
very  feeble,,  but  he  had  recovered  his  consciousness,  aod  in- 
clined his  head  courteously. 


298  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR 

"  I  am  sorry  to  cause  so  much  trouble/'  said  he.  The  homos- 
opathist  drew  away  Helen;  the  allopathist  seated  himself  by  the 
bedside  and  put  his  questions,  felt  the  pulse,  sounded  the  lungs, 
and  looked  at  the  tongue  of  the  patient.  Helen's  eye  was  fixed 
on  the  strange  doctor,  and  her  color  rose,  and  her  eye  sparkled 
when  he  got  up  cheerfully,  and  said  in  a  pleasant  voice,  ''You 
m£y  have  a  little  tea." 

"  Tea  !  "  growled  the  homoeopathist — -"  barbarian  !  " 

"  He  is  better,  then,  sir  ? "  said  Helen,  creeping  to  the  allo- 
pathist. 

"Oh,  yes,  my  dear — certainly;  and  we  shall  do  very  well,  I 
hope." 

The  two  doctors  then  withdrew. 

"  Last  about  a  week  !  "  said  Dr.  Dosewell,  smiling  pleasantly, 
and  showing  a  very  white  set  of  teeth. 

"  I!  should  have  said  a  month;  but  our  systems  are  different," 
replied  Dr.  Morgan,  dryly. 

DR.  DOSEWELL  (courteously). — -We  country  doctors  bow  -to 
our  metropolitan  superiors;  what  would  you  advise  ?  You  would 
venture,  perhaps,  the  experiment  of  bleeding. 

DR.  MORGAN  (spluttering  and  growing  Welch,  which  he  never 
did  but  in  excitement) . — Pleed  !  Cott  in  heaven!  do  you  think 
I  am  a  putcher — a'n-  executioner  ?  Pleed  !  Never. 

DR.  DOSEWELL.- — I  don't  find  it  answer,  myself,  when  both 
lungs  are  gone  !  But  perhaps  you  are  for  inhaling. 

DR.  MORGAN. — Fiddlededee  ! 

DR.  DOSEWELL  (with  some  displeasure). — What  would  you  ad- 
vise, then,  in  order  to  prolong  our  patient's  life  for  a  month. 

DR.  MORGAN. — Give  him  Rhm  ! 

DR.  DOSEWELL. — Rhus,  sir  !  Rhus  !  I  don't  know  that  medi- 
cine. Rhus  ! 

DR.  MORGAN. — Rhus  Toxicodendron  ! 

The  length  of  the  last  word  excited  Dr.  Dosewell's  respect. 
A  word  of  five  syllables — this  was  something  like  !  He  bowed 
deferentially,  but  still  looked  puzzled.  At  last  he  said,  smiling 
frankly,  "  You  great  London  practitioners  have  so  many  new 
medicines;  may  I  ask  what  Rhus  toxico — toxico — 

"  Dendron." 

"Is?" 

"  The  juice  of  trie  Upas — vulgarly  called  the  Poison-Tree." 

Dr.  Dosewell  started. 

"Upas — poison-tree — little  birds  that  come  under  the  shade 
fall  down  dead  !  You  give  upas-juice  in  these  desperate  cases— - 
what's  the  dose  ? " 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE. 

Df.  Morgan  grinned  maliciously,  and  produced  a  globule  the 
size  of  a  small  pin's  head. 

Dr.  Dosewell  recoiled  in  disgust. 

"  Oh  !  "  said  he  very  coldly,  and  assuming,  at  once  an  air  of 
superb  superiority,  "  I  see  a  homceopathist,  sir  !  " 

"  A  homceopathist  !  " 

"  Urn  !  " 

"  Urn  ! " 

"A strange  system,  Dr.  Morgan,"  said  Dr.  Dosewell, recover- 
ing his  cheerful  smile,  but  with  a  curl  of.  contempt  in  it,  "  and 
would  soon  do  for  the  druggists." 

"Serve  'em  right.     The"  druggists  soon  do  for  the  patients." 

"Sir!" 

"Sir!" 

DR.  DOSEWELL  {with  dignity).— You  don't  know,  perhaps, 
Dr.  Morgan,  that  I  am  an  apothecary  as  well  as  a  surgeon.  In 
faqt  (he  added,  with  a  certain  grand  humiJUy),  I  have. not  yet 
taken  a  diploma,  and  am  but  Doctor  by  courtesy. 

DR.  MORGAN. — All  one,  sir  !  Doctor  signs  the  death-warn! 
rant— r'pothecary  does  the  deed  ! 

DR.  DOSEWELL  (with  a  withering  sneer). — 'Certainly  we  don't 
protCcS  to.  keep  a  dying  man  alive  upon  the  juice  of  the  deadly 
upas-tree. 

DR.  MORGAN  (complacently). — Of  course  you  don't.  .  There 
are  no  poisons  with  us.  That's  just  the  difference  between  you 
and  me,  Dr.  Dosewell. 

DR.  DOSEWELL  (pointing  to  the  homoeopathist's  travelling 
pharmacopoeia,  and  with  affected  candor).  Indeed,  I  have 
always  said  that  if  you  can  do  no  good  you  can  do  no  harm, 
with: your  infinitesimals. 

Dr.  Morgan,  who  had  been  obtuse  to  the  insinuation  of  pois- 
oning, fires  up  violently  at  the  charge  of  doing  no  harm. 

"You  know  nothing  about  it !  1  could  kill  quite  as  many 
people  as  you,  if  I  chose  it ;  but  I  don't  choose." 

DR.  DOSEWELL  (shrugging  his  shoulders),— Sir !  'tis  no  use 
arguing;  the  thing's  against  common  sense.  In  short,  it  is  my 
firm  belief  that  it  is — is  a  complete— 

DR.  MORGAN. — A  complete  what? 

DR.  DOSEWELL  (provoked  to  the  utmost).- — Humbug  ! 

DR.  MORGAN. — Humpug  !     Cott  in  heaven  !     You  old — 

DR.  DOSEWELL.— 'Old  what,  sir? 

DR.  MORGAN  (at  home  in  a  series  of  alliteral  vowels,  which 
none  but  a  Cimbrian  could  have  uttered  without  gasping).— 
Old  allopathical  anthropophagite  I 


300  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

DR.  DOSEWELL  (starting  up,  seizing  by  the  back  the  chair  on 
which  he  had  sate,  and  bringing  it  down  violently  on  its- four 
legs). — Sir ! 

DR.  MORGAN  (imitating  the  action  with  his  own  chair).-^- Sir ! 

DR.  DOSEWELL. — You're  abusive. 

DR.  MORGAN. — You're  impertinent. 

DR.  DOSEWELL. — Sir  ! 

DR.  MORGAN. — Sir! 

The  two  rivals  fronted  each  other.' 

They  were  both  athletic  men,  and  fiery  men.  Dr.  Dosewell 
was  the  taller,  but  Dr.  Morgan  was  the  stouter.  Dr.  Dosewell  on 
the  mother's  side  was  Irish  ;  but  Dr.  Morgan  on  both  sides  was 
Welsh.  All  things  considered,  I  would  have  backed  Dr.  Morgan 
if  it  had  come  to  blows.  But,  luckily  for  the  honor  of  science, 
here  the  chambermaid  knocked  at  the  door,  and  said,:  "The 
coach  is  coming,  sir." 

Dr.  Morgan  recovered  his  temper  and  his  manners  at  that 
announcement.  " Dr.  Dosewell,"  said  he,  "I  have  been  too 
hot — I  apologize." 

"Dr.  Morgan,"  answered  the  allopathist,  "I  forgot  myself. 
Your  hand,  sir." 

DR.  MORGAN. — We  are  both  devoted  to  humanity,  though 
with  different  opinions.  We  should  respect  each  other. 

DR.  DOSEWELL. — Where  look  for  liberality,  if  men  of  science 
are  illiberal  to  their  brethren?  . 

DR.  MORGAN  (aside).— The  old  hypocrite!  He  would  pound 
me  in  a  mortar  if  the  law  would  let  him. 

DR.  DOSEWELL  (aside).  The  wretched  charlatan  !  I  should 
like  to  pound  him  in  a  mortar. 

DR.  MORGAN. — Good  bye,  my  esteemed  and  worthy  brother. 

DR.  DOSEWELL.— My  excellent  friend,  good  bye. 

DR.  MORGAN  (returning  in  haste).  I  forgot.  I  don't  think 
our  poor  patient  is  very  rich.  I  confide  him  to  your  disinterested 
benevolence. — (Hurries  away.) 

DR.  DOSEWELL  (in  a  rage).- — Seven  miles  at  six  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  and  perhaps  done  out  of  my  fee  !  Quack  !  Villain  ! 

Meanwhile  Dr.  Morgan  had  returned  to  the  sick-room. 

"I  must  wish  you  farewell,"  said  he  to  poor  Mr.  Digby,  who 
was  languidly  sipping  his  tea.  "But  you  are  in  the  hands  of  a — 
of  a — gentleman  in  the  profession." 

"You  have  been  too  kind — I  am  shocked,"  said  Mr.  Digby. 
"Helen,  where's  my  purse?" 

Dr.  Morgan  paused. 

He  paused,  first,  because  it  must  be  owned  that  his  practice 


VARIETIES  IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  301 

was  restricted,  and  a  fee  gratified  the  vanity  natural  to  unap- 
preciated talent,  and  had  the  charm  of  novelty,  which  is  sweet 
to  human  nature  itself.  Secondly,  he  was  a  man — 

/'  Who  knew  his  rights;  and,  knowing,  dared  maintain." 
He  had  resigned  a  coach-fare — stayed  anight — and  thought  he 
had  relieved  his  patient.     He  had  a  right  to  his  fee. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  paused,  because,  though  he  had  small 
practice,  he  was  tolerably  well  off,  and  did  not  care  for  money  in 
itself,  and  he  suspected,  his  patient  to  be  no  Croesus. 

Meanwhile  the  purse  was  in  Helen's  hand.  He  took  it  from 
her,  and  saw  but  a  few  sovereigns  within  the  well-worn  net- work. 
He  drew  the  child  a  little  aside. 

"  Answer  me,  my  dear,  frankly — is  your  papa  rich  ? "  And  he 
glanced  at  the  shabby  clothes  strewed  on  the  chair,  and  Helen's 
faded  frock. 

"  Alas,  no  ! "  said  Helen,  hanging  her  head. 

"Is  that  all  you  have?" 

"All." 

"I  am  ashamed,  to  offer  you  two  guineas,"  said  Mr.  Digby'a 
hollow  voice  from  the  bed. 

"And  I  should  be  still  more  ashamed  to  take  them.  Good 
bye,  sir.  Come  here,  my  child.  Keep  your  money,  and  don't 
waste  it  on  the  other  doctor  more  than  you  can  help.  His  medi- 
cines can  do  your  father  no  good.  But  I  suppose  you  must  have 
some.  He's  no  physician, therefore  there's  no  fee.  He'll  send  a 
bill— itcan'ibemuch.  You  understand.  And  now, God  bless  you." 

Dr.  Morgan  was  off.  But,  as  he  paid  the  landlady  his  bill, 
he  said,  considerately,  "  The  poor  people  up-stairs  can  pay  you, 
but  not  that  doctor — and  he's  of  no  use.  Be  kind  to  the  little 
girl,  and  get  the  doctor  to  tell  his  patient:  (quietly  of  course)  to 
write  to  his  friends — soon — youunderstand.  Somebodymust  take 
charge  of  the  poor  child.  And  stop— hold  your  hand;  take  cafe — 
these  globules  for  the  little  girl  when  her  father  dies — (here' the 
Doctor  muttered  to  himself,  'grief — dw«/te,)-^and  if  she  cries 
too  much  afterward — these— (don't  mistake).  Tears — caustic!" 

".Come,  sir,"  cried  the  coachman. 

"Coming; — tears — caustic"  repeated  the  homceopathist,  pull- 
ing out  his  handkerchief  and  his  phial-book  together  as  he  got 
into  the  coach;  and  he  hastily  swallowed  his  anti-lachrymal. 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

RICHARD  AVENEL  was  in  a  state  of  great  nervous  excitement. 
He  proposed  to  give  an  entertainment  of  a  kind  wholly  new  to 


302  MY   NOVEL  J   OR, 

the  experience  of  Screwstown.  Mrs.  M'Catchley  had  described 
'  with  much  eloquence  the  DJjedners  datisants  of  her  fashionable 
friends  residing  in  the  elegant  suburbs  of  Wimbledon  and  Ful- 
ham.  She  declared  that  nothing  was  so  agreeable.  She  had  even 
said  point-blank  toMr. Avenel,  "Why  don't  you  give  a  Dtjefincr 
dansant  ?  "  And,  therewith,  a  DtjeAncr  dansant  Mr.  Avenel  te- 
solved  to  give. 

The  day  was  fixed,  and  Mr.  Avenel  entered  into  all  the  requi- 
site preparations^  with  the  energy  of  a  man  and  the  providence 
of  a  woman. 

One  morning  as  he  stood  musing  on  the  lawn,  irresolute  as  to 
the  best  site  for  the  tents,  Leonard  came  up  to  him  with  an  open, 
letter,  in  his  hand. 

"My  dear  uncle,"  said  he,  softly. 

"Ha  !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Avenel,  with  a  start.  "Ha — well — 
what  now  ? " 

"  I  have  just  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Dale/  He  tells  me 
that  my  mother  is  very  restless  and  uneasy,  because  he  cannot 
assure  her  that  he  has  heard 'from  me  ;  and  his  letter  requires  an 
answer.  Indeed  I  shall  seem  very  ungrateful  to  him — to  all — 
if  I  do  not  write." 

Richard  Avenel's  brows  met.  He  uttered  an  impatient  "pish!" 
and  turned  away.  Then  coming  back,  he  fixed  his  clear  hawk- 
eye  on  Leonard's  ingenuous  countenance,  linked  his  arm  in  his 
nephew's  and  drew  him  into  the  shrubbery. 

"  Well,  Leonard,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  "  it  is  time  that  I 
should  give  you  some  idea  of  my.  plans  with  regard  to  you.  You 
.  have  seen  my  manner  of  living-^some  difference  from  what  you 
ever  saw  before,  I  calculate  !  Now  I  have  given  you,  what  no 
one  gave  me,  a  lift  in  the  world  ;  and  where  I  place  you,  there 
you  must  help  yourself." 

"Such  is  my  .duty,  and  my  desire-"  said  Leonard  heartily. 

"  Good.  You  are  a  clever  lad,  and  a  genteel  lad,  and  will  do 
Kre.credit  I  have  had  doubts  of  what  is  best  for  you.  At  one 
time  I  thought  of  sending  you  to  college.  That,  I  know,  is  Mr. 
Dale's  wish  ;  perhaps  it  is  your  own.  But  I  have  given  up  that 
idea  ;  I  have  something  better  for  you.  You  have  a  clear  head 
for  business,  and  are  a' capital  arithmetician.  I  think  of  bring- 
ing you  up  to  superintend  my  business  ;  by*and-by  I  will  admit 
you  into  partnership  ;  and  before  you  are  thirty  you  will  be  a 
rich  man.  Come,  does  that  suit  you  ?" 

"  My  dear  uncle,"  said  Leonard,  frankly,  but  much  touched  by 
this  generosity,  "it  is  not  for  me' to  have  a  choice.  I  should  have 
preferred  going  to  college, bc'ctuisc  there!  might  gain  independ- 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  $6;$ 

ence  for  myself,  and  cease  to  be  a  burden  on  you.  Moreover, 
my  heart  moves  me  to  studies  more  congenial  with  the  college 
than  the  counting-house.  But  all  this  is  nothing  compared  with 
my  wish  to  be  of  use  to  you,  and  to  prove  in  any  way,  however 
feebly,  my  gratitude  for  all  your  kindness." 

"  You're  a  good,  grateful,  sensible  lad,"  exclaimed  Richard, 
heartily;  "and  believe  me,  though  I'm  a  rough  diamond,  I  have 
your  true  interest  at  heart.  You  can  be  of  use  to  me,  and  in 
being  so  you  will  best  serve  yourself.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I 
have  some  idea  of  changing  my  condition.  There's  a  lady  of 
fashion  and  quality  who,I  think, may  condescend  to  become  Mrs. 
Avenel;  and  if  so,  I  shall  probably  reside  a  great  part  of  the  year 
in  London.  I  don't  want  to  give  up  my  business.  No  other  in- 
vestment will  yield  the  same  interest.  But  you  can  soon  learn 
to  superintend  it  for  me,  as  some  day  or  other  I  may  retire,  and 
then  you  can  step  in.  Once  a  member  of  our  great  commer- 
cial class,  and  with  your  talents  you  may  be  anything — member 
of.  Parliament^  and  after  that,  minister  of  state,  for  what  I  know. 
And  my  wife-> — hem  ! — that  is  to  be — 'has  great  connections,  and 
you  shall  marry  well;  and — oh,  the  Avenels  will  hold  their  head 
."with  the  highest,  after. all !  Damn  the  aristocracy — we  clever 
fellows  will  be  the  aristocrats — >eh?"  Richard  rubbed  his  hands. 

Certainly,  as  we  have  seen,  Leonard,  especially  in  his  earlier 
steps  to  knowledge,  had  repined  at  his  position  in  the  many  de- 
grees of  life — certainly  he  was  still  ambitious — certainly  he  could 
not  now  have  returned  contentedly  to  the  humble  occupation  he 
had  left ;  and  woe  to  the  young  man  who  does  not  hear  with  a 
quickened  pulse,  and  brightening  eye,  words  that  promise  inde- 
pendence, and  flatter  with  the  hope  of  distinction.  -Still,  it  was 
with  all  the  reaction  of  chill  and  mournful  disappointment  that 
Leonard,  a  few  hours  after  this  dialogue  with  his  uncle,  found 
himself  alone  in  the  fields,  .and  pondering  over  the  prospects 
before  him.  He  had  set  his  heart  upon  completing  his  intellec- 
tual education,  upon  developing  those  powers  within  him  which 
yearned  for  an  arena  of  literature,  and  revolted  from  the  routine 
of  trade.  But  to  his  credit  be  it  said,  that  he  vigorously  resisted 
this  natural  disappointment,  and  by  degrees  schooled  himself 
to  look  cheerfully  on  the  path  imposed  on  his  duty,  and  sanc- 
tioned by  the  manly  sense  that  was  at  the  core  of  his  character. 

I  believe  that  this  self-conquest  showed  thattheboy  had  true  ge- 
nius. The  false  genius  would  have  written  sonnets  and  despaired. 

But  still,  Richard  Avenel  left  his  nephew  sadly  perplexed  as 
to  the  knotty  question  from  which  their  talk  on  the  future  had 
diverged — viz., should  he  write  to  the  Parson,and  assure  the  fears 


304  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

of  his  mother?  How  do  so  without  Richard's  consent, when  Rich- 
ard had  on  a  former  occasion  so  imperiously  declared  that,  if  he 
did,  it  would  lose  his  mother  all  that  Richard  intended  to  settle 
on  her  ? .  While  he  was  debating  this  matter  with  his  conscience, 
leaning  against  a  stile  that  interrupted  a  path  to  the  town.  Leon- 
ard Fairfield  was  .startled  by  an  exclamation.  He  looked  up, 
and  beheld  Mr.  Sprott,  the  tinker. 

• 
CHAPTER  XV. 

.       •  •  •:    •  '  .          .       : 

THE  tinker,  blacker  and  grimmer  then  ever,  stared  hard  at  the 
altered  person  of  his  old  acquaintance,  and  extended  his  sable 
fingers,  as  if  inclined  to  convince  himself  by  the^sense  of  touch 
that  it  was  Leonard  in  the  flesh  :that  he  beheld,  under  vestments 
so  marvellously  elegant  and  preternaturally  spruce. 

JLeonard  shrunk  mechanically  from  the  contact,  while  in  great 
surprise  he  falteredr-^  '.t,ai  n 

"Youhere,Mr.Sprott!  What  could  bringyou  so  farfromhome?" 

"'Ome  !  "  echoed  the  tinker,  "I  'as  no  'ome  !  or  rather,  d'ye 
see,  Muster.  Fairfilt,  I  makes  myself  at  'ome  verever  I  goes  !  Lor' 
Jove  ye,  I  ben't  settled  on  no  parridge.  I  vanders  here  and  I 
vanders  there,  and  that's  my  'ome  verever  I  can  mend  my  kettles 
and  sell  my  tracks  ! "  . 

So  saying,  the:  tinker  slid  his  panniers  on  the  ground,  gave  a 
grunt  of  release  and  satisfaction,  and  seated  himself  with  great 
composure  on  the  stile,  from  which  Leonard  had  retreated. 

"But,  dash  my  vig,"  resumed  Mr.  Sprott,  as  he  once  more 
surveyed  Leonard,  "  vy,  you  bees  a  rale  gentleman,  now  sure/y  / 
Vot's  the  dodge— eh?" 

"Dodge  !  "  repeated  Leonard  mechanically — "  I  don't  under- 
stand you."  Then,  thinking  ^that  it  was  neither  necessary  nor 
expedient  to  keep  up  his  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Sprott,  nor  pru- 
dent to  expose  himself  to  the  battery  of  questions  which  he  fore- 
saw that  further  parley  would  bring  upon  him,  he  extended  a 
crown-piece  to  the  tinker;  and  saying  with  a  half-smile,  "  You 
must  excuse  me  for  leaving  you — I  have  business  in  the  town; 
and  dome  the  favor  to  accept  this  trifle,"  he  walked  briskly  off. 

The  Tinker  looked  long  at  the  crown-piece,  and  then  sliding 
it  into  his  pocket,  said  to  himself-!— 

"Ho — 'ush  money  !     No  go,  my  swell  cove." 

After  venting  that  brief  soliloquy,  he  sat  silent  a  little  while, 
till  Leonard  was  nearly  out  of  sight,  then  rose,  resumed  his  fardel, 
and  creeping  quick  along  out  of  sight  along  the  hedge-rows,  fol- 
lowed Leonard  toward  the  town.  Just  in  the  last  field,  as  he 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  3©5 

looked  over  the  hedge,  he  saw  Leonard  accosted  by  a  gentleman 
of  comely  mien  and  important  swagger.  That  gentleman  soon 
left  the  young  man,  and  came,  whistling  loud,  up  the  path,  and 
straight  toward  the  tinker.  Mr.  Sprott  looked  round,  but  the 
hedge  was  too  neat  to  allow  of  a  good  hiding-place,  so  he  put  a 
bold  front  on  it,  and  stepped  forth  like  a  man.  -But,  alas  for 
him  !  before  he  got  into  the  public  path,  the  proprietor  of  the  land, 
Mr.  Richard  A  venel  (for  the  gentleman  was  no  less  a  personage), 
had  spied  out  the  trespasser,  and  called  to  him  with  a  "Hillo,  fel- 
low," that  bespoke  all.  the  dignity  of  a  man  who  owns  acres  and  all 
the  wrath  of  a  man  who  beholds  those  acres  impudently  invaded. 

The  Tirtker  stopped,  and  Mr.  Avenel  stalked  up  to  him. 

"  What  the  devil  are  you  doing  on  my  property,  lurking  by 
my  hedge?  I  suspect  you  are  an  incendiary  !" 

"I  be  a  tinker,"  quoth  Mr.  Sprott,  not  louting  low  (fora  sturdy 
republican  was  Mr.  Sprott),  but,  like  a  lord  of  human-kind, 
"  Pride  in  his  port,  defiance  in  his  eye." 

Mr.  AveneTs  fingers  itcheid  to  knock  the  tinker's  villanous 
hat  off  his  Jacobinical  head,  but  he  repressed  the  undignified 
impulse  by  thrusting  both  hands  deep  into  his  trousers  pockets. 

"A  tinker!  "he  cried — "that's  a  vagrant;  and  I'm  a  magistrate, 
and  I've  a  great  mind  to  send  you  to  the  tread-mill — that  I  have. 
What  do  you  do  here,  I  say?  Youhavenotansweredmyquestion?  ' 

"  What  does  I  do  'ere  ? "  said  Mr.  Sprott.  "  Vy  you  had  better 
ax  my  crakter  of  the  young  gent  I  saw  you  talking  with  just  now; 
he  knows  me  ! " 

"  What !    my  nephew  knows  you  ? " 

"  W — hew,"  whistled  the  Tinker,  "your  nephew,  is  it,  sir?  I 
have  a  great  respeck  for  your  family.  I've  known  Mrs.  Fairfilt, 
the  vasher-voman,  this  many  a  year.  I  'umbly  ax  your  pardon," 
And  he  took  off  his  hat  this  time. 

Mr.  Avenel  turned  red  and  white  in  a  breath.  He  growled 
out  something  inaudible,  turned  on  his  heel,  and  strode  off. 

The  Tinker  watched  him  as  he  had  watched  Leonard,  and  then 
dogged  the  uncle  as  he  had  dogged  the  nephew.  I  don't  pre- 
sume to  say  that  there  was  cause  and  effect  in  what  happened 
that  night,  but  it  was  what  is  called  a  "  curious  coincidence  "  that 
that  night  one  of  Richard  Avenel's  ricks  was  seton  fire;  and  that 
that  day  he  had  called  Mr.  Sprott  an  incendiary.  Mr.  Sprott  was 
a  man  of  a  very  high  spirit,  and  did  not  forgive  an  insult  .easily. 
His  nature  was  inflammatory,  and  so  was  that  of  the  lucifers 
which  he  always  carried  about  him,  with  his  tracts  and  glue-pots. 

The  next  morning  there  was  an  inquiry  made  for  the  Tinker, 
but  he  had  disappeared  from  the  neighborhood. 


306  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

IT  was  a  fortunate  thing  that  the  dejedner  dansant  so  absorbed 
Mr.  Richard  Avenel's  thoughts,  that  even  the  conflagration  of 
his  rick  could  not  scare  away  the  graceful  and  poetic  images 
connected  with  that  pastoral  festivity.  He  was  even  loose  and 
careless  in  the  questions  he  put  to  Leonard  about  the  Tinker ; 
nor  did  he  send  justice  in  pursuit  of  that  itinerant  trader ;  for, 
to  say  truth,  Richard  Avenel  was  a  man  accustomed  to  make 
enemies  amongst  the  lower  orders  ;  and  though  he  suspected  Mr. 
Sprott  of  destroy  ing  his  rick,  yet,  when  he  once  set  abbut  suspect- 
ing, he  found  he  had  quite  as  good  cause  to  suspect  fifty  other 
persons.  How  on  earth  could  a  man  puzzle  himself  about  ricks 
and  tinkers,  when  all  his  cares  and  energies  were  devoted  to  a 
(ttjcdncr .dansant?  It  was  a  maxim  of  Richard  Avenel's,  as  it 
ought  to  be  of  every  clever,  man,  "to  do  one  thing  at  a  time"  ; 
and  therefore  he  postponed  all  other  considerations  till  the 
dtfe&iifr  dansant  was  fairly  done  with.  Amongst  these  consider- 
ations was  the  letter  which  Leonard  wished  to  write  to  the  Parson. 
"  Wait  a  bit,  and  we  will  both  write  !  "  said  Richard,  good- 
jmmoredly,  "the  moment  the  deje&ner  dansant  is  over  !  " 

It  must  be  owned  that  this  fete  was  no  ordinary  provincial 
ceremonial.  Richard  Avenel  was  a  man  to  do  a  thing  well  when 
he  set  about  it— 

"  He  soused  the  cabbage  with  a  bounteous  heart." 

By  little  and  little  his  first  notions  had  expanded,  till  what  had 
been  meant  to  be  only  neat  and  elegant  now  embraced  the  costly 
and  magnificent.  Artificers  accustomed  to  dfyetiners  dansants 
came  all  the  way  from  London  to  assist,  to  direct,  to  create. 
Hungarian  singers,  and  Tyrolese  singers,  and  Swiss  peasant- 
women  who  were  to  chaunt  the  Ranz  des  Vachcs,  and  milk  cows, 
or  make  syllabubs,  were  engaged.  The  great  marquee  was  decor- 
ated as  aGothic  banquet-hall;  the  breakfast  itself  was  to  consist  of 
"all  the  delicacies  of  the  season."  In  short,  as  Richard  Avenelsaid 
to  himself.  "  It  is  a  thing  once  in  away;  a  thing  on  which  I  don't 
object  to  spend  money,  provided  that  the  thing  is — the  thing  !  " 

It  had  been  a  matter  of  grave  meditation  how  to  make  the 
society  worthy  of  the  revel ;  for  Richard  Avenel  \vas  not  contented 
with  a  mere  aristocracy  of  the  town — his  ambition  had  grown 
with  his  expenses.  "Since  it  will  cost  so  much,"  said  he,  "I  may 
as  well  come  it  strong,  and  get  in  the  county." 

True,  that  he  was  personally  acquainted  with  very  few  of  what 
are  called  county  families.  But  still,  -when  a  man  makes  himself  a 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  307 

mark  in  a  large  town,  and  can  return  one  of  the  members  whom 
that  town  sends  to  Parliament ;  and  when,  moreover,  that  man 
proposes  to  give  some  superb  and  original  entertainment,  in  which 
the  old  can  eat  and  the  young  can  dance,  there  is  no  county  in 
the  island  that  has  not  families  enow  who  will  be  delighted  by 
an  invitation  from  THAT  MAN.  And  so  Richard,  finding  that,  as 
the  thing  got  talked  of,  the  Dean's  lady,  and  Mrs.  Pompley,  and 
various  other  great  personages,  took  the  liberty  to  suggest  that 
Squire  this,  and  Sir  Somebody  that,  would  be  so  pleased  if  they 
were  asked,  fairly  took  the  bull  by  the  horns,  and  sent  out  his 
cards  to  Park,  Hall,  and  Rectory,  within  a  circumference  of  twelye 
miles.  He  met  with  but  few  refusals,  and  he  now  counted  upon 
five  hundred  guests. 

"  In  for  a  penny,  in  for  a  pound,"  said  Mr.  Richard  Avenel. 
"  I  wonder  what  Mrs.  M-'CatchVey  will  say  ? "  Indeed,  if  the  whole 
truth  must  be  known,  Mr.  Richard  Avenel  not  only  gave, that 
dtjefiner  dansant  in  honor  of  Mrs.  M'Catchley,  but  he  had  fixed 
in  his  heart  of  hearts  upon  that  occasion  (when  surrounded  by 
all  his  splendor,  and  assisted  by  the  seductive  arts  of  Terpsichore 
and  Bacchus),  to  whisper  to  Mrs.  M'Catchley  those  soft  words 
which — -but  why  not  here  let  Mr.  Richard  Avenel  use  his  own 
idiomatic  and  unsophisticated  expression  ?  "  Please  the  pigs, 
then,"  said  Mr.  Avenel  to  himself,  "I  shall  pop  the  question  !" 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  Great  Day  arrived  at  last ;  and  Mr.  Richard  Avenel,  from 
his  dressing-room  window,  looked  on  the  scene  below  as  Hanni- 
bal or  Napoleon  looked  from  the  Alps  on  Italy.  It  was  a  scene 
to  gratify  the  thought  'of  conquest,  and  reward  the  labors  of 
ambition.  Placed  on  a  little  eminence  stood  the  singers  from 
the  mountains  of  the  Tyrol,  their  high-crowned  hats  and  filigree 
buttons  and  gay  sashes  gleaming  in  the  sun.  Just  seen  from  his 
place  of  watch,  though  concealed  from  the  casual  eye,  the  Hun- 
garian musicians  lay  in  ambush  amidst  a  little  belt  of  laurels  and 
American  shrubs.  Far  to  the  right  lay  what  had  once  been  called 
(fwrresco  referens]  the  duck-pond,  where— Dulce  sonant  tenui 
gutture carmen  aves.  But  the  ruthless  ingenuity  of  thelhead  artificer 
had  converted  the  duck-pond  into  a  Swiss  lake,  despite  grievous 
wrong  and  sorrow  to  the  assuetum  innocuumque  genus- — the  famil- 
iar and  harmless  inhabitants,  whohad  been  allexpatriated  and  ban- 
ished from  their  native  waves.  Large  poles  twisted  with  fir-branch- 
es, stuck  thickly  around  the  lake,  gave  to  the  waters  the  becoming 
Helvetian  gloom.  And  here,  beside  three  cows  all  bedecked  with 


308  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

ribbons,  stood  theSwissmaidensdestined  to  startle  the  shades  with 
iheRanzdes  Vetches.  To  the  left,  full  upon  the  sward,  which  it  al- 
most entirely  covered,  stretched  the  great  Gothjcmarquee,  divided 
iato  two  grand  sections — one  for  the  dancing,  one  for  the  deje&ner. 

The  day  was  propitious — not  a  cloud  in  the  sky.  The  musi- 
cians were  already  tuning  their  instruments  ;  figures  of  waiters 
hired  of  Gunter — trim  and  decorpus,  in  black  trousers  and  white 
waistcoats — passed  to  and  fro  the  space  between  the  house  and 
marquee.  Richard  looked  and  looked;  and  as  he  looked  he  drew 
mechanically  his  razor  across  the-strop;  and  when  he  had  looked 
his  fill,  he  turned  reluctantly  to  the  glass  and  shaved  !  All  that 
blessed  morning  hehadbeen  too  busy ,till  then, to  thinkof  shaving. 

There  is  a  vast  deal  of  character  in  the  way  that  a  man  per- 
forms that  operation  of  shaving!  You  should  have  seen  Rich- 
ard Avenel  shave!  You  could  have  judged  at  once  how  he  would 
shave  his  neighbors,  when  you  saw  the  celerity,  the  completeness 
with  which  he  shaved  himself-fra  forestroke  and  a  backstroke, 
and  tondenti  barba  cadebat !  Cheek  and  chin  were  as  smooth  as 
glass.  You  would  have  buttoned  up  your  pockets  instinctively, 
if  you  had  seen  him. 

But  the  rest  of  Mr.  Avenel's  toilet  was  ,not  completed  with 
correspondent  despatch.  On  his  bed,  and  on  his  chairs,  and 
on  his  sofa, and  on  his  drawers,lay  trousers,and  vests,  and  cravats 
enough  to  distract  the  choice  of  a  Stoic.  And  first  one  pair  of 
trousers  was  tried  on,  and  then  another — and  one  waistcoat,  and 
then  a  second,  and  then  a  third.  Gradually  that  chef-d  'ceuvre 
oflCivilization— a  man  dressed — grew  into  development  and  form  ; 
and,  finally,  Mr.  Richard  Avenel  emerged  into  the  light  of  day. 
He  had  been  lucky  in  his  costume — he  felt  it.  It  might  not  suit 
every  one  in  color  or  cut,  but  it  suited  him. 

And  this  was  his.  garb.  On  such  occasions,  what  epic  poet 
would  not  describe  the  robe  and  tunic  of  a  hero? 

His  surtout— in  modern  phrase,  his  frock-coat — was  blue,  a 
rich  blue — a  blue  that  the  rpyaj  brothers  of  George  the  Fourth 
were  wont  to  favor.  And  the  surtout,single-breasted, was  thrown 
open  gallantly  ;  an,d  in  the  second  button-hole  thereof  was  a 
moss-rose.  The  vest  was  white,  and  the  trousers  a  pearl-gray, 
with  what  tailors  style  "a  handsome  fall  over  the  boot."  A 
blue  and  white  silk  cravat,  tied  loose  and  debonnair.e  ;  an  ample 
field  of  shirt-frprit,with  plain  gold  studs;  a  pair  of  lemon-colored 
kid  gloves,  and  a  white  hat,  placed  somewhat  too  knowingly  on 
one  side,  complete  the  description,  and  "give  the  world  assur- 
ance of  the  man."  And,withhisjignt,firm, well-shaped  figure,his 
qlear  complexion,  his  keen,  bright  eye,  and  features  that  bespoke 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  309 

the  courage,  precision,  and  alertness  of  his  character — that  is  to 
say,  features  bold,  not  large,  well-defined  and  regular— you  might 
walk  long  through  town  or  country  before  you  would  see  a  hand- 
somer specimen  of  humanity  than  our  friend,  Richard  Avenel. 

Handsome,  and  feeling  that  he  was  handsome  ;  rich,  and  feel- 
ing that  he  was  rich  ;  lord  of  the  fete,  and  feeling  that  he  was 
lord  of  the  fete,  Richard  Avenel  stepped  out  upon  his  lawn. 

And  now  the  dust  began  to  rise  along  the  road,  and  carriages, 
and  gigs,  and  chaises,  and  flies^might  be  seen  at  near  intervals, 
and  in  quick  procession.  People  camepretty  much  about  the  same 
time — as  they  do  in  the  country — Heaven  reward  them  for  it! 

Richard  Avehel  was  not  quite  at  his  ease  at  first  in  receiving 
his  guests,  especially  those  whom  he  did  not  know  by  sight. 
But  when  the  dancing  began,  and  he  had  secured  the  fair  hand 
of  Mrs.  M'Catchley  for  the  initiatory  quadrille,  his  courage  and 
presence  of  mind  returned  to  him;  and,  seeing  that  many  people 
whom  he  had  not  received  at  all  seemed  to  enjoy  themselves 
very  much,  he  gave  up  the  attempt  to  receive  those  who  came 
after — and  that  was  a  great  relief  to  all  parties. 

Meanwhile  Leonard  looked  on  the  animated  scene  with  a  silent 
melancholy,  which  he  in  vain  endeavored  to  shake  off — a  mel- 
ancholy more  common  amorlgstvery  young  men  in  such  scenes 
than  we  are  apt  to  suppose.  Somehow  or  other,  the  .pleasure 
was  not  congenial  to  him  ;  he  had  no  Mrs.  M'Catchley  to  endear 
it — -he  knew  very  few  people — he  was  shy — he  felt  his  position 
with  his  uncle  was  equivocal — he  had  not  the  habit  of  society — 
he  heard  incidentally  many  ah  ill-natured  remark  upon  his  uncle 
and  the  entertainment — he  felt  indignant  and  mortified.  He 
had  been  a  great  deal  happier  eating  his  radishes,  and  reading 
his  book  by  the  little  fountain  in  Riccabocca's  garden.  He  re- 
tired to  a  quiet  part  of  the  grounds,  and  seated  himself  under  a 
tree,  leaned  his  cheek  on  his  hand,  arid  mused.  He  was  soon 
far  away ; — happy  age,  when,  whatever  the  present,  the  future 
seems  so  far  and  so  infinite  ! 

But  now  the  (tijedncr  had  succeeded  the  earlier  dances  ;  and, 
as  champagne  flowed  royally,  it  is  astonishing  how  the  entertain- 
ment brightened. 

The  sun  was  beginning  to  slope  toward  the  west  when,  during 
a  temporary  cessation  of  the  dance,  all  the  guests  had  assem- 
bled in  such  space  as  the  tent  left  on  the  lawn,  or  thickly,  filled 
the  walks  immediately  adjoining  it.  The  gay  dresses  of  the 
ladies,  the  joyous  laughter  heard  everywhere,  and  the  brilliant 
sunlight  ovef  all,  conveyed  even  to  Leonard  the  notion,  not  of 
mere  hypocritical  pleasure,  but  actual  healthful  happiness.  He 


310  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

was  attracted  from  his  reverie,- and  timidly  mingled  with  the 
groups.  But  Richard  Avenel,  with  the  fair  Mrs.  M'Catchley — her 
complexion  more  vivid,  and  her  eyes  more  dazzling,  and  her  step 
more  elastic  than  usual— had  turned  from  the  gaiety  just  as  Leon- 
ard had  turned  toward  it,  and  was  now  on  the  very  spot  (remote, 
obscure,  shaded  by  the  few  trees  jabove  five  years  old  that  Mr. 
A  venel'sproperty  boasted)  whichthe  young  dreamer  had  deserted. 

And  then  !  Ah,  then  ! — moment  so  meet  for  the  sweet  ques- 
tion of  questions,  place  so  appropriate  for  the  delicate,  bashful, 
murmured  popping  thereof  ! — suddenly  from  the  sward  before, 
from  the  groups  .beyond,  there  .floated  to  the  ears  of  Richard 
Avenel  an  indescribable,  mingled,  ominous  sound-^-a  sound  as 
of  a  general  titter, — a  horrid,  malignant,  but  low  each in.nation. 
And  Mjs.  M' Catch-ley,  stretching  forth  her  parasol,  exclaimed, 
"  Dear  me,  Mr.  Avenel,  what  can  they  be  all  crowding  there  for? " 

There  are  certain  sounds  and  certain-sights — the  one  indis- 
tinct, the  other  vaguely  conjecturable — which,  nevertheless,  we 
know,  by  an  instinct,  bode  some  diabolical  .agency  at  work  in 
our  affairs.  And  if  any  man  gives  an  entertainment,  and  hears 
afar  a  general,  ill-suppressed,  decisive  titter,  and  sees  all  his 
guests  hurrying  toward  one  spot,  I  defy  him  to  remain  unmoved 
and  uniriquisitive.  I  defy  him  still  more  to  take  that  precise 
occasion  (however  much  he  may  have  before  designed  it)  to 
drop  gracefully  on  his  right  knee  before  the  handsomest  Mrs. 
M'Catchley  in  the  universe,  and, — pop  the  question  !  Richard 
Avenel  blurted  out  something  very. like  an  oath  ;  and,  half  guess- 
ing that  something  must  ha^e  happened  that  it  would  not  be 
pleasing  to  bring  immediate!)  under  the  notice  of  Mrs.  M'Catch- 
ley, he  said  hastily — "  Excuse  me,  I'll  just  go  and  see  what  is 
the  matter;  pray,  stay  till  I  come  back."  With  that  he  sprang 
forward  ;  inaminutehewas  in  the.midstofthe  group,  that  parted 
aside  with  the  most  obliging  <  omplacency  to  make  way  for  him. 

"But  what's  the  matter  ?"  he  asked,  impatiently, yet  fearfully. 
Not  a  voice  answered.  He  strode  on,  and  beheld  his  nephew 
in  the  arms  of  a  woman  ! 

"  God  bless  my  soul !  "  said  Richard  Avenel. 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

AND  such  a  woman  ! 

She  had  on  a  cotton  gown — very  neat,  I  dare  say — for  an 
under-housemaid  ;  and  such  thick  shoes  !  She  had  on  a  little 
black  straw  bonnet ;  and  a  kerchief,  that  might  have  cost  ten- 
pence,  pinned  across  her  waist  instead  of  a  shawl ;  and  she 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  311, 

looked  altogether — respectable,  no  doubt,  but  exceedingly  dusty! 
And  she  was  hanging  upon  Leonard's  neck,  and  scolding,  and 
caressing,  and  crying,  very  loud.  "God  bless  my  soul  !"  said 
Mr.  Richard  Avenel. 

As  he  uttered  that  innocent  self-benediction,  the  woman  hastily 
turned  round,  and,  darting  from  Leonard,  threw  herself  right 
upon  Richard  Avenel — burying  under  her  embrace  blue  coat, 
moss-rose,  white  waistcoat  and  all — with  a  vehement  sob  and  a 
loud  exclamation  ! 

"Oh  !  brother  Dick  ! — dear,  dear  brother  Dick  !  And  I  lives 
to  see  thee  agin  !  "  And  then  came  two  such  kisses — you  might 
have  heard  them  a  mile  off  !  The  situation  of  brother  Dick 
was  appalling ;  and  the  crowd,  that  had  before  only  tittered: 
politely,  could  not  now  resist  the  effect  of  this  sudden  embrace. 
There  was  a  general  explosion !-— It  was  a  roar.-  That  roar  would 
have  killed  a  weak  man  ;  but  it  sounded  to  the  strong  heart  of 
Richard  Avenel  like  the  defiance  of  a  foe,  and  it  plucked  forth 
in  an  instant  from  all  conventional  let 'and  barrier  the  native 
spirit  of  the  Anglo-Saxon. 

He  lifted  abruptly  his  handsome  masculine  head,  and  looked 
round  the  ring  of  his  ill-bred  visitors  with  a  haughty  stare  of 
rebuke  and  surprise. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  then  said  he  very  coolly,  "I  don't 
see  what  there  is  to. laugh  at?  A  brother  and  sister  meet  after 
many  years'  separation,  and  the  sister  cries,  poor  thing  !  For  my 
part  I  think  it  very  natural  that  she  should  cry;  but  not  that. you 
should  laugh!"  In  an  instant  the  whole  shame  was  removed  from 
Richard  Avenel,  and  rested  in  full  weight  upon  the  bystanders. 
It  is  impossible  to  say  how  foolish  and  sheepish  they  all  looked, 
nor  how  slinkingly  each  tried  to  creep  off. 

Richard  Avenel  seized  his  advantage  with  the  promptitude  of 
a  man  who  had  got  on  in  America,  and  was,  therefore,  accus- 
tomed to  make  the  best  of  things.  He  drew  Mrs.  Fairfield's  arm' 
in  his,  and  led  her  into  the  house;  but  when  he  had  got  her  safe 
into  his  parlor — Leonard  following  all  the'time — and  the  door  was 
closed  upon  those  three,  thf.n  Richard  Avenel's  ire  burst  forth. 

"You  impudent,  ungrateful,  audacious — drab!" 

Yes,  drab  was  the  word.  I  was  shocked  to  say  it,  but  the 
duties  of  an  historian  are  stern,  and  the  word  was — drab. 

"  Drab  !  "  faltered  poor  Jane  Fairfield;  and  she  clutched  hold 
of  Leonard  to  save  herself  from  falling. 

"Sir!"  cried  Leonard,  fiercely. 

You  might  as  well  have  cried  "  Sir  "  to  a  mountain  torrent 
Richard  hurried  on,  for  he  was  furious. 


312  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"You  nasty,  dirty,  dusty  dowdy !  How  dare  you  come  here 
to  disgrace  me  in  my  own  house  and  premises,  after  my  sending 
you  fifty  pounds  !  To  take  the  very  time  too,  when — when — " 

Richard  gasped  for  breath;  and  the  laugh  of  his  guests  rang 
in  his  ears,  and  got  into  his  chest,  and  choked  him.  Jane  Fair- 
field  drew  herself  up,  and  her  tears  were  dried. 

"  I  did  not  come  to  disgrace  you ;  I  came  to  see  my  boy  and — " 

"Ha!"  interrupted  Richard,  "to  see  him" 

He  turned  to  Leonard :  "You  have  written  to  this  woman,then  ?" 

"No,  sir,  I  have  not." 

"I  believe  you  lie." 

"He  does  not  lie;  and  he  is  as  good  as  yourself  and  better, 
Richard  Avenel,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Fairfield;  "and  I  won't  stand 
here  and  hear  him  insulted — that's  what  I  won't.  And  as  for 
your  fifty  pounds,  there  are  forty-five  of  it;  and  I'll  work  my 
fingers  to  the  bone  till  I  pay  back  the  other  five.  And  don't  be 
afeard  I  shall  disgrace  you,  for  I'll  never  look  on  your  face  agin; 
and  you're  a  wicked,  bad  man — that's  what  you  are." 

The  poor  woman's  voice  was  so  raised  and  so  shrill,  that  any 
other  and-  more  remorseful  feeling  which  Richard  might  have 
conceived  was  drowned  in  his  apprehension  that  she  would  be 
overheard  by  his  servants  or  his  guests — a  masculine  apprehen- 
sion, with  which  females  rarely  sympathize;  which,  on  the  con- 
trary, they  are  inclined  to  consider  a  mean  and  cowardly  terror 
on  the  part  of  their  male  oppressors. 

"Hush!  hold  your  infernal  squall- — do!"  said  Mr.  Avenel,  in 
a  tone 'that  he  meant  to  be  soothing.  "There — sit  down — and 
don't  stir  till  I  come  back  again,  and  can  talk  to  you  calmly. 
Leonard,  follow  me,  and  help  to  explain  things  to  our  guests." 

Leonard  stood  still,  but  shook  his  head  slightly. 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir?"  said  Richad  Avenel,  in  a  very  por- 
tentous growl.  "  Shaking  your  head  at  me  ?  Do  you  intend  to 
disobey  me?  You  had  better  take  care! " 

Leonard's  front  rose;  he  drew  one  arm  round  his  mother,  and 
thus  he  spoke: — 

"  Sir,  you  have  been  kind  to  me,  and  generous,  and  that  thought 
alone  silenced  my  indignation,  when  I  heard  you  address  s<uch 
language  to  my  mother;  for  I  felt  that,  if  I  spoke,  I  should  say 
too  much.  Now  I  speak,  and  it  is  to  say,  shortly,  that — " 

"Hush,  boy,"  said  poor  Mrs.  Fairfield,,  frightened;  "don't 
mind  me.  I  did  not  come  to  make  mischief,  and  ruin  your  pros- 
pex.  I'll  go  !" 

"Will  you  ask  her  pardon,  Mr.  Avenel  ?"  said  Leonard,  firmly; 
and  he  advanced  toward  his  uncle. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  313 

Richard,  naturally  hot  and  intolerant  of  contradiction,  was 
then  excited,  not  only  by  the  angry  emotion,  which,  it  must  be 
owned,  a  man  so  mortified,  and  in  the  very  flush  of  triumph, 
might  well  experience,  but  by  much  more  wine  than  he  was  in 
the  habit  of  drinking;  and  when  Leonard  approached  him,  he 
misinterpreted  the  movement  into  one  of  menace  and  aggression. 
He  lifted  his  arm:  "Come  a  step  nearer,"  said  he,  between  his 
teeth,  "and  I'll  knock  you  down."  Leonard  advanced  the  for- 
bidden step;  but  as  Richard  caught  hiseye,  there  was  something 
in  that  eye — not  defying,  not  threatening,  but  bold  and  daunt- 
less— which  Richard  recognized  and  respected,  for  that  some- 
thing spoke  the  Freeman.  The  uncle's  arm  mechanically  fell 
to  his  side. 

"You  cannot  strike  me,  Mr.  Avenel,"  said  Leonard,  "for  you 
are  aware  that  I  could  not  strike  again  my  mother's  brother.  As 
her  son,. I  once  more  say  to  you — ask  her  pardon." 

"  Ten  thousand  devils  !  Are  you  mad  ? — or  do  you  want  to 
drive  me  mad?  you  insolent  beggar,  fed  and  clothed  by  my 
charity.  Ask  her  pardon !— what  for  ?  That  she  has  made  me 
the  object  of  jeer  and  ridicule  with  that  d — d  cotton  gown,  and 
those  double  d — d  thick  shoes.  I  vow  and  protest  they've  got 
nails  in  them  !  Hark  ye,  sir,  I've  been  insulted  by  her,  but  I'm 
not  to  be  bullied  by  you.  Come  with  me  instantly,  or  I  discard 
you;  not  a  shilling  of  mine  shall  you  have  as  long  as  I  live. 
Take  your  choice — be  a  peasant,  a  laborer,  or — " 

"A  base  renegade  to  natural  affection,  a  degraded  beggar  in- 
deed!" cried  Leonard,  his  breast  heaving,  and  his  cheeks  in  a 
glow.  "  Mother,  mother,  come  away.  Never  fear — I  have  strength 
and  youth,  and  we  will  work  together  as  before." 

But  poor  Mrs.  Fairfield,  overcome  by  her  excitement,  had  sunk 
down  into  Richard's  own  handsome  morocco  leather  easy-chair, 
and  could  neither  speak  nor  stir. 

"Confound  you  both !"  muttered  Richard.  "You  can't  be 
seen  creeping  out  of  my  house  now.  Keep  her  here,  you  young 
viper,  you;  keep  her  till  I  come  back;  and  then,  if  you  choose 
to  go,  go  and  be — " 

Not  finishing  his  sentence,  Mr.  Avenel  hurried  out  of  the 
room,  and  locked  the  door,  putting  the  key  into  his  pocket.  He 
paused  fora  moment  in  the  Hall,  in  order  to  collect  his  thoughts — 
drew  three  or  four  deep  breaths — gave  himself  a  great  shake — 
and,  resolved  to  be  faithful  to  his  principle  of  doing  one  thing 
at  a  time,  shook  off  in  that  shake  all  disturbing  recollection  of 
his  mutinous  captives.  Stern  as  Achilles  when  he  appeared  to 
the  Trojan,  Richard  Avenel  stalked  back  to  his  lawn. 


314  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

BRIEF  as  had  been  his  absence,  the  host  could  see  that,  in  the 
interval,  a  great  and  notable  change  had  come  over  the  spirit  of 
his  company.  Some  of  those  who  lived  in  the  town  were  evi- 
dently preparing  to  return  home  on  foot;  those  who  live'd  at  a 
distance,and  whose  carriages(having  been  sent  away,and  ordered 
at  a  fixed  hour)  had  not  yet  arrived,  were  gathered  together  in 
small  knots  and  groups;  all  looked  sullen  and  displeased,  and 
all  instinctively  turned  from  their  host  as  he  passed  them  by. 
They  felt  they  had  been  lectured,  and  they  were  more  put  out 
than  Richard  himself.  They  did  not  know  if  they  might  not  be 
lectured  again.  This  vulgar  man,  of  what  might  he  not  be  capable? 

Richard's  shrewd  sense  comprehended  in  an  instant  all  the 
difficulties  of  his  position;  but  he  walked  on  deliberately  and 
directly  toward  Mrs.  M'Catchley,  who  was  standing  near  the 
grand  marquee  with  the  Pompleys  and  the  Dean's  lady.  As 
these  personages  saw  him  make  thus  boldly  toward  them,  there 
was  a  flutter.  "  Hang  the  fellow!  "  said  the  Colonel,  intrenching 
himself  in  his  stock,  "he  is -coming  here.  Low  and  shocking — 
what  shall  we  do?  Let  us  stroll  on." 

But  Richard  threw  himself  in  the  way  of  the  retreat. 

"Mrs.  M'Catchley,"  said  he,  very  gravely,  and  offering  her 
his  arm,  "allow  me  three  words  with , you." 

The  poor  widow  looked  very  much  discomposed.  Mrs.  Pomp- 
ley  pulled  her  by  the  sleeve.  Richard  still  stood  gazing  into  her 
face,  with  his  arm  extended.  She  hesitated  a  minute,  and 
then  took  the  arm. 

"  Monstrous  impudent  !  "  cried  the  Colonel. 

"Let  Mrs.  M'Catchley  alone,  my  dear,"  responded  Mrs. 
Pompley;  "she  will  know  how  to  give  him  a  lesson." 

".Madam,"  said  Richard,  as  soon  as  he  and  his  companion 
were  out  of  hearing,  "I  rely  on  you  to  do  me  a  favor." 

"On  me?" 

"  On  you,  and  you  alone.  You  have  influence  with  all  those 
people,  and  a  word  from  you  w.ill  effect  what  I  desire.  Mrs. 
M'Catchley,"  added  Richard,  with  a  solemnity  that  was  actually 
imposing,  "  I  flatter  myself  that  you  have  some  friendship  for 
me,  which  is  more  than  I  can  say  of  any  other  soul  in  these 
grounds — will  you  do  me  this  favor,  ay  or  no  ?  " 

"  What  is  it,  Mr.  Avenel  ?"  asked  Mrs.  M'Catchley,  much  dis- 
turbed, and  somewhat  softened — for  she  was  by  no  means  a 
woman  without  feeling;  indeed,  she  considered  herself  nervous. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGL\»H    LIFE.  315 

"  Get  all  y6ur  friends — all  the  company,  in  short — to  come  back 
into  the  tent  for  refreshments — for  anything.  I  want  to  say  a 
few  words  to  them." 

"  Bless  me  !  Mr.  Avenel — a  few  words  !  "  cried  the  widow  ; 
"  but  that's  just  what  they're  all  afraid  of!  You  must  pardon 
me,  but  you  really  can't  ask  people  to  a  cttjedner  dansant,  and 
then — scold  'em  !  " 

"  I'm  not  going  to  scold  them, "said  Mr.  Avenel,  very  seriously 
— "  upon  my  honor,  I'm  not  !  I'm  going  to  make  all  right,  and  I 
even  hope  afterward  that  the  dancing  may  goon — and  that  you 
will  honor  me  again  with  your'hand.  I  leave  you  to  your  task — 
and  believe  me,  I'm  not  an  ungrateful  man."  He  spoke,  and 
bowed — not  without  some  dignity— -^and  vanished  within  the 
breakfast  division  of  the  marquee.  There  he  busied  himself  in- 
re-collecting  the  waiters,  and  directing  them  to  rearrange  the 
mangled  remains  of  the  table  as  they  best  could.  Mrs.  M'Catch- 
ley,  whose  curiosity  and  interest  werearoused5  executed  the  com- 
mission with  all  the  ability  and  tact  of  a  woman  of  the  world,  and 
in  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  marquee  was  filled — the 
corks  flew — the  champagne  bounced  and  sparkled— people  drank 
in  silence,  munched  fruits  and  cakes,  kept  up  their  courage  with 
thecon  scions  sense  of  numbers,  and  felt  a  great  desire  to  know  wh  at 
was  coming.  Mr.  Avenel,  at  the  head  of  the  table,  suddenly  rose. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said,  he,  *'  I  have  taken  the  liberty 
to  invite  you  once  more  into  this  tent,  in  order  to  ask  you  to 
sympathize  with  me  upon  an  occasion  which  took  us  all  a  little 
by  surprise  to-day. 

"Of  course, you  all  know  I  am  a  new  man — the  maker  of  rny 
own  fortunes." 

A  great  many  heads  bowed  involuntarily,  The  words  were 
said  manfully,  and  there-was  a  general  feeling  of  respect. 

"Probably,  too,"  resumed 'Mr.  Avenel,  "you  may  know  that 
I  am  the  son  of  very  honest  trades-people.  I  say  honest,  and 
they  are  not  ashamed  of  me — I  say  trades-people,  and  I'm  not 
ashamed  of  them.  My  sister  married  and  settled  at  a  distance. 
I  took  her  son  to  educate  and  bring  up.  But  I  did  not  tell  her 
where  he  was,  nor  even  that  Iliad  returned  from  America— I 
wished  to  choose  my  own  time  for  that,  when  I  could  give  her 
the  surprise,  not  only  of  a  rich  brother,  but  of  a  son  whom  I  in- 
tended to  make  a  gentleman,  so  far  as  manners  and  education 
can  make  one.  Well,  the  poor  dear  woman  has  found  me  out 
sooner  than  I  expected,  and  turned  the  tables  on  me  by  giving 
me  a  surprise  of  her  own  invention.  Pray,  forgive  the  confusion 
this  little  family  scene  has  created  ;  and  though  I  own  it  was 


316  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

very  .laughable  at  the  moment,  and  I  was  wrong  to  say  otherwise, 
yet  I  am  sure  I  don't  judge  ill  of  your  good  hearts  when  I  ask 
you  to  think  what  brother  and  sister  must  feel  who  parted  from 
each  other  when  they  were  boy  and  girl.  To  me  (and  Richard 
gave  a  great  gulp — for  he  felt  that  a  great  gulp  alone  could 
swallow  the  abominable  lie  he  was  about  to  utter)— to  me  this 
has  been  a  -very  happy  occasion  !  I'm  a  plain  man  ;  no  one  can 
take  ill  what  I've  said.  And,  wishing  that  you  may  be  all  as 
happy  in  your  family  as  I  in  mine — humble  though  it  be — I  beg 
to  drink  your  very  good  healths  !  ". 

There  was  a  universal  applause  when  Richard  sat  down  ;  and 
so  well  in  his  plain  way  had  he  looked  the  thing,  and  done  the 
thing,  that  at  least  half  of  those  present — who  till  then  had  cer- 
tainly disliked  and  half-despised  him — suddenly  felt  that  they 
were  proud  of  his  acquaintance.  For  however  aristocratic  this 
country  of  ours  may  be,  and  however  especially  aristocratic  be 
the  genteeler  classes  in  provincial  jtowns  and  coteries — there  is 
nothing  which  English  folks,  fronr.the  highest  to  the  lowest,  in. 
their  hearts  so  respect  as  a  man  who  has  risen  from  nothing,  and 
owns  it  frankly.  Sir  Compton  Delaval,  an  old  baronet,  with  a 
pedigree  as  long  as  a  Welshman's^  who  had  been  reluctantly  de- 
coyed to  the  feast  by  his  three  unmarried  daughters — not  one  of 
whom,  however,  had  hitherto  condescended  even  to  bow  to  the 
host — now  rose.  It  was  his  right-— he  was  the  first  person  there 
in  rank  and  station. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  quoth  Sir  Compton  Delaval,  "  I  am 
sure  that  I  express  the  feelings  of  all  present  when  I  say  that  we 
have  heard  with  great  delight  and  admiration  the  words  ad- 
dressed to  us  by  our  excellent  host.  (Applause.)  And  if  any 
of  us,  in  what  Mr.  Avenel  describes  justly  as  the  surprise  of  the 
moment,  were  betrayed  into  an  unseemingly  merriment  at — at-^- 
(the  Dean's  lady  whispered  'some  of  the  ')—  some  of  the — "  re- 
peated Sir  Compton,  puzzled,  and  coming  to  a  dead  lock — 
('holiest  sentiments,' whispered  the  Dean's  lady) — "ay,  some  of 
the  holiest  sentiments  in  our  nature — I  beg  him  to  accept  our 
sincerest  apologies.  I  can  only  say,  for  my  part,  that  I  am  proud 
to  rank  Mr.  Avenel  amongst  the  gentlemen  of  the  county  (here 
Sir  Compton  gayeasounding  thump  on  the  table), .and  to  thank 
him  for  one  of  the  most  brilliant  entertainments  it  has  ever  been 
my  lot  to  witness.  If  he  won  his  fortune  honestly,  he  knows 
how  to  spend  it  nobly." 

Whiz  went  a  fresh  bottle  of  champagne. 

"I  am  not  accustomed  to'public  speaking,  butlcouldnotrepress 
my  sentiments.  And  I've  now  only  to  propose  to  you  the  health 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  317 

of  our  host,  Richard  Avenel,  Esquire;  and  to  couple  with  that  the 
health  of  his — very  interesting  sister,  and  long  life  to  them  both." 

The  sentence  was  half-drowned  in  enthusiastic  plaudits  and  in 
three  cheers  for  Richard  Avenel,  Esquire,  and  his  very  interest- 
ing sister. 

"  I'm  a  cursed  humbug,"  thought  Richard  Avenel,  as  he  wiped 
his  forehead  ;  "but  the  world  t's  such  a  humbug." 

Then  he  glanced  toward  Mrs.  M'Catchley,  and,  to  his  great  satis- 
faction,sawMrs.M'Catchley  with  her  handkerchief  before  her  eyes. 

Truth  must  be  told — although  the  fair  widow  might  certainly 
have  contemplated  the  probability  of  accepting  Mr.  Avenel  as  a 
husband,  she  had  never  before  felt  the  least  bitinlovewitlvhim  ; 
and  now  she  did.  There  is  something  in  courage  and  candor — 
at  a  word,  in  manliness — that  all  women,  the  most  worldly,,  do 
admire  in  men  ;  and  Richard  Avenel,  humbug  though  his  con- 
science said  he  was,  seemed  to  Mrs.  M'Catchley  like  a  hero. 

The  host  saw  his  triumph.  "  Now  for  another  dance  !  "  said  he, 
gaily ;  and  he  was  about  to  offer  his  hand  to  Mrs.  M'Catchley,  when 
Sir  Compton  Delaval,  seizing  it,  and  giving  it  a  hearty  shake,  cried, 
"You  have  not  yet  danced  with  my  eldest  daughter;  so,if  you'll  not 
ask  her,\vhy,I  must  offer  her  to  you  as  your  partner.  Here — Sarah." 

Miss  Sarah  Delaval,  who  was  five  feet  eight,  and  as  stately  as 
she  was  tall,  bowed  her  head  graciously ;  and  Mr.  Avenel,  before 
he  knew  where  he  was,  found  her  leaning  on  his  arm.  But  as  he 
passed  into  the  next  division  of  the  tent,  he  had  to  run  She  gauntlet 
of  all  the  gentlemen,  who  thronged  round  to  shake  hands  with 
him.  Their  warm  English  hearts  could  not  be  satisfied  till  they 
had  so  repaired  the  sin  of  their  previous  haughtiness  and  mockery. 
Richard  Avenel  might  then  have  introduced  his  sister,  gown,  ker- 
chief, thick  shoes  and  all,  to  thecrowd ;  but  he  had  no  such  thought. 
He  thankedHenven  devoutly  that  she  wassafelyunderlockandkey. 
'It  was  not  till  the  third  dance  that  he  could  secure  Mrs. 
M'Catchley's  hand,  and  then  it  was  twilight.  The  carriages  were 
at  the  door,  but  no  one  yet  thought  of  going.  People  were  really 
enjoying  themselves.  Mr.  Avenel  had  had  time,  in  the  interim, 
to  mature  all  his  plans  for  completing  and  consummating  that 
triumph  which  his  tact  and  pluck  had  drawn  from  his  momentary 
disgrace.  Excited  as  he  was  with  wine  and  suppressed  passion, 
he  had  yet  the  sense  to  feel  that,  when  all  the  halo  that  now  sur- 
rounded him  had  evaporated,  and  Mrs.  M'Catchley  was  re-deliv- 
ered up  to  the  Pompleys,  whom  he  felt  to  be  the  last  personshisinter- 
est  could  desire  for  her  advisers — the  thought  of  his  low  relations 
could  return  with  calm  reflection.  Now  was  the  time.  The  iron  was 
hot — now  was  the  time  to  strike  it,  and  forge  the  enduring  chain. 


318  MY-    NOVEL  J    OR, 

As  he  led  Mrs.  M'Catchley  after  the  dance  into  the  lawn  he 
therefore  said  tenderly — 

"  How  shall  I  thank  you  for  the  favor  you  have  done  me?" 

"  Oh  !  "said  Mrs.  M'Catchley,  warmly,  "it  was  no  favor — and 
I  am  so  glad — "  She  stopped. 

"You're  notashamedof  me,  then,  in  spite  of  whathashappened?" 

"Ashamed  of  you!  Why,  I  should  be  so  proudof  you,  if  I  were — " 

"  Finish  the  sentence  and  say — 'your  wife  ! ' — there,  it  is  out. 
My  dear  madam,  I  am  rich,  as  you  know ;  I  love  you  very 
heartily.  With  your  help,  I  think  I  can  make  a  figure  in  a  larger 
world  than  this  ;  and  that,  whatever  my  father,  my  grandson  at 
least  will  be — but  it  is  time  enough  to  speak  of  him.  What  say 
you? — you  turn  away.  I'll  not  tease  you — it  is  not  my  way.  I 
said  before,  ay  or  no  ;  and  your  kindness  so.  emboldens  me  that 
I  say  it  again — ay  or  no  ?" 

"But  you  take  me  so  unawares— -so — so — Lord,  my  dear  Mr. 
Avenel ;  you  are  so  hasty — I — I — "  And  the  widow  actually 
blushed,  and  was  genuinely  bashful. 

"Those  horrid  Pompleys!  "  thought  Richard,  as  he  saw  the 
Colonel  bustling  up  with  Mrs.  M'Gatchley's  cloak  on  his  arm. 

"I  press  for  your  answer,"  continued  the  suitor,  speaking  very 
fast.  "I  shall  leave  this  place  to-morrow,  if  you  will  not  give  it." 

"Leave  this  place — leave  me.?" 

"Then  you  will  be  mine!  " 

"Ah,  Mr,  Avenel!"  said  the  widow,  languidly,  and  leaving 
her  hand,  in  his;  "  who  can  resist  you  ? " 

Up- came  Colonel  Pompley;  Richard  took  the  shawl.  "No 
hurry  for  that  now,  Colonel — Mrs.  M'Catchley  feels  already  at 
home  here." 

Ten  minutes  afterward,  Richard  Avenel  so  contrived  that  it 
was  known  by  the  whole  company  that  their  host  was  accepted 
.by  the  Honorable  Mrs.  M'Catchley.  And  every  one  said,  "He 
is  a  very  clever  man,  and  a  very  good  fellow,"  except  the  Pomp- 
leys — and  the  Pompleys  were  frantic.  Mr.  Richard  Avenel  had 
forced  his  way  into  the  aristocracy  of  the  country;  the  husband 
of  an  Honorable — connected  with  peers  ! 

"He  will  stand  for  our  city — Vulgarian!  "  cried  the  Colonel. 

"And  his  wife  will  walk  out  before  me,"  cried  the  Colonel's 
lady — "nasty  woman!  "  And  she  burst  into  tears. 

The  guests  were  gone;  and  Richard  had  now  leisure)  to  con- 
sider what  course  to  pursue  with  regard  to  his  sister  and  her  son. 

His  victory  over  his  guests  had  in  much  softened  his  heart  to- 
ward his  relations;  but  he  still  felt  bitterly  aggrieved  at  Mrs. 
Fairfield's  unseasonable  intrusion,  •  and  his  pride  was  greatly 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  319 

chafed  by  the  boldness  of  Leonard.  He  had  tio  idea  of  any  man 
whom  he  had  served,  or  meant  to  serve,  having  a  will  of  his 
own — having  a  single  thought  in  opposition  to  his  pleasure.  He 
began,  too>  to  feel  that  words  had  passed  between  him  and  Leon- 
ard which  could  not  be  well  forgotten  by  either,  and  would  ren- 
der their  close  connection  less  pleasant  than  heretofore.  He,  the 
great  Richard  Avenel,  beg  pardon  of  Mrs.  Fairfield,  the  washer- 
woman! No;  she  and  Leonard  must  beg  his.  "That  must  be 
the  first  step,"  said  Richard  Avenel;  "and  I  suppose  they  have 
come  to  their  senses."  With  that  expectation  he  unlocked  the 
door  of  his  parlor,  and  foi:nd  himself  in  complete  solitude.  The 
moon,  lately  risen,  shone  full  into  the  room,  and  lit  up  every  cor- 
ner. He  stared  round  bewildered— the  birds. had  flown.  "  Did 
they  go  through  the  keyhole  ?"said;Mr.  Avenel.  "Hal  I. see! — 
the  window  is  open! "  The  window  reached  to  the  ground.  Mr. 
Avenel,  in  his  excitement,  had  forgotten  that  easy  mode  of  egress. 

"Well,"  said  he,  throwing  himself  into  his  easy-chair,  "I  sup- 
pose I  shall  soon, hear  from  them;  they'll  be  wanting  my  money 
fast  enough,  I  fancy."  His  eye  caught  sight  of  a  letter,  unsealed, 
lying  on  the  table.  He  opened  it,. and  saw  bank-notes  to  the 
amount  of  ^5 o — the  widow's  forty-five  country  notes,  and  a  new 
note,  Bank  of  England,  that  he  had  lately  given  to  Leonard. 
With  the  money  were  these  lines,  written  in  Leonard's  bold,  clear 
writing,  though  a  word  or  two  here  and  there  showed  that  the 
hand  had- trembled — 

"  I  thank  you  for  all  you  have  done  to  one  whom  you  regarded 
as  the  object  of  charity.  My  mother  and  I  forgive  what  has 
passed.  I  depart  with  her.  You  bade  me  make  my  choice, 
and  I  have  made  it.  LEONARD  FAIRFIELD." 

The. paper  dropped  from  Richard's. hand,  and  he  remained 
mute  and  remorseful  for  a  moment.  He  soon  felt,  however, 
that  he  had  no  help  for  it  but  working  himself  up  into  a  rage. 
"Of  all  people  in  the  world,"  cried  Richard,  stamping  his  foot 
on  the  floor,  "  there  are  none  so  disagreeable,  insolent,  and  un- 
grateful as  poor  relations.  I  wash  my  hands  of  them! " 


BOOK  SIXTH.     INITIAL  CHAPTER. 

WHEREIN  MR.  CAXTON  IS  PROFOUNDLY  METAPHYSICAL. 

: 

"LIFE,"  said  my  father,  irk  his  most  dogmatical  tone,  'Ms  a 
certain  quantity  in  time,  which  may  be  regarded  in  two  ways — 
ist,  as  life  Integral /  2nd,  as  life  Fractional.  Life  integral  is 


320  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

that  complete  whole,  expressive  of  a  certain  value,  large  or 
small,  which  each  man  possesses  in  himself.  Life  fractional  is 
that  same  whole  seized  upon  and  invaded  by  other  people,  and 
subdivided  amongst  them.  They  who  get  a  very  large  slice  of 
it  say  'A  very  valuable  life  this  !' — those  who  get  but  a  small 
handful  say, '  So,  so ;  nothing  very  great!'— those  who  get  none 
of  it  in  the  scramble  exclaim,  'Good  for  nothing!'  " 

"I  don't  understand  a  word  you  are  saying,"  growled^Captain 
Roland. 

My  father  surveyed  his  brother  with  compassion — "I  will 
make  it  all  clear,  even  to  your  understanding.  When  I  sit  down 
by  myself  in  my  study,  having  carefully  locked  the  door  on  all 
of  you,  alone  with  my  books  and  thoughts,  I  am  in  full  posses- 
sion of  my  integral  life.  I  am  totus,  tcres,  atque  rotundus — a 
whole  human  being — equivalent  in  value,  we  will  say,  for  the  sake 
of  illustration,  to  a  fixed  round  sum — ^100  for  example.  But 
when  I  go  forth  into  the  common  apartment,  each  of  those  to 
whom  I  am  of  any  worth  whatsoever  puts  his  ringer  into  the  bag 
that  contains  me,  and  takes  out  of  me 'what  he  wants.  Kitty 
requires  me  to  pay  a  bill ;  Pisistratus  to  save  him  the  time  and 
trouble  of  looking  into  a  score  or  two  of  books  ;  the  children 
to  tell  them  stories,  or  play  at  hide-and-seek  ;  and  so  on  through- 
out thecircle  to  which  I  have  incautiously  given  myself  up  for  plun- 
der and  subdivision.  The  ;£ioo  which  I  represented  in  my  study 
is  now  parcelled  out ;  I  am  worth  ^40  or  ^£50  to  Kitty,  £20 
to  Pisistratus,  and  perhaps  303.  to  the  children.  This  is  life 
fractional.  And  I  cease  to  be  an  integral  till  once  more  return- 
ing to  my  study,  and  again  closing  the  door  on  all  existence  but 
my  own.  Meanwhile,  it  is  perfectly  clear  that,  to  those  who, 
whether  I  am  in  the  study,  or  whether  I  am  in  the  common  sit- 
ting-room, get  nothing  at  all  out  of  me,  I  am  not  worth  a  farth- 
ing. It  must  be  wholly  indifferent  to  a  native  of  Kamtschatka 
whether  Austin  Caxton  be  or  b*  not  raised  out  of  the  great 
account-book  of  human  beings. 

"Hence,"  continued  my  father,— "hence  it  follows  that  the 
more  fractional  a  life  \s-idest,  the  greater  the  number  of  persons 
among  whom  it  can  be  subdivided— why,  the  more  there  are  to 
say, '  A  very  valuable  life  that ! '  Thus,  the  leader  of  a  political 
party,  a  conqueror,  a  king,  an  author  who- is  amusing  hundreds, 
or  thousands,  or  millions,  has  a  greater  number  of  persons  whom 
his  worth  interests  and  affects  than  a  Saint  Simon  Stylites  could 
have  when  he  perched  himself  at  the  top  of  a  column  ;  although, 
regarded  each  in  himself,  Saint  Simon,  in  his  grand  mortifica- 
tion of  flesh,  in  the  idea  that  he  thereby  pleased  his  Divine  Bene- 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  32! 

factor,  might  represent  a  larger  sum  of  moral  value  per  se,  than 
Buonaparte  or  Voltaire." 

PISISTRATUS.— Perfectly  clear,  sir ;  but  I  don't  see  what  it  has 
to  do  with  My  Novel.  '•' 

MR.  CAXTON. — Everything.  Your  novel,  if  it  is  to  be  a  full 
and  comprehensive  survey  of  the  "  Quicquid  ag-unt  homines  " 
(which  it  ought  to  be,  considering  the  length  and  breadth  to  which 
I  foresee,  from  the  slow  development  of  your  story,  you  meditate 
extending  and  expanding  it),  will  embrace  the  two  views  of  exist- 
ence— the  integral  and  the  fractional.  You  have  shown  us  the 
former  in  Leonard,  when  he  is  sitting  in  his  mother's  cottage,  or 
resting  from  his  work  by  the  little  fount  in  Riccabocca's  garden. 
And  in  harmony  with  that- view  of  his  life,  you  have  surrounded 
him  with  comparative  integrals,  only  subdivided  by  the  tender 
hands  of  their  immediate  families  and  neighbors — -your  Squires 
and  Parsons,  your  Italian  exile  and  his  Jemima.  With  all  these 
life  is,  more  or  less,  the  life  Natural,  and  this  is  always,  more  or 
less^the  life  Integral.  Then  comes  the  life  Artificial,  which  is 
always,  more  or  less,  the  life  Fractional.  In  the  life  Natural, 
wherein  we  are  swayed  but  by  our  native  impulses  and  desires, 
subservient  only  to  the  great  silent  law  of  Virtue  (which  has  per- 
vaded the  universe  since  it  swung  out  of  chaos),  a  matt  is  of  worth 
from  what  he  is  in  himself — Newton  was  as  worthy  before  the 
apple  fell  from  the  tree  as  when  all  Europe  applauded  the  dis- 
coverer of  the  Principle  of  Gravity.  But  in  the  life  Artificial  we 
are  only  of  worth  inasmuch  as  we  affect  others.  And,  relative 
to  that  life,  Newton  rose  in  value  more  than  a  million  per  cent, 
when  down  fell  the  apple  from  which,  ultimately,  sprang  up  his 
discovery.  In  order  to  keep  civilization^ gorng,  and  spread  over 
the  world  the  light  of  the  human  intellect,  we  have  certain  de- 
sires  within  us,  ever  swelling  beyond  the  ease  and  independence 
which  belongs  to  us  as  integrals.  Cold  man  as  Newton  might 
be  (he  once  took  a  lady's  hand  in  his  own,  Kitty,  and  used  her 
forefinger  for  his  tobacco-stopper; — great  philosopher!)  cold  as 
he  might  be,  he  was  yet  moved  into  giving  his  discoveries  to  the 
world,  and  that  from  motives  very  little  differing  in  their  quality 
from  the  motives  that  made  Dr.  Squills  communicate  article's  to 
the  Phrenological  Journal  upon  the  skulls  of  Bushmen  and  Wom- 
bats. For  it  is  the  property  of  light  to  travel.  When  a  man 
has  light  in  him,  forth  it  must  go.  But  the  first  passage  of  Genius 
from  its  integral  state  (in  which  it  has-been  reposing  on  its  own 
wealth)  into  the  fractional,  is  usually  thought  a  hard  and  vulgar 
pathway.  It  leaves  behind  it  the  reveries  of  solitude,  that  self- 
contemplating  rest  which  may  be  called  the  Visionary,  and  enters 


322  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

suddenly  into  the  state  that  may  be  called  the  Positive  and  Act- 
ual. There,  it  sees  the  operations  of  money  on  the  outer  life — 
all  the  ruder  and  commoner  springs  of  action — sees  ambition 
without  nobleness — love  without  romance — is  bustled  about,  and 
ordered,  and  trampled,  and  cowed — in  short,  it  passes  an  appren- 
ticeship with  some  Richard  Avenel,  and  does  not  yet  detect  what 
good  and  what  grandeur,  what  addition  even  to  the  true  poetry 
of  the  social  universe,  fractional  existences  like  Richard  A  venel's 
bestow  ;  for  the  pillars  that  support  society  are  like  those  of  the 
Court  of  the  Hebrew  Tabernacle — they  are  of  brass,  it  is  true, 
but  they  are  filleted  with  silver.  From  such  intermediate  state 
Genius  is  expelled  and  driven  on  in  its  way,  and  would  have 
been  so  in  this  case  had  Mrs.  Fairfield  (who  is  but  the  represen- 
tative of  the  homely  natural  affections,  strongest  ever  in  true 
genius — for  light  is  warm)  never  crushed  Mr.  Avend's  mossrose 
on  her  sisterly  bosom.  Now,  forth  from  this  passage  and  defile 
of  transition  into  the  larger  world,  must  Genius  go  on,  working 
outjts  natural  destiny  amidst  things  and  forms  the  most  artificial. 
Passions  that  move  and  influence  the  world  are  at  work  around 
it.  Often  lost  sight  of  itself,  its  very  absence  is  a  silent  contrast 
to  the  agencies  present.  Merged  and  vanished  for  a  while  amidst 
the  Practical  World,  yet  we  ourselves  feel  all  the  while  that  it  is 
there;  is  at  work  amidst  the  workings  around  it.  This  practical 
world  that  effaces  it,  rose  out  of  some  genius  that  has  gone  be* 
fore ;  and  to  each  man  of  genius,  though  we  never  come  across 
him, as  his  operations  proceed, in  places  remotefromour  thorough- 
fares, is  yet  influencing  the  practical  world  that  ignores  him,  foi 
ever  and  ever.  That  is  GENIUS  !  We  can't  describe  it  in  books— ^ 
we  can  only  hint  and  suggest  it,  by  the  accessories  which  we  art- 
fully heap  about  it.  The  entrance  of  a  true  Probationer  into  the 
terrible  ordeal  of  Practical  Life  is  like  that  into  the  miraculous 
cavern, by  which, legend  informs  us,St.  Patrick  converted  Ireland. 

BLANCHE. — What  is  that  legend?     I  never  heard  of  it. 

MR.  CAXTON. — My  dear,  you  will  find  it  in  a  thin  folio  at  the 
right  on  entering  my  study,  written  by  Thomas  Messingham, 
and  called  "F-Jprilegium  Insulae  Sanctorum,"  etc.  The  account 
therein  is  confirmed  by  the  relation  of  an  honest  soldier,  one 
Louis  Ennius,  who  had  actually  entered  the  cavern.  In  short, 
the  truth  of  the  legend  is  undeniable,  unless  you  mean  to  say, 
which  I  can't  for  a  moment  suppose,  that  Louis  Ennius  was  a 
liar.  Thus  it  runs :  St.  Patrick,  finding  that  the  Irish  pagans 
were  incredulous  as  to  his  pathetic  assurances  of  the  pains  and 
torments  destined  to  those  who  did  not  expiate  their  sins  in  this 
world,  prayed  for  a  miracle  to  convince  them.  His  prayer  was 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  323 

heard  ;  and  a  certain  cavern,  so  small  that  a  man  could  not 
stand  up  therein  at  his  ease,  was  suddenly  converted  into  a  Purga- 
tory, comprehending  tortures  sufficient  to  convince  the  most 
incredulous.  One  unacquainted  with  human  nature  might  con- 
jecture that  few  would  be  disposed  to  venture  voluntarily  into 
such  a  place  ; — on  the  contrary,  pilgrims  came  in  crowds.  Now, 
all  who  entered  from  vain  curiosity,  or  with  souls  unprepared, 
perished  miserably  ;  but  those  who  entered  with  deep  and  earnest 
faith,  conscious  of  their  faults,  and  if  bold,  yet  humble,  not  only 
came  out  safe  and  sound,  but  purified,  as  if  from  the  waters  of  a 
second  baptism.  See  Savage  and  Johnson,  at  night  in  Fleet 
Street  ; — and  who  shall  doubt  the  truth  of  St.  Patrick's  Purga- 
tory."— (Therewith  my  father  sighed — closed  his  Lucian,  which 
had  lain  open  on  the  table,  and  would  read  none  bul;  "good 
books  "  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.) 

CHAPTER  II. 

ON  their  escape  from  the  prison  to  which  Mr.  Avenel  had  con- 
demned them,  Leonard  and  his  mother  found  their  way  to  ,a 
small  public^house  that  lay  at  a  little  distance  from  the  town,  and 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  high-road.  With  his  arm  round  his 
mother's  waist,  Leonard  supported  her  steps,  and  soothed  her 
excitement.  In  fact,  the  poor  woman's  nerves  were  greatly 
shaken,  and  she  felt  an  uneasy  remorse  at  the  injury  her  intrusion 
had  inflicted  on  the  young  man's  worldly  prospects.  As  the  shrewd 
reader  has  guessed  already,  that  infamous  Tinker  was  the  prime 
agent  of  evil  in  this  critical  turn  in  the  affairs  of  his  quondam 
customer.  For,  on  his  return  to  his  haunts  around  Hazeldean 
and  the  Casino,  the  Tinker  had  hastened  to  apprise  Mrs.  Fair- 
field  of  his  interview  with  Leonard,  and,  on  finding  that  she  was 
not  aware  that  the  boy  was  under  the  roof  of  his  uncle,  the  pesti- 
lent vagabond  (perhaps  from  spite  against  Mr.  Avenel,  or  per- 
haps from  that  pure  love  of  mischief  by  which  metaphysical 
critics  explain  the  character  of  lago,  and  which  certainly  formed 
a  main  element  in  the  idiosyncrasy  of  Mr.  Sprott)  had  so  im- 
pressed on  the  widow's  mind  the  haughty  demeanor  of  the  uncle 
and  the  refined  costume  of  the  nephew,  that  Mrs.  Fairfield  had 
been  seized  with  a  bitter  and  insupportable  jealousy.  There 
was  an  intention  to  rob  her  of  her  boy! — he  was  to  be  made  too 
fine  for  her.  His  silence  was  now  accounted  for.  This  sort  of 
jealousy,  always  more  or  less  a  feminine  quality,  is  often  very 
strong  amongst  the  poor;  and  it  was  the  more  strong,  in  Mrs. 
Fairfield,  because,  lone  woman  that  she  was,  the  boy  was  all  in 
all  to  her.  And  though  she  was  reconciled  to  the  loss  of  his 


324  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

presence,  nothing  could  reconcile  her  to  the  thought  that  his 
affections  should  be  weaned  from  her.  Moreover,  there  were  in 
her  mind  certain  impressions,  of  the  justice  of  which  the  reader 
may  better  judge  hereafter,  as- to  the  gratitude — more  than  or- 
dinarily filial — which  Leonard  owed  to  her.  In  short,  she  did 
not  like,  as  she  phrased  it,  "to  beshakenoff  ";  andafter  a  sleep- 
less night  she  resolved  to  judge  for  herself,  much  moved  thereto 
by  the  malicious  suggestions  to  that  effect  made  by  Mr.  Sprott, 
who  mightily  enjoyed  the  idea  of  mortifying  the  gentleman  by 
whorn  he  had  been  so  disrespectfully  threatened  with  the  tread- 
mill. The  widow  felt  angry  with  Parson  Dale,  and  with  the  Ric- 
caboccas;  she  thought  they  were  in  the  plot  against  her;  she 
communicated,  therefore,  her  intentions  to  none— and  off  she  set, 
performing  the  journey  partly  on  the  top  of  thecoach,  and  partly 
on  foot.  No  wonder  that  she^was  dusty,  poor  woman  I 

"And,  O  boy!"  said  she,  half-sobbing,  "when  I  got  through 
the  lodge-gates,  came  on  the  lawn,  and  saw  all  that  power  o'  fine 
folk — I  said  to  myself,  says  I — (for  I  felt  fritted) — I'll  just  have 
a  look  at  him  and  go  back.  But  ah,  Lenny,  when  I  saw  thee, 
looking  so  handsome — and  when  thee  turned  and  cried  'mother,' 
my  heart  was  just  ready  to  leap  out  o'  my  mouih — -and  so  I  could 
not  help  hugging  thee,  if  I  had  died  for  it.  And  thou  wert  so 
kind,  that  I  forgot  all  Mr:  Sprott  had  said  about  Dick's  pride, 
or  thought  he  had  told  a  fib  about. that,  as  he  had  wanted  me  to 
believe  a  fib  about  thee.:  Then  Dick  came  up — and  I  had  not 
seen  him  for  so  many  long  years — and  we  come  o'  the  same  father 
and  mother;  and  so — andsO- — "  The  widow's  sobs  here  fairly 
choked  her.  "Ah,"  she  said,  after  giving  vent  to  her  passion, 
and  throwing  her  arms  round  Leonard's  neck,  as  they  sat  in  the 
little  sanded  parlor  of  the  public  house — -"Ah,  and  I've  brought 
thee  to  this.  Go  back  ;  go  back,  boy,  and  never  mind  me." 

With  some  difficulty  Leonard  pacified  poor  Mrs.  Fairfield,  and 
got  her  to  retire  to  bed;  for  she  was,  indeed,  thoroughly  ex- 
hausted. He  then  stepped  forth  into  the  roadr  musingly.  All 
the  stars  were  out ;  and  Youth,  in  its-troubles,  instinctively  looks 

,up  to  the  stars.     Folding  his  arms,  Leonard  gazed  on  the  heavens, 
and  his  lips  murmured. 

From  this  trance,  for  so  it  might  be  called,  he  was  awakened 
by  a  voice'  in  a  decidedly  London  accent ;  and,  turning  hastily 
round,  sa\t  Mr.  Avenel's  very  gentlemanlike  butler.— Leonard's 
first  idea  was  that  his  uncle  had  repented,  and  sent  in  search  of 
him.  But  the  butler  seemed  as  much  surprised  at  the  rencontre 

'  as  himself  ;  that  personage,  indeed,  the  fatigues  of  the  day  being 
overy  was  accompanying  one  of  Mr.  Gunter's  waiters   to  the 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  325 

public-house  (at  which. the  latter  had  secured  his  lodging),  hav- 
ing discovered  an  old  friend  in  the  waiter,  and  proposing  to  re- 
gale himself  with  a  cheerful  glass,  and — (that,  of  course)  abuse  of 
his  present  sitiz/ation. 

"  Mr.  Fairfield  ! "  exclaimed  the  butler,  while  the  waiter 
walked  discreetly  on. 

Leonard  looked,  and  said  nothing.  The  butler  began  to  think 
that  som.e  apology  was  due  for  leaving  his  plate  and  his  pantry, 
and  that  he  might  as  well  secure  Leonard's  propitiatory  influence 
with  his  master. 

"Please,  sir,"  said  he,  touching  his  hat,  "I  was  just  a^showing 
Mr.  Giles  the  way  to  the  Blue  Bells,  where  he  puts  up  for  the 
night.  I  hope  my  master  will  not  be  offended.  If  you  are 
agoing  back,  sir,  would  you  kindly  mention  it?  " 

"  I  am  not  going  back,  Jarvis,"  answered  Leonard,  after  a 
patrse  ;  "  I  am  leaving  Mr.  Avenel's  house  to  accompany  my 
mother,  rather  suddenly.  I  should  be  very  much  obliged  to  you 
if  you  would  bring  some  things  of  mine  to  me  at  the  Blue  Bells. 
I  will  give  you  the  list,  if  you  will  step  with  me  to  the  inn." 

Without  waiting  f°r  ^  reply,  Leonard  then  turned  toward  the 
inn,  and  made  his  humble  inventory  : — item,  the  clothes  he  had 
brought  with  him  from  the  Casino  ;  item,  the  knapsack  that  had 
contained  them  ;  item,  a  few  books,  ditto  :  item,  Dr.  Riccabocca's 
watch;  item, --sundry  MSS.,  on  which  the  young  student  now 
built  all  his  hopes  of  fame  and  fortune.  This  list  he  put  into 
Mr.  Jarvis's  hand. 

"Sir,"  said  the  butler,  twirling  the  paper  between  his  finger  and 
thumb,"  you're  not  a-going  for  long,  I  hope?"  and  helookedon  the 
face  of  the  young  man;  who  had  always  been  ''civil-spoken  tohim," 
with  as  much  curiosity  and  as  much  compassion  as  soapathetic  and 
princely  a  personage  could  experience  in  .matters  affecting  a  fami- 
ly less  aristocratic  than  he  had  hitherto  condescended  to  serve. 

"Yes,"  said  Leonard,  simply  and  briefly  ;  "and  your  master 
will  no  doubt  excuse  you  for  rendering  me  this  service." 

Mr.  Jarvis  postponed  for  the  present  his  glass  and  chat  with 
the  waiter,  and  went  back  at  once  to  Mr.  Avenel.  That  gentleman, 
still  seated  in  his  library,  had  not  been  aware  of  the  butler's 
absence  ;  and  when  Mr.  Jarvis  entered  and  told  him  that  he 
had  met  Mr.  Fairfield,  and,  communicating  the  commission  with 
which  he  was  intrusted,  asked  leave  to  execute  it,  Mr.  Avenel 
felt  the  man's  inquisitive  eye  was  on  him,  and  conceived  new 
wrath  against  Leonard  for  a  new  humiliation  to.  his  pride.  It 
was  awkward  to  give  no  explanation  of  his  nephew's  departure, 
still  more  awkward  to  explain. 


326  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

After, a. short  pause,  Mr.  Avenel  said,  sullenly,  "My  nephew 
is  going  away  on  business  for  some  time — do  what  he  tells  you  "  ; 
and  then  turned  his  back,  and  lighted  his  cigar. 

"  That  beast  of  a  boy,"  said  he,  soliloquizing,  "  either  means 
this  as  an  affront,  or  an  overture  ;  if  an  affront,  he  is  indeed  well 
got  rid  of !  if  an  overture,  he  will  soon  make  a  more  respectful 
and  proper  one.  After  all,  I  can't  have  too  little  of  relations  till 
I  have  fairly  secured  Mrs.  M'Catchley.  An  Honorable  !  I 
wonder  if  that  makes  me  an  Honorable  too  ?  This  cursed  Debrett 
contains  no  practical  information  on  those  points." 

The  next  morning,  the  clothes  and  the  watch  with  which  Mr. 
Avenel  presented  Leonard  were  returned,  with  a  note  meant  to 
express  gratitude  but  certainly  written  with  very  little  knowledge 
of  the  world,  and  so  full  of  that  somewhat  over-resentful  pride 
which  had  in  earlier  life  made  Leonard  fly  from  Hazeldean,  and 
refuse  all  apology  to  Randal,  that  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at 
that  Mr.  Avenel's  last  remorseful  feelings  evaporated  in  ire.  "  I 
hope  he  will  starve  !  "  said  the  uncle,  vindictively. 

CHAPTER  III. 

"  LISTEN  to  me,  my  dear  mother,"  said  Leonard  the  nextmorn- 
ing,  as  with  knapsack  on  his  shoulder  and  Mrs.  Fairfield  on  his 
arm,  he  walked  along  the  high-road  ;  "  I  do  assure  you,  from 
my  heart,  that  I  do  not  regret  the  loss  of  favors  which  I  see 
plainly  would  have  crushed  out  of  me  the  very  sense  of  indepen- 
dence. But  do  not  fear  for  me  ;  I  have  education  and  energy — 
I  shall  do  well  for  myself,  trust  me.  No,  I  cannot,  it  is  true,  go 
back  to  our  cottage— I  cannot  be  a  gardener  again.  Don't  ask 
me — I  should  be  discontented,  miserable.  But  I  will  go  up  to  Lon- 
don !  That's  the  place  to  make  a  fortune  and  a  name;  I  will  make 
both.  O  yes,  trust  me,  I  will.  You  shallsoon  be  proud  of  your  Leon- 
ard ;  andthen  we  will  always  live  together — always!  Don't  cry." 

"  But  what  can  you  do  in  Lunnon — such  a  big  place,  Lenny  ?" 

"  What !  Every  year  does  not  some  lad  leave  our  village,  and 
,go  and  seek  his  fortune,  taking  with  him  but  health  and  strong 
hands  ?  I  have  these,  and  I  have  more  :  I  have  brains,  and 
thoughts,and  hopes, that — again  I  say,  no,  no — never  fear  for  me!" 

The  boy  threw  back  his  head  proudly;  there  was  something 
sublime  in  his  ycung.trust  in  the  future. 

"  Well.  But  you  will  write  to  Mr.  Dale,  or  to  me  ?  I  will  get 
Mr.  Dale  or  the  good  Mounseer  (now  I  know  they  are  not  agin 
me)  to  read  your  letters." 

"I  will,  indeed!" 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  327 

M  And,  boy,  you  have  nothing  in  your  pockets.  We  have  paid 
Dick;  these,  at  least,  are  my  own,  after  paying  the  coach-fare." 
And  she  would  thrust  a  sovereign  and  some  shillings  into  Leon- 
ard's waistcoat-pocket. 

After  some  resistance,  he  was  forced  to  consent. 

"And  there's  a  sixpence  with  a  hole  in  it.  Don't  part  with 
that,- Lenny;  it  will  bring  thee  good  luck." 

Thus  talking,  they  gained  the  inn  where  the  three  roads  met, 
and  from  which  a  coach  went  direct  to  the  Casino.  And  here, 
without  entering  the  inn,  they  sat  on  the  greensward  by  the  hedge- 
roWj  waiting  the  arrival  of  the  coach.  Mrs.  Fairfield  was  much 
subdued  in  spirits,  and  there  was  evidently  on  her  mind  some- 
thinguneasy — somestrugglewithherconscience.  Shenotonlyup- 
braided  herself  for  her  rash  visit,  but  she  kept  talking  of  her  dead 
Mark.  And  what  would  he  say  of  her,if  he  could  see  her  in  heaven? 

"It  was  so  selfish  in  me,  Lenny." 

"Pooh,  pooh  !    Has  not  a  mother  a  right  to  her  child ?" 

"Ay,  ay,  ay!"  cried  Mrs.  Fairfield.  "  I  do  love  you  as  a 
child — my  own  child.  But  if- 1  was  not  your  mother,  after  all, 
Lenny,  and  cost  you  all  this — oh,what  would  you  say  of  me  then? " 

"Notmyownmother!"said  Leonard, laughing, as  he  kissedher. 
"Well,  I  don't  know  what  I  should  say  then  differently  from  what 
I  say  now- — that  you,  who  brought  me  up,  and  nursed  and  cher- 
ished me,  had  a  right  to  my  home  and  my  heart,  wherever  I  was." 

"  Bless'  thee  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Fairfield,  as  she  pressed  him  to  her 
heart.  "  But  it  weighs  here — it  weighs,"  she  said,  starting  up. 

At  that  instant  the  coach  appeared,  and  Leonard  ran  forward 
to  inquire  if  there  was  an  outside  place.  Then  there  was  a  short 
bustle  while  the  horses  were  being  changed;  and  Mrs.  Fairfield 
was  lifted  up  to  the  roof  of  the  vehicle.  So  all  farther  private 
conversation  between  her  and  Leonard  ceased.  But  as  the  coach 
whirled  away,  and  she  waved  her  hand  to  the  boy,  who  stood  on 
the  roadside  gazing  after  her,  she  still  murmured — "  It  weighs 
here — it  weighs  ! " 

CHAPTER  IV. 

LEONARD  walked  sturdily  on  in  the  high-road  to  the  Great 
City.  The  day  was  calm  and  sunlit,  but  with  a  gentle  breeze  from 
gray  hills  at  the  distance  ;  and  with  each  mile  that  he  passed,  his 
step  seemed  to  grow  more  firm/and  his  front  more  elate.  Oh !  it  is 
such  joy  in  youth  to  be  alone  with  one's  day-dreams.  And 
youth  feels  so  glorious  a  vigor  in  the  sense  of  its  own  strength, 
though  the  world  be  before  and — against  it !  Removed  from  that 
chilling  counting-house — from  the  imperious  will  of  a  patron 


328  MY    NOVEL  ;   OR, 

and  master— all  friendless,  but  all  independent — the  young  ad- 
venturer felt  a  new  being — felt  his  grand  nature  as  Man.  And 
on  the  Man  rushed  the  genius  long  interdicted  and  thrust  aside — 
rushing  back,  with  the  first  breath  of  adversity,  to  console — no! 
the  Man  needed  not  consolation-^-to  kindle,  to  animate,  to  re- 
joice !  If  thereHs  a  being,  in  the 'world  worthy  of  our  envy,  after 
we  have  grown  wise  philosophers  of  the  fireside,  it  is  not  the 
palled  voluptuary,  nor  the  careworn  statesman,  nor  even  the  great 
prince  of  arts  and  letters,  already  crowned  with  the  laurel,  whose 
leaves  are  as  fit:for  poison  as  for  garlands ;  it  is  the  young  child 
of  adventure  and  hope.  Ay,  and  the  emptier  his  purse,  ten  to 
one  but  the  richer  his  heartland  the  wider  the  domains  which 
his  fancy  enjoys  as  he  goes  on.  with  kingly  step  to  the  Future. 

Not  till  toward  the  evening  did  our  adventurer  slacken  his 
pace,  and  think  of  rest  and  refreshment.  There,  then,  lay  before 
him  on  either  side  the  road,  those  wide  patches  of  unenclosed 
land,  which  in  England  -often  denote  ;the  entrance  to  a  village. 
Presently  one  or  two  neat  cottages  came  in  sight— then  a  small 
farm-house,  with  its  yard  and:barns.  And  some  way  farther  yet, 
he  saw  the  sign  swinging  before  an  inn  of  some  pretensions/—- the 
sort  of  inn  often  found  on  a  long  stage  between  two  great  towns, 
commonly  called  "  The  Halfway  House."  But  the  inn  stood  back 
from  the  road,  having,  its  own  separate  sward  in  front,  whereon 
was 'a  'great  beechrtree  (from  which  the  sign  extended)  and  a 
rustic  arbor— so  that  to  gain  the  inn,  the  coaches  that  stopped 
there  took  a  sweep  from  the  main  thoroughfare.  Between  our 
pedestrian  and  the  inn  there  stood,  naked  and  alone,  on  the 
common  land,  a  church  ;  our  ancestors  never,  would  have  chosen 
that  site  for  it ;  therefore  it  .was  a. modern  church — modern 
Gothic — handsome  to  an  eye  not  versed  in  the  attributes  of  ec- 
clesiastical architecture-i-very.  barbarous  to  an  eye  that  was. 
Somehow  or  other  the  church 'looked  cold  and  raw  and  uninvit- 
ing. It  looked  achurch  for  show — much  too  big  for  the  scattered 
hamlet — and  void  of  all  the  venerable  associations  which  give 
their  peculiar  and  unspeakable  Atmosphere  of  piety  to  the 
churches  in  which  succeedirig  generations  have  knelt  and  wor- 
shipped: Leonard  paused  and  surveyed  the  edifice  with  an  un- 
learn edbutpoetical  gaze — it  dissatisfied  him.  And  he  wasyet  pon- 
dering why^  when  a  young  girl  passed  slowly  before  him,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  ground  j  opened  the  little  gate  that  led  into  the  church- 
yard, and  vanished.  He  did  not  seethe  child's  face;  but  there  was 
something  in  her  movements  so  utterly  listless,  forlorn,  and  sad, 
that  his  heart  was  touched.  What  did  she  there?  He  approached 
the  low  wall  with  a  noiseless  step,  and  looked  over  it  wistfully. 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  329 

There,  by  a  grave  evidently  quite  recent,  with  no  wooden  tomb 
nor  tombstone  like  the  rest,  the  little  girl  had  thrown  herself, 
and  she  was  sobbing  loud  and  passionately.  Leonard  opened 
the  gate,  and  approached  her  with  a  soft  step.  Mingled  with  her 
sobs,  he  heard  broken  sentences,  wild  and  vain,  as  all  human 
sorrowings  over  graves  must  be. 

"  Father  ! — oh,  father  !  do  you  not  really  hear  me  ?  I  am  so 
lone — so  lone  !  Take  me  to  you — take  me  !  "  And  she  buried 
her  face  in  the  deep  grass. 

"  Poor  child  !"  said  Leonard,  in  a  half-whisper—"  he  is  not 
there.  Look  above  !  " 

The  girl  did  not  heed  him — he  put  his  arm  round  her  waist 
gently — she  made  a  gesture  of  impatience  and  anger,  but  she 
would  not  turn  her  face— "andshelclwigtothe  grave  withher  hands. 

After  clear  sunny  days  the  dews  fall  more  heavily  ;  and  now, 
as  the  sun  set,  the  herbage  was'  bathed  in- a  vaporous  haze — a 
dim  mist  rose  around.  The  young  man  seated  himself  beside 
her,  and  tried  to  draw  the  child  to  his  breast.  Then  she  turned 
eagerly,  indignantly, and  pushed  him  aside  with  jealous  arms.  He 
profaned  the 'grave.  He  understood  her  with  his  deep  poet-* 
heart,  and  rose.  There  was  a  pause. 

Leonard  was  the  first  to  break  it. 

"  Come  home  with  me,  my  child,  and  we  will  talk  of  him  by 
the  way." 

"  Him  !  Who  are  you  ?  You  did  not  know  him  !  " — said 
the  girl,  still  with  anger.  "Go  away — why  do  you  disturb  me? 
I  do  no  one  harm.  Go-go  !  " 

"You  do  yourself  harm,  and  that -will  grieve  him  if  he  sees 
you  yonder.?  Come!" 

The  child  looked  at  him  through  her  blinding  tears,  and  his 
face  softened  and  soothed  her. 

"  Go  !  "  she  said,  very  plaintively,  and  in  subdued  accents.  "  I 
will  but  stay  a  minute  more.  :I— I  have  so  much  to  say  yet." 

Leonard  left  the  church-yard,  and  waited  without  ;  and  in  a 
short  time  the  child  came  forth,  waved  him  aside  as  he  ap- 
proached her,  and  hurried  away.  He  followed  her  at  a  dis- 
tance, and  saw  her  disappear  within  the  inn. 

CHAPTER  V. 

"  HIP — HIP—HURRAH  !  "  Such  was.  the  sound  that  greeted 
our  young  traveller  as  he  reached  the  inn-door — a  sound  joyous 
in- itself,  but  sadly  out  of  harmonywith  the  feeling  which  the 
child  sobbing  on  the  tombless  grave  had  left  at  his  heart.  The 


330  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

sound  came  from  within, and  was  followed  by  thumps  and  stamps, 
and  the  jingle  of  glasses.  A  strong  odor  of  tobacco  was  wafted 
to  his  olfactory  sense.  He  hesitated  a  moment  at  the  thres- 
hold. Before  him,  on  benches  Under  the  beech-tree  and  within 
the  arbor,  were  grouped  sundry  athletic  forms  with  "  pipes  in 
the  liberal  air." 

The  landlady,  as  she  passed  across  the  passage  to  the  tap- 
room, caught  sight  of  his  form  at  the  door-way,  and  came  for- 
word.  Leonard  still  stood  irresolute.  He  would  have  gone  on 
his  way,  but  for  the  child  ;  she  had  interested  him  strongly. 

"  You  seem  full,  ma'am,"  said  he.  "  Can  I  have  accommoda- 
tion for  the  night  ?  " 

"  Why,  indeed,  sir,"  said  the  landlady,  civilly, "  I  can  give  you 
a  bed-room,  but  I  don't  know  where  to  put  you  meanwhile.  The 
two  parlors  and  the  tap-room  and  the  kitchen  are  all  choke-full. 
There  has  been  a  great  cattle-fair  in  the  neighborhood,  and  I  sup- 
pose we  have  as  many  as  fifty  farmers  and  drovers  stopping  here." 

"  As  to  that,  ma'am,  I  can  sit  in  the  bed-room  you  are  kind 
enough  to  give  me ;  and  if  it  does  not  cause  you  much  trouble 
to  let  me  have  some  tea  there,  I  should  be  glad  ;  .but  I  can  wait 
your  leisure.  Do  not  put  yourself  out  of  the  way  for  me." 

The  landlady  was  touched  by  a  consideration  she  was  not 
much  habituated  to  receive  from  her  bluff  customers. 

"  You  speak  very  handsome,  sir,  and  we  will  do  our  best  to 
serve  you,  if  you  will  excuse  all  faults.  This  way,  sir."  Leon- 
ard lowered  his  knapsack,  stepped  into  the  passage,  with  some 
difficulty  forced  his  way  through  a  knot  of  sturdy  giants  in  top- 
boots  or  leathern  gaiters,  who  were  swarming  in  and  out  of  the 
tap-room,  and  followed  his  hostess  up-stairs  to  a  little  bed-room 
at  the  top  of  the  house. 

"  It  is  small,  sir,  and  high,"  said  the  hostess,  apologetically. 
"But  there  be  four  gentlemen  farmers  that  have  come  a  great 
distance,  and  all  the  first  floor  is  engaged  ;  you  will  be  more 
out  of  the  noise  here." 

"  Nothing  can  suit  me  better.  But,  stay — pardon  me  ";  and 
Leonard,  glancing  at  the  garb  of  thehostess,observed  she  was  not 
in  mourning.  "  A  little  girl  whom  I  saw  in  the  church-yard,  yon- 
der,weeping  very  bitterly — is  she  a  relation  of  yours?  Poor  child, 
she  seems  to  have  deeper  feelings  than  are  common  at  her  age." 

"  Ah,  sir,"  said  the  landlady,  putting  the  corner  of  her  apron 
to  her  eyes,  "  it  is  a  very  sad  story — I  don't  know  what  to  do. 
Her  father  was  taken  ill  on  his  way  to  Lunnon,  and  stopped 
here,  and  has  been  buried  four  days.  And  the  poor  little  girl 
seems  to  have  no  relations — and  where  is  she  to  go  ?  Lawyer 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  331 

Jones  says  we  must  pass  her  to  Marybone  parish,  where  her 
father  lived  last ;  and  what's  to  become  of  her  then  ?  My  heart 
bleeds  to  think  on  it."  Here  there  rose  such  an  uproar  from 
below,  that  it  was  evident  some  quarrel  had  broken  out ;  and  the 
hostess,  recalled  to  her  duties,  hastened  to  carry  thither  her  pro- 
pitiatory influences. 

Leonard  seated  himself  pensively  by  the  little  lattice.  Here 
was  some  one  more  alone  in  the  world  than  he.  And  she,  poor 
orphan,  had  no  stout  man's  heart  to  grapple  with  fate,  and  no 
golden  manuscripts  that  were  to  be  as  the  "  Open-Sesame  "  to 
the  treasures  of  Aladdin.  By-and-by  the  hostess  brought  him  up 
a  tray  with  tea  and  other  refreshments,  and  Leonard  resumed 
his  inquiries.  "  No  relatives  ? "  said  he  ;  "  surely  the  child  must 
have  some  kinsfolk  in  London  ?  Did  her  father  leave  no  direc- 
tions, or  was  he  in  possession  of  his  faculties? " 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  he  was  quite  reasonable  like  to  the  last.  And  I 
asked  him  if  he  had  not  anything  on  his  mind,  and  he  said,  'I 
have.'  And  I  said,  '  Your  little  girl,  sir  ? '  And  he  answered 
me,  '  Yes,  ma'am  ';  and  laying  his  head  on  his  pillow,  he  wept 
very  quietly.  I  could  not  say  more  myself,  for  it  set  me  off  to  see 
him  cry  so  meekly;  but  my  husband  is  harder  nor  I,  and  he  said, 
'Cheer  up,Mr.  Digby;  had  not  you  better  write  to  yourfriends?' " 

"  '  Friends  !'  said  the  gentleman,  in  such  a  voice  !  '  Friends  ! 
I  have  but  one,  and  I  am  going  to  Him  !  I  cannot  take  her 
there  ? '  Then  he  seemed  suddenly  to  recollect  hisself,  and 
called  for  his  clothes,  and  rummaged  in  the  pockets  as  if  look- 
ing for  some  address,  and  could  not  find  it.  He  seemed  a  for- 
getful kind  of  gentleman,  and  his  hands  were  what  I  call  help- 
less hands,  sir  ?  And  then  he  gasped  out, '  Stop — stop  !  I  never 
had  the  address,  Write  to  Lord  Les- — ,'  something  like  Lord 
Lester  ;  but  we  could  not  make  out  the  name.  Indeed  he  did 
not  finish  it,  for  there  was  a  rush  of  blood  to  his  lips;  and  though 
he  seemed  sensible  when  he  recovered  (and  knew  us  and  his  little 
girl  too,  till  he  went  off  smiling),  he  never  spoke  word  more." 

"  Poor  man  !•"  said  Leonard,  wiping  his  eyes.  "  But  his  little 
girl  surely  remembers  the  name  that  he  did  not  finish  ?." 

"  No.  She  says  he  must  have  meant  a  gentleman  whom  they 
had  met  in  the  Park  not  long  ago,  who  was  very  kind  to  her 
father,  and  was  Lord  something ;  but  she  don't  remember  the 
name,  for  she  never  saw  him  before  or  since,  and  her  father 
talked  very  little  about  any  one  lately,  but  thought  he  should 
find  some  kind  friends  at  Screwstown,  and  travelled  down  there 
with  her  from  Lunnon.  But  she  supposes  he  Was  disappointed, 
for  he  went  out,  came  back,  and  merely  told  her  to  put  up  the 


332  MY   NOVEL  ;    OR, 

things,  as  they  must  go  back  to  Lunnon.  And  on  his  way  there 
he — died.  Hush,  what's  that?  I  hope  she  did  not  overhear  us. 
No,  we  were  talking  low.  She  has  the  next  room  to  your'n,  sir. 
I  thought  I  heard  her  sobbing.  Hush  !  " 

"In  the  next  room?  I  hear  nothing.  Well,  with  your  leave  I 
will  speak  to  her  before  I  quit  you.  And  had  her  father  no 
money  with  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  a  few  sovereigns,  sir  ;  they  paid  for  his  funeral,  and  there 
is  a  little  left  still— enough  to  take  her  to  town  ;  for  my  husband 
said,  says  he,  '  Hannah,  the  widow  gave  her  mite,  and  we  must 
not  take  the  orphan's';  and  my  husband  is  a  hard  man,  too, 
sir — bless  him  !  " 

"Let  me  take  your  hand,  ma'am.     God  reward  you  both  !  " 

"La, sir! — why,  even  Dr.  Dosewellsaid,rather'grumpily though, 
'Nevermind  my  bill;:  but  don't  call  me  up  at  six  o'clock  in  the 
morning  again,  without  knowing  a  little  more  about  people.' 
And  I  never  afore  knew  Dr.  Dpsewell  go  without  his  bill  being 
paid.  He  said  it  was  a  trick  o'  the  other  Doctor  to  spite  him." 

"What  other  Doctor?" 

"  Oh,  a  very  good  gentleman,  who  got  out  with  Mr.  Digby 
when  he  was  taken  ill,  and  stayed  till  the  next  morning  ;  and  our 
Doctor  says  his  name  is  Morgan,  and  he  lives  in — Lunnon,  and 
is  a  homy — something." 

"Homicide,"  suggested, Leonard,  jgnorantly. 

"Ah — homicide  ;  something  like  that,  only  a  deal  longer  and 
worse.  But  he  left  some  of  the  tiniest  little  balls  you  ever  see,  sir, 
to  give  the  child  ;  but,:  bless  you,  they  did  her  no  good — how 
should  they  ?"  :  . 

"Tiny  balls,  oh — homceopathist — I  understand.  And  the 
Doctor  was  kind  to  her  ;  perhaps  he  may  help  her.  Have  you 
written  to  him  ?  "  : 

"But  we  don't  knowhis  address,  and  Lunnon  is  a  vast  place,  sir." 

"  I  am  going  to  London,  and  will  find  it  out." 

"Ah,  sir,  you  seem  very  kind  ;  and  sin'  she  must  go  to  Lun- 
non (for  what  can  we  do  with  her  here  ?— she's  too  genteel  for 
service), ;I  wish  she  was  going  with  you." 

"With  me '."said  Leonard,  startled— -"with  me!  Well,  why  not !" 

"I  am  sure  she  comes  of  good  blood,  sir.  You  would  have 
known  her  father  was  quite  the  gentleman,  only  to  see  him  die, 
sir.  He  went  off  so  kind  and  ciyil  .like,  as  if  he  was  ashamed  to 
give  so  much  trouble— quite  a  gentleman,  if  ever  there  was  one. 
And  so  are  you,  sir,  I'm  sure,"  snid  the  landlady,  cburtesying  ; 
"I  know  what  gentlefolk  be.  I've  been  a  housekeeper  in  the  first 
of  families  in  this  very  shire,  sir,  though  I  can't  say  I've  served  in 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  333 

Ltmnon  ;  and  so,  as  gentlefolks  know  each  other,  I've  no  doubt 
you  could  find  outjier  relations.  Dear— dear  !  Coming,  coming  !" 

Here  there  were  loud  cries  for  the' hostess,  and  she  hurried 
away.  The  farmers  and  drovers  were  beginning  to  depart,  and 
their  bills  were  to  be  made  out  and  paid.  Leonard  saw  his  hostess 
no  more  that  night.  The  last  hip — hip— ^hurrah,  was  heard  ; 
some  toast,  perhaps  to  the  health  of  the  county  members  ; — and 
the  chamber  of  woe,  beside  Leonard's,  rattled  with  the  shout. 
By-and-by  silence  gradually  succeeded  the  various  dissonarit 
sounds  below.  The  carts  and  gigs  rolled  away :  the  clatter  of 
hoofs  on  the  road  ceased  :  there  was  then  a  dumb  dull  sound  as 
of  locking-up,  and  low  humming  voices'  belovfr  and  footsteps 
mounting  the  stairs  to  bed,  with  now  an'd  then  a  drunkerr hic- 
cough or  maudlin  laugh,  as  some  conquered  votary  of  Bacchus 
was  fairly  carried  up  to  his  domicile. 

All,  then,  at  last  was  silent,  just  as  the  clock  from  the  church 
sounded  the  stroke  of  eleven. 

Leonard,  meanwhile,  had  been  looking  over  his  MSS.  There 
was  first  a  project  for  an  improvement  on  tfre  steam-engine, — a 
project  that  had  long  lain  in  his  mind,  begun  with  the  first  knowl- 
edge of  mechanics  that  he  had  gleaned  from  his  purchases  of 
the  Tinker.  He  put  that  aside  now— it  required  too  great  an 
effort  of  the  reasoning  faculty  to  re-examine. 

He  glanced  less  hastily  over  a  collection  of  essays'  on  various 
subjects — some  that  .he  thought  indifferent,  some  that  he  thought 
good.  He  then  lingered  over  a  collection  of  verses,  written  in 
his  best  hand,  with  loving  care — verses  first  inspired  by  his  per- 
usal of  Nora's  melancholy  memorials.  .  These  verses  were  as  a 
diary  of  his  heart  and  his  fancy — those  deep  unwitnessed  strug- 
gles which  the  boyhood  of  all  more  thoughtful  natures'has  passed 
in  its-bright  yet  murky  storm  of  the  cloud  and  lightning  flash, — 
though  but  few  boys  pause  to  record  the  crisis  from  which  slowly 
emerges  Man.  Aird  these  first  desultory  grapplings  with  the  fugi- 
tive airy  images  that  flit  thrbugh  the  dim  chambers  of  the  brain, 
had  becorhe  with  each  effort  more  sustained  and  vigorous,  till 
the  phantoms  were  spelled,  the  flying  ones  arrested,  the  Imma- 
terial seized,  and  clothed  with  Form.  Gazing  on  his  last  effort, 
Leonard  felt  that  there,  at  lengtfc,  spoke  forth  the  Poet.  It  was 
a  wdrk  which,  though  as  yet  but  half  completed,  came  from  a 
strong  hand  ;  not  that  shadow  trembling  on  unsteady  waters, 
which'  is  but  the  pale  reflex  and  imitation  of  some  bright  mind, 
sphered  out -of  reach  and  afar,  but  an  original  substance — a  life 
— a  thing  of  the  Creative'  Faculty, — breathing  back  already  the 
breath  it  had  received.  This  work  had  pauised  during  Leonard's 


334  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

residence  with  Mr..  Avenel,  or  had  only  now  and  then,  in  stealth, 
and  at  night,  received  a  rare  touch.  Now,  as  with  a  fresh  eye, 
he;re-perused  it,  and  with  that  strange  innocent  admiration,  not 
of  self— for  a  man's  work  is  not,  alas  !  himself, — it  is  the  beauti- 
fied and  idealized  essence  (extracted,  he  knows  not  how,  from 
his  own  human  elements  of  clay),  admiration  known  but  to 
poets — their  purest  delight,  often  their  sole  reward.  And  then, 
with  a  warmer  and  more  earthly  beat  of  his  full  heart,  he  rushed 
in  fancy  to  the  Great  City,  where  all  rivers  of  Fame  meet,  but 
not  to  be  merged  and  lost)— sallying  forth  again,  individualized 
and  separate,  to  flow  through  that: one  vast  Thought  of  God 
which  we  call  THE  WORLD. 

Heput  up  his  papers,  and  opened  his  window,  as  was  his  ordi- 
nary qustom,  before  he  retired  to  rest — for  he  had  many  odd 
habits;  and  he  loved  to  look  out  into  the  night,  when  he  prayed, 
pis  soul  seemed  to, escape  from  the  body, — to  mount  on  the 
air, — to  gain  more  rapid  access  to  the  far  Throne  in  the  Infi- 
nite,— when  his  breath  went  forth  among  the  winds,  and  his  eyes 
rested  fixed  on  the  stars  of  heaven,  , 

So  the  boy  prayed  silently  ;  and  after  his  prayer,  he  was  about, 
lingering,  to  close  the  lattice,  when  he  heard  distinctly  sobs  close 
at  hand.  He  paused,  and  held  his  breath  ;  then  looked  gently 
out ;  the  casement  next  his  own  was  also  open.  Some  one  was 
also  at  watch  by  that  casement — perhaps  also  praying.  He  lis- 
tened yet  more  intently,  and  caught,  soft  and  low,  the  words, 
"  Father,— father,— do  you  hear  me  now  ?  " 

•vv — OIK.*  gnr/of  d 
CHAPTER  VI. 

•    -,     i      •      -  : 

LEONARD  opened  his  door,  and  stole  toward  that  of  the  room 
adjoining ;  for  his  natural  impulse  had  been  to  enter  and  con- 
sole. But  when  his.  touch. was  on.  the:  handle,  he  drew  back. 
Child  though  the  mourner  was,  her  sorrows  were  rendered  yet 
more  sacred  from  intrusion  by  her  sex.  Something,  he  knew 
not  what,  in  his  yQung  ignorance,  withheld  him  from  the  thresh- 
old. TO  have  crossed  it  then  would  have  seemed  to  him  profan- 
ation ;  so  he  returned,  and  for  hours  yet  he  occasionally  heard 
the  sobs,  till  they  died  away,  and  childhood  wept  itself  to  sleep. 

But  the  next  morning,  when  he  heard  his  neighbor  astir,  he 
knocked  gently  at  her  door  ;  there  was  no  answer.  He  entered 
softly,  and  saw  her  seated  very  listlessly  in  the  center  of  the 
room — as  if  it  .had  no  familiar  nook  or  corner,  as  the  rooms  of 
home  have, — her  hands  drooping  on  her  lap,  and  her  eyes  gaz- 
ing desolately  on  the  floor.  Then  he  approached  and  spoke  to  her. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  335 

Helen  was  very  subdued,  and  silent.  Her  tears  seemed  dried 
up  ;  .and  it  was  long  before  she  gave  sign  or  token  that  she 
heeded  him.  At  length,  however,  he  gradually  succeeded  in 
rousing  her  interest ;  and  the  first  symptom  of  his  success  was 
in  the  quiver  of  her  lip,  and  the  overflow  of  her  downcast  eyes. 

By  little  and  little  he  wormed  himself  into  her  confidence  ; 
and  she  told  him,:  in  broken  whispers,  her  simple  story.  But 
what  moved  him  the  most  was,  that,  beyond  her  sense  of  loneli- 
ness, she  did  not  seem  to  feel  her  own  unprotected  state.  She 
mourned  the  object  she  had  nursed,  and  heeded,  and  cherished; 
for  she  had  been  rather  the  protectress  than  the  protected  to  the 
helpless  dead.  He  could  not  gain  from  her  any  more  satisfactory 
information  than  the  landlady  had  already  imparted,  as  to  friends 
and  prospects  ;  but  she  permitted  him  passively  to  look  among 
the  effects  her  father  had  left — save  only  that,  if  his  hand  touched 
something  that  seemed  to  her  associations  especially  holy,  she 
waved  him  back,  or  drew  it  quickly  away.  There  were  many 
bills  receipted  in  the  name  of  Captain  Digby — old  yellow  faded 
music- scores  for  the  flute,— extracts  of  parts  from  Prompt 
Books, — gay  parts  of  lively  comedies,  in  which  heroes  have  so 
noble  a  contempt  for  money — fit  heroes  for  a  Sheridan  and  a 
Farquhar;  close  by  these  were  several  pawnbroker's  tickets;  and 
not  arrayed  smoothly,  but  crumpled  up,  as  if  with  an  indignant, 
nervous  clutch  of  the  helpless  hands,  some  two  or  three  letters. 
He  asked;Helen's  permission  to  glance  at  these,  for  they  might 
afford  a  clue  to  frknds.  Helen  gave  the  permission  by  a  silent 
bend  of  the  head.  The  letters,  however,  were  but  short  and  freez- 
ing answers  from  what  appeared  to  be  distant  connections,  or 
former  friends,  or  persons  to  whom  the  deceased  had  applied 
for  some  situation.  They  were  all  very  disheartening  in  their 
tone.  Leonard  next  endeavored  to  refresh  Helen's  memory  as 
to  the  name  of  the  nobleman  which  had  been  last  on  her  father's 
lips ;  but  there  he  failed  wholly.  For  it  may  be  remembered 
that  Lord  L'Estrange,  when  he  pressed  his  loan  on  Mr.  Digby, 
and  subsequently  told  that  gentleman  to  address  to  him  at  Mr. 
Egerton's,  had,  from  a  natural  delicacy,  sent  the  child  on,  that 
she  might  not  witness  the  charity  bestowed  on  the  father ;  and 
Helen  said  truly,  that  Mr.  Digby  had  sunk  latterly  into  an  ha- 
bitual silence  on  all  his  affairs.  She  might  have  heard  her  father 
mention  the  name,  but  she  had  not  treasured  it  up  ;  all  she  could 
say  was,  that  she  should  know  the  stranger  again  if  she  met  him, 
and  his  dog  too.  Seeing  that  the  child  had  grown  calm,  Leon- 
ard was  then  going  to  leave  the  room,  in  order  to  confer  with  the 
hostess  ;  when  she  rose  suddenly  though  noiselessly,  and  put  her 


336  MY   NOVEL  ;    OR, 

little  band  in  his,  as  if  to  detain  him.  She  did  not  say  a  word—- 
the action  said  all — said,  "  Do  not  desert  me."  And  Leonard's 

.heart  rushed  to  his  lips,  and  he  answered  to  the. action,  as  he  bent 
down  and  kissed  her  cheek,  "  Orphan  will  you  go  with  me?  We 
have  one  Father  yet  to  both  of  us,  and  He  will  guide  us  on  earth. 

-I  am  fatherless,  like  you/'  h  She  raised  her  eyes  to  his — looked 
at  him  long— and  theri  leant  her  head  confidingly  on  his  strong 
young  shoulder. 

TRAPTFR  VTT 
CHAPTER  VII. 

AT:noon"that  same  day,  the  young  man  and  the  child  were  on 
their  road  >o  London,  The  host  had  at  first  a  little  demurred 
at  trusting  Helen  to  so  young  a  companion  ;  but  Leonard,  in  his 
happy  ignorance, had  talked  so^anguinely  of  finding  out  this  lord, 
or  some  adequate  protectors  for  the  child ;  and  in  so  grand  a  strain, 
though  with  all  sincerity — had  spoken  of  his  own  great  prospects 
in  the  metropolis  (he  did  not  say  what  they  were  !)— that  had  he 
•been  the  craftiest impostor,.he  could  not  more  have  taken  in  the 
rustic  host.  And  while  the  landlady  still  cherished  the  illusive 
fancy,  that  all  gentlefolks  must  know  each  other  an  London,  as 
'they  did  in  a  county^  the  landlord  believed,  at  least,  that  a  young 
:man,  so  respectably  dressed,  although  but  a  foot-traveller — who 
talked  in^so  confident  a  tone,  and  who  was  willing  to  undertake 
what  might  be  rather  a  burdensome  charge,  unless  he  saw  how  to 
;  rid  himself  of  it — woul'dbesuretohavMriends,  older  and  wiser  than 
'himself,  who  would  j  udge  what  coulB  best  be  done  for  the  orphan. 

And  what  was  the  host  to  do  with  her-?  Better  this  volun- 
teered escort,  at  least,  than  vaguely  passing  her  on  from  parish  to 
parish,  and  leaving  her  friendless  at-  last  in  the  streets  of  London. 
Helen,  too,  smiled  for  the  fir&t  time  on  being  asked  her  wishes, 
and  again  put  her  hand  in  Leonard's.  In  short,  so  it  was  settled. 

The  little  girl  made  up  a  bundle  of  the  things  she  most  prized 
or  needed.  Leonard  did  not  feel  the  additional  load,  as  he  slung 
it  to:his  knapsack  ;  the  rest  of  the  luggage  was  to  be  sent  to  Lon- 
don as  soon  as  Leonard  wrote  (which  he  promised  to  do  soon), 
'arid  gave  an  address.  , 

Helen  paid  her  last  visit  to  the  church-yard;  and  she  joined 
her  companion  as  he  stood  on  the  road,  without  the  solemn  pre- 
icihcts.  ti  And  now  they  had  gone  on  some  hours  ;  and  when  he 
asked  if  she  were  tired,  she  still  answered  "  No."  But  Leonard 
.was  merciful,  and  made  their  day's  journey  short  ;  and  it  took 
them  some  days  to  reach  London.  By  the  long  lonely  way  they 
grew  so  intimate,  at  the  end  of  the  second  day,  they  called  each 
•other  brother  and  sister  ;  and  Leonard,  to  his  delight,  found  that 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  337 

as  her  grief,  with  the  bodily  movement  and  the  change  of  scene, 
subsided  from  its  first  intenseness  and  its  insensibility  to  other 
impressions,  she  developed  a  quickness  of  comprehension  far  be- 
yond her  years.  Poor  child  !  that  had  been  forced  upon  her  by 
Necessity.  And  she  understood  him  in  his  spiritual  consola- 
tions— half,poetical,half  religious;  and  she  listened  tohisown  tale, 
and  the  story  of  his  self-education  and  solitary  struggles — those, 
too,  she  understood;  But  when  he  burst  out  with  his  enthusiasm, 
his  glorious  hopes,  his  confidence  in  the  fate  before  them,  then 
she  would  shake  her  head  very  quietly  and  very  sadly.  Did  she 
compreherid  them,?  Alas  !  perhaps  too  well  She  knew  more  as 
to  real  life  than  he  did.  Leonard  was  at  first  their  joint  treas- 
urer;  but  before  the  second  day  was  over,  Helen  seemed  to  dis- 
cover that. he  was  too  lavish  ;  and  she  told  him  so  with  a  pru- 
dent grave  look,  putting  her  hand  on  his  arm -as  he  was  about  to 
enter  an  inn  to  dine  ;  and  the  .gravity  would  have  been  comic, 
but  that  the  eyes  through  their  moisture  were  so  meek  and  grate- 
ful. She  felt  he  was:about  to  incur  that  ruinous  extravgance  on 
her  account.  .Somehow  or  other,  the  purse  found  its  way  into 
her  keeping,and  then  she  looked  proud  and  in  her  natural  element. 

Ah!  what  happy  mealsunderhercarewereprovided;  so  much 
more  enjoyable  than  in  dull,  sanded  inn  parlors,  swarming  with 
flies,  and  reeking,  with  stale  tobacco^.  She  would  leave  him  ^t 
the  entrance  of  a  village,  bound  forward,  and  cater,  and  return 
with  a  little  basket  and  a  pretty  blue  jug — which  she  had  bought 
on  the  road— the  last  filled  with  new  milk  ;  the  first  with  new 
bread  and  some  special  dainty  in  radishes  or  water-cresses.  And 
she  had  such  a  talent,  for  finding  out  the  prettiest  spot  whereon 
to  halt  and  dine  ;  sometimes  in  the  heart  of  a  wood — so  still,  it 
'  was  like  a  forest  in  fairy  tales,-  the  hare  stealing  through  the 
alleys,  or  the  squirrel  peeping  at  them  from  the  boughs  ;  some- 
times by  a  little  brawling. stjieam,  with  the  fishes; seen  under  the 
clear  wave  and  sliootin  g  round  the  crumbs  thrown  to  them.  They 
made  an  Arcadia  of  the  dull  road  up  to  their  dread  Thermopylae — 
•  therwar  against  the  million  that  waited  them  on  the  other  side 
of  their  pass  through  Tempe. 

"  Shall  we  be  as  happy  when  we  are  great?  "said  Leonard,  in 
his  grand  simplicity. 

Helen  sighed,  and  the  wise  little  head  was  shaken.  vori 

• 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

; 

AT  last  they'ca*ne  within  easy  reach  of  Loddon  ;  but  Leonard 
.had  resolved  not  to  enter  the  metropolis  fatigued. and  exhausted 


338  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

as  a  wanderer  needing  refuge,  but  fresh  and  elate,  as  a  conqueror 
coming  in  triumph  to  take  possession  of  the  capital.  Therefore 
they  halted  early  in  the  evening  of  the  day  preceding  this  im- 
perial entry,  about  six  miles  from  the  metropolis,  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Baling  (for  by  that  route  lay  their  way).  They  were 
not  tired. on  arriving  at  their  inn,  The  weather  was  singularly 
lovely,  with  that  combination  of  softness  and  brilliancy  which  is 
only  known  to  the  rare  true  summer  days  of  England  ;  all  be- 
low so  green,  above  so  blue — days  of  which  we  have  about  tix 
in  the  year,  and  recall  vaguely  when  we  read  of  Robin  Hood  and 
Ma'id  Marian,  of  damsel  and  knight  in  Spenser's  golden  Summer 
Song— or  of  Jacques,  dropped  under  the  oak-tree,  watching  the 
deer  amidst  the  dells  of  Ardennes.  So,  after  a  little  pause  at  their 
inn,  they  strolled  forth,  not  for  travel  but  pleasure,  toward  the 
cool  of  sunset,  passing  by  the  grounds  that  once  belonged  to  the 
Duke  of  Kent,  and  catching  a  glimpse  of  the  shrubs  and  lawns 
of  that  beautiful  domain  through  the  lodge-gates ;  then  they 
crossed  into  some  fields,  and  came  to  a  little  rivulet  called  the 
Brent.  Helen  had  been  more  sad  that  day  than  on  any  during 
their  journey.  Perhaps  because,  on  approaching  London,  the 
memory  of  her  father  became  more  vivid  ;  perhaps  from  her  pre- 
cocious knowledge  of  life,  and  her  foreboding  of  what  was  to  be- 
-all them,  children  that  they  both  were.  But  Leonard  was  selfish 
that  day;  he  could  not  be  influenced'by  his  companion's  sorrow; 
he  Was  so  full  of :  his  own  sense  of  being,  and  he  had  already  caught 
from  the  atmosphere  the  fever  that  belongs  to  anxious  capitals. 

"  Sit  here,  sister,"  said  he  imperiously,  throwing. himself  under 
the  shade  of  a  pollard  tree  that  overhung  the  winding  brook, 
"sit  here  and  talk." 

He  flung  off  his  hat,  tossed  back  his  rich  curls,  and  sprinkled 
his  brow  from  the  stream  that  eddied  round  the  roots  of  the  tree 
that  bulged  out,  bald  and  gnarled,  from  the  bank,  and  delved 
into  the  waves  below.  Helen  quietly  obeyed  him,  and  nestled 
close  to  his  side. 

"  And  so  this  London  is  really  very  vast  ? — VERY  ?  "  he  re- 
peated inquisitively. 

"  Very,"  answered  Helen, as,  abstractedly,she  plucked  the  cow- 
slips near  her,  and  let  them  fall  into  the  running  waters.  "  See 
how  the  flowers  are  carried  down  the  stream?  They  are. lost 
now.  London  is  to  us  what  the  river  is  to  the  flowers — very 
vast — very  strong  ";  and  she  added,  after  a  pause — "very  cruel !  " 

"  Cruel !  Ah,  it  has  been  so  to  you  ;  but  noiv  ! — now  I  will  take 
care  of  you!"  He  smiled  triumphantly ;  and  his  smile  was 
beautiful  both  in  its  pride  and  its  kindness.  It  is  astonishing 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH   LIFE.  339 

how  Leonard  had  altered  since  he  had  left  his  uncle's :  he  was 
both  younger  and  older ;  for  the  sense  of  genius,  when  it  snaps 
its  shackles,  makes  us  both  older  and  wiser  as  to  the  world  it  soars 
to — younger  and  blinder  as  to  the  world  it  springs  from. 

"  And  it  is  not  a  very  handsome  city  either,  you  say  ? " 

"  Very  ugly,  indeed,"  said  Helen,  with  some  fervor,  "  at  least 
all  I  have  seen  of -it." 

"  But  there  must  be  parts  prettier  than  others  ?  You  say  there 
are  parks:  why  should  we  not  lodge  near  them,  and  look  upon 
the  green  trees  ?" 

"  That  would  be  nice,"  said  Helen,  almost  joyously  :  "  but — " 
and  here  the  head  was  shaken — "  there  are  no  lodgings  for  us 
except  in  courts  and  alleys." 

"Why?" 

"  Why  ? "  echoed  Helen,  with  a  smile,  and  she  held  up  the  purse. 

"Pooh!  always  that  horrid  purse  ;  as  if,  too,  we  were  not  going 
to  fill  it.  Did  not  I  tell  you  the  story  of  Fortunio  ?  Well,  at  all 
events,  we  will  go  first  to  the  neighborhood  where  you  last  lived, 
and  learn  there  all  we  can  ;  and  then  the  day  after  to-morrow,  I 
will  see  this  Dr.  Morgan,  and  find  out  the  lord." 

The  tears  started  to  Helen's  soft  eyes  :  "You  want  to  get  rid 
of  me  soon,  brother." 

"  I !  Ah,  I  feel  so  happy  to  have  you  with  me,  it  seems  to  me 
as  if  I  had  pined  for  you  all  my  life,  and  you  had  come  at  last  ; 
for  I  never  had  brother,  nor  sister,  nor  any  one  to  lover  that 
was  not  older  than  myself,  except — " 

"  Except  the  young  lady  you  told  me  of,"  said  Helen,  turning 
away  her  face  ;  for  children  are  very  jealous, 

"  Yes,  I  loved  her,  love  her  still.  But  that  was  different,"  said 
Leonard.  "I  could  never  have  talked  to  her  as  to  you  :  to  you  I 
open  my  whole  heart;  you  are  my  little  Muse,  Helen  :  I  confess 
to  you  my  wild  whims  and  fancies  as  frankly  as  if  I  were  writing 
poetry."  As  he  said  this,  a  step  was  heard,  and  a  shadow  fell 
over  the  stream.  A  belated  angler  appeared  on  the  margin,  draw- 
ing his  line  impatiently  across  the  water,  as  if  to  worry  some  doz- 
ing fish  into  a  bite  before  it  finally  settled  itself  for  the  night. 
Absorbed  in  his  occupation,  the  angler  did  not  observe  the  young 
persons  on  the  sward  under  the  tree,  and  he  halted  there,  close 
upon  them. 

"  Curse  that  perch  !  "  said  he  aloud. 

"  Take  care,  sir  !  "  cried  Leonard  ;  for  the  man,  in  stepping 
back,  nearly  trod  upon  Helen. 

.The  angler  turned.  "  What's  the  matter  ?  Hist!  you  have 
frightened  my  perch.  Keep  still,  can't  you  ?" 


34?  MY   NOVEL  ;    OR, 

•  'Helen  drew  herself  out  of  the  way,  and  Leonard  remained 
motionless  :  he  remembered  Jackeymo,  and  felt  a  sympathy  for 
the  angler. 

"  It  is  the  most  extraordinary  perch,  that!"  muttered  the 
stranger,  soliloquizing.  "  It  has  the  devil's  own  luck.  It  must 
have  been  born  with  a  silver  spoon  in  its  mouth,  that  damned 
perch  !  I  shall  never  catch  it — never  !  Ha  I- — no — only  a  weed. 
I  give.it  up."  With  this,  he  indignantly  jerked  his  rod  from  the 
water  and  began  to  disjoint  it.  While  leisurely  engaged  in  this 
occupation,  he  turned  to  Leonard. 

11  Humph !  are  you  intimately  acquainted  with  this,'stream,  sir  ? " 

"  No,"  answered  Leonard  ;    "  I  never  saw  it  before." 

ANGLER  (solemnly). — Then,  young  man,  take  my  advice,  and 
do  not  give  way  to  its  fascinations.  Sir,  I  am  a  martyr  to  this 
stream  ;  it  has  been  the  Delilah  of  my  existence. 

LEONARD  (interested  :  the  last  sentence  seemed  to  him  poeti- 
cal).—The  Delilah,  sir  !  the  Delilah  ! 

ANGLER.  ^-The  Delilah.  Young  man,  listen,  and  be  warned  by 
iexample.  When  I  was  about  your  age,  I  first  came  to  this  stream 
to  fish.  Sir,  on  that  fatal  day,  about  3  P.M.,  I  hooked  up  a  fish — 
such  a  big  one,  it  must  have  weighed  a  pound  and  a  half.  Sir, 
it  was  that  length  [and  the  angler  put  finger  to  wrist].  And  just 
when  I  had  got  it  nearly  ashore  by  the  very  place  where  you  are 
•sitting,  on  that  shelving  bank,  young  man,  the  line  broke,  and 
the  perch  twisted  himself  amongst  those  roots  and — cacodcemon 
that  he  was — ran  off,  hook  and  ail.  Well,  that  fish  haunted  me  ; 
never  before  -had  I  seen  such  a  fish.  Minnows  I  had  caught  in 
the  Thames  and  elsewhere,  also  gudgeons,  and  occasionally  a 
dace.  But  a!fish  like  that — a  PERCH— all  his  fins  up,  like  the 
•sails  of  a  nranfOf-war-^a  monster  perch— a  whale  of  a  perch  I—- 
No, never  till  then  had  I  known  what  leviathans  lie  hid  within 
thedeeps.  I  could  not  sleep  till  Ih ad  returned  ;  and,  again,  sir, — 
I  caught  that  perch.  And  this.'  time,  I  pulled  him  fairly  out  of 
the  water.  He  escaped;  and  how  did  he  escape?  Sir,  he  left  his 
eye  behind  him  on  the  hook. -i Years,  long  years,  have  passed 
since  thent;<  but  nevter  shall  I  forget  the  agony  of  that  moment. 

LEONARD. — To  the  perch,  sir? 

ANGLER.— ^Perch  !  agony  to  him  !  He  enjoyed  it : — agony  to 
me.  I  gazed  on  that  eye,  and  the  eye  looked  as  sly  and  as  wicked 
as  if  it  was  laughing  in  my  face.  Well,  sir,  I  had  heard  that  there 
is  no  ,better  bait  for  a  perch  than  a  perch's  eye.  1  adjusted  that 
eyeonthe  hook,  and  dropped  in  the  line  gently.  The  water  was 
unusually  clear  ;  in  two  minutes,  I  saw  that  perch  return.  He 
approached  the  hook  ;  he  recognized  his  eye— frisked  his  tail — 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  34! 

made  a  plunge — and,  as  I  live,  carried  off  the  eye,  safe  and  sound  : 
and  I  saw  him  digesting  it  by  the  side  of  that  water-lily.  The 
mocking  fiend !  Seven  times  since  that  day,  in  the  course  of  a 
varied  and  eventful  life,  have  I  caught  that  perch,  and  seven 
times  has  that  perch  escaped. 

LEONARD  (astonished). —It  can't  be  the  same  perch  ;  perches 
are  very  tender  fish — a  hook  inside  of  it,  and  an  eye  hooked  out 
of  it — no  perch  could  withstand  such! havoc  in  its  constitution. 

ANGLER  (with  an  appearance  of  awe). — -It  does  seem  super- 
natural. But  it  is  that  perch  ;  for,  harkye,  sir,  there  is  ONLY  ONE 
perch  in  the  whole  brook  !  All  the  years  I  have  fished  here,  I 
have  never  caught  another  perch  ;  and  this  solitary  inmate  of  the 
watery  element  I  know  by  sight  better  than  I  knew  my  own  lost 
father.  For  each  time  that  I.  have  raised  it  out  of  the  water,  its 
profile  has  been  turned  to  me,  and  I  have  seen,  with  a  shudder, 
that  it  has  only — One  Eye  !  It  is  a  most  mysterious  and  a  most 
diabolical  phenomenon,  thatperch!  It  hasbeentheruin  of  my  pros- 
pects in  life.  I  was  offered  a  situation  in  Jamaica;  I  could  not  go 
with  that  perch  left  here  in  triumph.  I  might  afterward  have  had 
an  appointment  in  India,butl  couldnotput  theoceanbetweenfmy- 
self  and  that -perch; ; thus  have  I  frittered  away  my  existence  in  the 
fatal  metropolis  of  my  native  land.  And  once  a  week,  from  Feb- 
ruary to  December,  I  come  hither.— Good  Heavens  !  if  I  should 
catch  the  perch  at  last,  the  occupation  of  my  existencewill  be  gone. 

Leonard  gazed  curiously  at  the  angler,  as  the  last  thus  mourn- 
fully concluded.     The  ornate  turn  of  his  periods  did  not  suit 
with  his  costume  :  he  looked  woefully  threadbare  and.shabby- — 
a  genteel  sort  of  shabbiness  too^—  shabbiness  in  black.     There 
was  humor  in  the  corners  of  his  lip  ;  and  his  hands,  though  they 
did  not  seem  very  clean— ^indeed  his  occupation  was  not  friendly 
to  such  niceties — were  those  of  a  man  who  had  not  known  manual . 
labor.     His  face  was  pale  and  puffed,  but  the  tip  of  the  nose  Was  i 
red  ;  he  did  not  seem  as  if  the  watery  element  was  as.  familiar 
to  himself  as  to  his  Delilah — the  perch. 

"Such  is  Life!"  .recommenced  the  angler,  in  a  moralizing 
tone,  as  he  slid  his  rod  into  its  canvas  case.  "If  a  man  knew 
what  it  was  to  fish  all  one's  life  in  a  stream  that  has  only  one 
perch  ; — to  catch  that  one  perch  nine  times  in  all,  and  nine  times 
to  see  it  fall  back  into  the  water,  plump  ; — if  ia  man  knew  what 
it  was — why,  then" — here  the  angler  looked  over  his  shoulder 
full  at  Leonard: — '•'  why  then,-young  sir,,  he. would  know  what  hu- 
man life  is  to  vain  ambition.  Good-evening." 

Away  he  went,  treading  over  the  d  usies  and  king-cups.  Hel- 
en's eyes  followed  him  wistfully. 


342  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

"What  a  strange  person  ! "  said  Leonard,  laughing. 

"  I  think  he  is  a  very  wise  one,"  murmured  Helen  ;  and  she 
came  close  up  to  Leonard,  and  took  his  hand  in  both  hers,  as  if 
she  felt  already  that  he  was  in  need  of  a  Comforter — the  line 
broken,  and  perch  lost! 

CHAPTER  IX. 

AT  noon  the  next  day,  London  stole  upon  them  through  a 
gloomy,  thick,  oppressive  atmosphere  ;  for  where  is  it  that  we 
can  say  London  bursts  on  the  sight  ?  It  stole  on  them  through 
one  of  its  fairest  and  most  gracious  avenues  of  approach — by  the 
stately  gardens  of  Kensington — along  the  side  of  Hyde  Park, 
and  so  on  to  Cumberland  Gate. 

-  Leonard  was  not  the  least  struck.  And  yet,  with  a  very  little 
money,  and  a  very  little  taste,  it  would  be  easy  to  render  this  en- 
trance to  London  as  grand  and  as  imposing  as  that  to  Paris  from 
the  Champs  Elysfas.  As  they  came  near  the  Edgeware  Road, 
Helen  took  her  new  brother  by  the  hand  and  guided  him;  for  she 
knewall  that  neighborhood,  and  she  wasacquainted  with  a  lodging 
near  that  occupied  by  her  father  (to  that  lodging  itself  she  could 
not  have  gone  for  the  world),  where  they  might  be  housed  cheaply. 

But  just  then  the  sky,  so  dull  and  overcast  since  morning, 
seemed  one  mass  of  black  cloud.  There  suddenly  came  on  a 
violent  storm  of  rain.  The  boy  and  girl  took  refuge  in  a  covered 
mews,  in  a  street  running  out  of  the  Edgeware  Road.  This  shel- 
ter soon  became  crowded  ;  the  two  young  pilgrims  crept  close 
to  the  wall,  apart  from  the  rest — Leonard's  arm  round  Helen's 
waist,  sheltering  her  from  the  rain  that  the  strong  wind  contend- 
ing with  it  beat  in  through  the  passage.  Presently  a  young  gentle- 
man of  better  mien  and  dress  than  the  other  refugees,  entered, 
not  hastily  but  rather  with  a  slow  and  proud  step,  as  if,  though 
he  deigned  to  take  shelter,  he  scorned  to  run  it.  He  glanced 
somewhat  haughtily  at  the  assembled  group — passed  on  through 
the  midst  of  it — came  near  Leonard — took  off  his  hat,  and  shook 
the  rain  from  its  brim.  His  head  thus  uncovered,  left  all  his 
features  exposed  ;  and  the  village  youth  recognized,  at  the  first 
glance,  his  old  victorious  assailant  on  the  green  at  Hazeldean. 

Yet  Randal  Leslie  was  altered.  His  dark  cheek  was  as  thin 
as  in  boyhood,  and  even  yet  more  wasted  by  intense  study  and 
night  vigils  ;  but  the  expression  of  his  face  was  at  once  more 
refined  and  manly,  and  there  was  a  steady  concentrated  light  in 
his  eye,  like  that  of  one  who  has  been  in  the  habit  of  bringing 
all  his  thoughts  to  one  point.  He  looked  older  than  he  was. 
He  was  dressed  simply  in  black,  a  color  which  became  him;  and 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  343 

altogether  his  aspect  and  figure  were  not  showy  indeed,  but  dis- 
tinguished. He  looked  to  the  common  eye  a  gentleman  ;  and 
to  the  more  observant,  a  scholar. 

Helter-skelter !— pell-mell !  the  group  in  the  passage — now 
pressed  each  on  each — now  scattered  on  all  sides — making  way — 
rushing  down  the  mews— against  the  walls,  as  a  fiery  horse  darted 
under  shelter.  The  rider,a  young  man,  with  a  very  handsome  face, 
and  dressed  with  that  peculiar  care  which  wecommonly  call  dandy- 
ism, cried  out,good-humoredly,"Don'tbe  afraid;  the  horse  shan't 
hurt  any  of  you — a  thousand  pardons — so  ho!  so  ho!"  He  patted 
the  horse,  and  it  stood  as  still  as  a  statue  filling  up  the  centre  of 
the  passage.  The  groups  resettled — Randal  approached  the  rider. 

*'*  Frank  Hazeldean  !  " 

"  Ah — is  it  indeed  Randal  Leslie  !  " 

Frank  was  off  his  horse  in  a  moment,  and  the  bridle  was  con- 
signed to  the  care  of  a  slim  'prentice-boy  holding  a  bundle. 

"  My  dear  fellow,  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  ?  How  lucky  it 
was  that  I  should  turn  in  here !  Not  like  me  either,  for  I  don't 
much  care  for  a  ducking.  Staying  in  town,  Randal  ? " 

"Yes;  at  your  uncle's,  Mr.  Egerton.     I  have  left  Oxford." 

"•  For  good  ?  " 

"  For  good." 

"  But  you  have  not  taken  your  degree,  I  think  ?  We  Etonians 
all  considered  you  booked  fora  double-first.  Oh!  we  have  been 
so  proud  of  your  fame — you  carried  off  all  the  prizes." 

"  Not  all ;  but  some,  certainly.  Mr.  Egerton  offered  me  my 
choice — to  stay  for  my  degree,  or  to  enter  at  once  into  the  Foreign 
Office.  I  preferred  the  end  to  the  means  ;  for,  after  all,  what 
good  are  academical  honors  but  as  the  entrance  to  life  ?  To 
enter  now,  is  to  save  a  step  in  a  long  way,  Frank." 

"  Ah  !  you  were  always  ambitious,  and  you  will  make  a  great 
figure,  I  am  sure." 

"  Perhaps  so — if  I  work  for  it.     Knowledge  is  power !  " 

Leonard  started. 

"  And  you  !  "  resumed  Randal,  looking  with  some  curious 
attention  at  his  old  school-fellow — "You  never  came  to  Oxford. 
I  did  hear  you  were  going  in  the  army." 

"Jam  in  the  Guards,"  said  Frank,  trying  hard  not  to  look  too 
conceited  as  he  made  that  acknowledgment.  "  The  Governor 
pished  a  little,  and  would  rather  I  had  come  to  live  with  him  in 
the  old  Hall,  and  take  to  farming.  Time  enough  for  that — eh  ? 
By  Jove,  Randal,  how  pleasant  a  thing  is  life  in  London  !  Do 
you  go  to  Almack's  to-night  ?  " 

"  No  ;  Wednesday  is  a  holiday  in  the  House  !      There  is  a 


344  MY.  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

great  Parliamentary  dinner  at  Mr.  Egerton's.  He  is  in  the  cabi- 
net now,  you  know ;  but  you  don't  see  much  of  your  uncle,!  think." 

"  Our  sets  are  different,"  said  the  young  gentleman,  in  a  tone 
of  voice  worthy  of  Brummell.  "  AH  those  Parliamentary  fellows 
are- devilish  dull.  The  rain's  over.  I  don't  know  whether  the 
Governor  would  like  me  to  call  at  Grosvenor  Square ;  .but  pray 
come  and  see  me.  Here's  my  card  to  remind  you  ;  you  must 
dine  at  our  mess.  Such  capital  fellows!  What  day  will  you  fix  ?" 

"  I  will  call  and  let  you  know.  Don't. you  find  it  rather  ex- 
pensive in  the  Guards?  I  remember  that  you  thought  the  Gov- 
ernor, as  you  call  him,  used  to  chafe  a  little  when  you  wrote  for 
more  pocket-money  ;  and  the  only  time  I  eyer  saw  you  with  tears 
in  your  eyes,  was  when  Mr.  Hazeldean,  in  sending  you  flvepounds, 
reminded  you  that  his  estates  were  not  entailed — were  at  his. own 
disposal,  and  they  should  never  go  to  an  extravagant  spend  thrift. 
It  was  not  a  pleasant  threat  that,  Frank." 

"  Oh  !"  cried  the  young  man,  coloring  deeply ;  "it  was  not 
the  threat  that  pained  roe  ;  it  was  that  my  father  could  thinlcso 
meanly  of -me  as '.to  fancy  that — Well — well,  but  those  were 
school-boy  days:  and:  my  fajther  was  always  more  generous  than 
I  deserved.  We  must  see  a  great  deal  of  each  other,  Randal. 
How  good-natured  you  were  at  Eton,  making  my  longs  and 
shorts  for  me  ;  I  shall  never  forget  it.  Do  call  soon." 

Frank  swung  himself  into  his  saddle,  and  rewarded  the  slim 
youth  with  half  a  crown — a  largess  four  times  more  ample  than 
his  father  would  have  deemed  sufficient.  A  jerk  of  the  reins  and 
a  touch  of  the  heel — off  bounded  the  fiery  horse  and  the  gay 
young  rider.  Randal  mused  ;  and  as  the  rain  had  now  ceased, 
the  passengers  under  shelter  dispersed  and  went  their  way.  Only 
Randal,  Leonard,  and  Helen,  remained  behind.  .  Then,  as  Ran- 
dal, still  musing,  lifted  his  eyes,  they  fell  upon. Leonard's  face. 
He  started,  passed  his  hand  quickly  over  his  brow — looked 
again,  hard  and  piercingly  ;  and  the  change  in  his  pale  cheek  to 
a  shade  still  paler — a  quick  compression  and  nervous  gnawing 
of  his  lip — showed  that  he  too  jecognised  an  old  foe.  -Then,  his 
glance  ran  x>ver  Leonard's  dress,  which  was  somewhat  dust- 
stained,  but  far  above  the-  class  amongst  which  the  peasant  was 
born.  .Randal  raised  his  brows  in  surprise,  and  .with  a  smile 
slightly  supercilious— the  smile  stung  Leonard  ;  and  with  a  slow 
step  Randal  left  the  passage,  and  took  his  way  toward  Grosve- 
nor Square.  The  Entrance  of  Ambition  was  clear  to  ////;/. 

Then  the  little  girl  once  more  took  Leonard  by  the  hand,  and 
led  him  through  rows  of  humble,  obscure,  dreary  streets.  It 
seemed  almost  like  an  allegory  personified,  as  the  sad,  silent 


VARIETIES   IN  ENGLISH    LIFE.  345 

child  led  on  the  penniless  and  low-born  adventurer  of  genius  by 
the  squalid  shops,  and  through  the  winding  lanes,  which  grew 
meaner  and  meaner  till  both  their  forms  vanished  from  view. 

CHAPTER  X. 

"BUT  do  come ;  qhange  your  dress,  return  and  dine  with  me  ; 
you  will  have  just  time,  Harley.  You  will  meet  the  most  emi- 
nent men  of  our  party  ;  surely  they  are  worth  your  study,  phil- 
osopher that  you  affect  to  be." 

Thus  said  Audley  Egerton  to  Lord  L'Estrange,  with  whom 
he  had  been  riding  (after  the  toils  of  his  office).  The  two  gentle- 
man were  in  Audley's  library.  Mr  Egerton, as  usual,  buttoned 
up,  seated  in  his  chair,  in;the  erect  posture  of  a  man  who  scorns 
''inglorious  ease,"  Harley,  as  usual,  thrown  at  length  on  the  sofa, 
his  long  hair  in  caueless  curls,  his  neckcloth  loose,  his  habili- 
ments flowing — simplex  munditiis,  indeed— his  grace  all  his  own; 
seemingly  negligent,  never  slovenly;  at  ease  everywhere  and  with 
every  one,  even  with  Mr.  Audley  Egerton,  who  chilled  or  awed 
the  ease  put  of  most  people. 

"Nay,  my  dear  Audley,  forgive  me.  But  your  eminent  men 
are  all  men  of  one  idea,  and  that  not  a  diverting  one, — politics  ! 
politics  !  politics  !  The  storm  in  the  saucer." 

"  But  what  is  your  life,Harley?— the  saucer  without  the  storm?" 

"  Do  you  know,  that's  very  well  said,  Audley  ?  I  did  not  think 
you  had  so  much  liveliness  of  repartee.  Life — life  !  it  is  insipid, 
it  is  shallow.  No  launching  Argosies  in  the  saucer.  Audley, 
I  have  the  oddest  fancy — " 

"  That  of  course,"  said  Audley,  dryly  :  "you  never  have  any 
other.  What  is  the  new  one?" 

HARLEY  (with  great  gravity).— Do  you  believe  in  Mesmerism  ? 
•  AUDLEY. — Certainly  not. 

•HARLEY.-J— If  it  were  in  the  power  of  an  animal  magnetizer  to 
get  me  out  of  my  own  skin  into  somebody  else's  !  That's  my 
fancy  !  I  am  so  tired  of  myself— so  tired  !  I  have  run  through 
all  my  ideas— know  every  one  of  them  by  heart.  When  some 
pretentious  impostor  of  an  idea  perks  itself  up  and  says,  Look 
at  me — I'm  anew  acquaintance,  I. just  give  it  a  nod,  and  say, 
Not  at  all— you  have  only  got  a  new  coat  on  ;  you  are  the  same 
old  wretch  that  has  bored  me  these  last  twenty  years  ;  get  away. 
But  if  one  could  be  in  a  new  skin  !  if  I  could  be  for  half  an  hour 
your  tall  porter,oroneof  your  eminent  matter-of-fact  men,  I  should 
then' really  travel  into  anew  world.*  Every  man's  brain  must  bo 

*  If,  at  the  date  in  which  Lord  L'F.strange  held  this  conversation  with  Mr.  Egerton,  Al 
ired  de  Mussel  had  written  his  comedies,  we  should  suspect   that  his  lordship  had  plagia* 


346  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

a  world  in  itself,  eh  ?  If  I  could  but  make  a  parochial  settlement 
even  in  yours,  Audley— run  overall  your  thoughts  and  sensations. 
Upon  my  life,  I'll  go  and. talk  to  thatFrenchmesmerizer  about  it. 

AUDLEY  (who  does  not  seem  to  like  the  notion  of  having  his 
thoughts  and  sensations  rummaged,  even  by  his  friend,  and  even 
in  fancy). — Pooh,  pooh,  pooh  !  Do  talk  like  a  man  of  sense. 

H  ARLEY. — Man  of  sense  !  Where  shall  I  find  a  model  ?  I  don't 
knowamanof  sense! — never  met  such  a  creature.  Don't  believe 
it  ever  existed.  At  one  time  I  thought  Socrates  must  have  been 
a  man  of  sense  ; — a  delusion  ;  he  would  stand  gazing  into  the 
air,  and  talking  to  his  Genius  from  sunrise  to  sunset.  Is  that  like 
a  man  of  sense?  Poor  Audley;  how  puzzled  he  looks!  Well,  I'll 
tryand  talk  sense  to  oblige'you.  And  first  [here  Harley  raised  him- 
self on  his  elbow] — first,  is  it  true,  as  I  have  heard  vaguely  that 
you  are  paying  court  to  the  sister  of  that  infamous  Italian  traitor  ? 

"Madame  di  Negra?  No:  lam  not  paying  court  to  her," 
answered  Audley,  with  a  cold  smile.  "But  she  is  very  handsome  ; 
she  is  very  clever ;  she  is  Useful  to  me— ^1  need  not  say  how  or 
why;  that  belongs  to  my  m/tieras  a  politican.  But  I  think,  if  you 
will  take  my  advice,  or  get  your  friend  to  take  it,  I  could  obtain 
from  her  brother,  through  my  influence  with  her, some  liberal  con- 
cessions to  your  exile.  She  is  very  anxious  to  know  where  he  is." 

"You  have  not  told  her?" 

"  No  ;  I  promised  you  I  would  keep  that  secret." 

"Be  sure  you  do;  it  is  only  for  some  mischief,  some  snare, 
that  she  could  desire  such  information.  Concessions  !  pooh  ! 
This  is  no  question  of  concessions,  but  of  rights." 

"I  think  you  should  leave  your  friend  to  judge  of  that." 

"Well,  I  will  write  to  him.  Meanwhile,  beware  of  this  woman. 
I  have  heard  much  of  her  abroad,  and  she  has  the  character  of 
her  brother  for  duplicity  and — " 

"Beauty,"  interrupted  Audley,  turning  the  conversation  with 
practised  adroitness.  "  I  am  told  that  the  Count  is  one  of  the 
handsomest  men  in  Europe,  much  handsomer  than  his  sister,  still, 
thoughnearly  twice  her  age.  Tut — tut — Harley;  fearnotforme. 
lam  proof  against  all  feminine  attractions.  This  heart  is  dead." 

"  Nay,  nay  ;  it  is  not  for  you  to  speak  thus — leave  that  to  me. 
But  even  /  will  not  say  it.  The  heart  riever  dies.  And  you  ; 
what  have  you  lost? — a  wife  ;  true  :  an  excellent  noble-hearted 
woman.  But  was  it  love  that  you  felt  for  her?  Enviable  man, 
have  you  ever  loved  ? " 

"Perhaps  not,  Harley,"  said   Audley,  with   a  sombre  aspect, 

ized  from  one  of  them  the  whimsical  idea«  that  he  here  vents  upon  Audley.  In  repeating 
it,  the  author  at  least  cannot  escape  from  the  charge  of  obligation  to  a  writer  whose  humor 
is  sufficiently  opulent  to  justify  the  loan. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  347 

and  in  dejected  accents;  "very  few  men  ever  have  loved, — at 
least  as  you  mean  by  the  word.  But  there  are  other  passions 
than  love  that  kill  the  heart,  and  reduce  us  to  mechanism." 

While  Egerton  spoke,  Harley  turned  aside,  and  his  breast 
heaved.  There  was  a  short  silence ;  Audley  was  the  first  to  breakjt. 

"Speaking  of  my  lost  wife,  I  am  sorry  that  you  do  not  approve 
of. what  I  have  done  for  her  young  kinsman,  Randal  Leslie." 

HARLEY  (recovering  himself  with  an  effort). — Is  it  true  kind- 
ness to  bid  him  exchange  manly  independence  for  the  protec- 
tion of  an  official  patron  ? 

AUDLEY. — I  did  not  bid  him.  I  gave  him  his  choice.  At  his 
age,  I  should  have  chosen  as  he  has  done. 

HARLEY. — I  trust  not :  I  think  better  of  you.  But  answer  me 
one  question  frankly,  and  then  I  will  ask  another.  Do  you  mean 
to  make  this  young  man  your  heir? 

AUDLEY  (with  a  slight  embarrassment).— Heir,  pooh  !  I  am 
young  still.  J  may  live  as  long  as  he — time  enough  to  think  of  that. 

HARLEY.— Then  now  to  my  second  question.  Have  you  told 
this  youth  plainly  that  he  may  look  to  you  for  influence,  but  not 
for  wealth  ? 

AUDLEY  (firmly). — I  think  I  have  ;  but  I  shall  repeat  it  more 
emphatically. 

HARLEY. — Then  I  am  satisfied  as  to  your  conduct,  but  not  as 
to  his.  For  he  has  too  acute  an  intellect  not  to  know  what  it  is 
to  forfeit  independence  ;  and,  depend  on  it,  he  has  made  his  cal- 
culations, and  would  throw  you  into  the  bargain  in  any  balance 
that  he  could  strike  in  his  favor.  You  go  by  your  experience  in 
judging  men  ;  I  by  my  instincts.  Nature  warns  us  as  it  does  the 
inferior  animals — only  we  are  too  conceited,  we  bipeds,  to  heed 
her.  My  instincts  of  soldier  and  gentleman  recoil  from  .that  old 
young  man.  He  has  the  soul  of  the  Jesuit.  I  see  it  in  his  eye — I 
hear  it  in  the  tread  of  his  foot  \voltosciolto\iQ.  hasnot ;  ipcnsieristretti 
he  has.  Hist !  I  hear  now  his  step  in  the  hall.  I  should  know  it 
from  a  thousand.  That's  his  very  touch  on  the  handle  of  the  door. 

Randal  Leslie  entered.  Harley — who,  despite  his  disregard 
for  forms,  and  his  dislike,  to  Randal,  was  too  high-bred  not  to 
be  polite  to  his  junior  in  age  or  inferior  in  rank — :rose  and  bowed. 
But  his  bright  piercing  eyesdidnotsoften  as  they  caught  and  bore 
down  thekleeperandmorelatentfire  in  Randal's.  Harleydidnot  re- 
sume his  seat,but  removed  to  the  mantel-piece  and  leant  against  it. 

RANDAL. — I  have  fulfilled  your  commission,  Mr.  Egerton.  I 
went  first  to  Maida  Hill,  and  saw  Mr.  Burley.  I  gave  him  the 
check,  but  he  said  "  it  was  too  much,  and  he  should  return  .half 
to  the  banker";  he  will  write  the  article  as  you  suggested.  I  then — 


348  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

AUDLEY. — Enough,  Randal !  we  will  not  fatigue  Lord  L'Es- 
trange  with  these  little  details  of  a  life  that  displeases  him — the 
life  political. 

HARLEY. — But  these  details  do  not  displease  me  ;  they  recon- 
cile me  to  my  own  life.  Go  on,  pray,  Mr.  Leslie. 

Randal  had  too  much  tact  to  need  the  cautioning  glance  of 
Mr.  Egerton.  He  did  not  continue,  but  said,  with  a  soft  voice> 
"  Do  you  think,  Lord  L'Estrange,  that  th,e  contemplation  of  the 
mode  of  life  pursued  by  others  can  reconcile  a  man  to  his  own, 
if  he  had  before  thought  it  needed  a  reconciler  ?"  Harley 
looked  pleased,  for  the  question  was  ironical  ;  and  if  there  was 
a  thing  in  the  world  that  he  abhorred,-  it  was  flattery. 

"  Recollect  your  Lucretius,  Mr.  Leslie,  the  Suave  mare,  etc., 
'pleasant  from  the  cliff  to  see  the  mariners  tossed  on  the  ocean.' 
Faith,  I  think  that  sight  reconciles  one  to  the  cliff — though,  be^ 
fore,  one  might  have  been  teased  by  the'  splash. from  the  spray, 
and  deafened  by  the  scream  of  the  sea-gulls.  But  I.  leave  you, 
Audley.  Strange  that  I  have  heard  no  more  of  my  soldier.  Re- 
member I  have  your  promise  when  J  come  to  claim  it.  Good-bye, 
Mr.  Leslie,  I  hope  that  Burley's  article  will  be  worth  the^— check." 

Lord  L'Estrange  mounted  his  horse,  which  was  still  at  the 
door,  and  rode  through  the  Park.  But  he  was  no  longer  now 
unknowri  by  sight ;  -bows  and  nods  saluted  him  on  every  side. 

"  Alas,  I  am  found  out,  then,'"  said  he  to  himself.  •  "That 
terrible  Duchess  of  Knaresborough,  too — I  must  fly  my-country." 
He  pushed  his  horse  into  a  canter,  ami  was  soon  out  of  the  Park. 
As  he  dismounted  at  his  father's  sequestered  house,  you  would 
have  hardly  supposed  him  the  same::whimsical,  fantastic,  but 
deep  and  subtle  humorist  that  delighted  in  perplexingthe  material 
'Audley-'-for  riis  expressive  face  was  unutterably  serious  ;•  but  the 
moment  he  came  into  the  presence  of  his  parents,  the  counte- 
nance was  again  lighted  and  cheerful — it  brightened  the  whole 
room  like  sunshine. 

•  -• 
CHAPTER  XL 

"  MR.  LESLIE,"  said  Egerton',  wl^ti  Harley  had  left  the  library. 
"You  did  not  act  with  your  usual  discretion  in  touching  upon 
matters  connected  with  politics  in  the  presence  of  a  third  party." 

"  I  feel  that  already,  sir  ;  my  excuse  is,  that  I  held  Lord 
L'Estrange  to  be  your  most  intimate  friend." 

"  A  public  man,  Mr.  Leslie,  would  ill  serve  his  country  if  he 
were  not  especially  reserved  toward  his  private  friends — when 
they  do  not  belong  to  his  party." 

"But,  pardon  me  my  ignorance,  Lord  Lansmere  is  so  well 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  349 

known  to  be  one  of  your  supporters,  that  I  fancied  his  son  must 
share  his  sentiments,  and  be  in  your  confidence." 

Egerton's  brows  slightly  contracted,  and  gave  a  stern  expres- 
sion to  a  countenance  always  firm  and  decided.  He,  however, 
answered  in  a  mild  tone  : 

"  At  the  entrance  into  political  life,  Mr.  Leslie,  there  is  noth- 
ing in  which  a  young  man  of  your  talents  should  be  more  on  his 
guard  than  thinking  for  himself;  he  will  nearly  always  think 
wrong.  And  I  believe  that  is  one  reason  why  young  men  of 
talent  disappoint  their  friends,  and  remain  so  long  out  of  office." 

A  haughty  flush  passed  over  Randal's  brow,  and  faded  away 
quickly  ;  he  bowed  in  silence. 

Egerton  resumed,  as  if  in  explanation,  and  even  in  kindly 
apology— 

"  Look  at  Lord  L'Estrange  himself.  What  young  man  could 
come  into  life  with  brighter  auspices  ?  Rank,  wealth,  high  ani- 
mal spirits  (a great  advantage  those  same  spirits,  Mr.  Leslie), 
courage,  self-possession,  scholarship  as  brilliant  perhaps  as  your 
own  ;  and  now  see  how  his  life  is  wasted  !  Why'?  He  always 
thought  fit  to  think  for  himself.  He  could  never  be  broken  into 
harness  and  never  will  be.  The  State  coach,  Mr.  Leslie,  requires 
that  all  the  horses  should  pull,  together." 

"With  submission,  sir,"  answered  Randal,  "  I  should  think 
that  there  were  other  reasons  why  Lord  L'Estrange,  whatever 
be  his  talents — and  of  these  you  must  be  indeed  an  adequate 
judge—  would  never  do  anything  in  public  life." 

"Ay,  and  what  ?  "  said  Egerton,  quickly. 

"  First,"  said  Randal, shrewdly,  "private  life  has  done  too  much 
for  him.  What  could  public  life  give  to  one  who  needs  nothing1? 
Born  at  the  top  of  the  social1  ladder,  why  should  he  put  himself 
voluntarily  at  the  last  step,  for  the  sake  of  climbing  up  again  ? 
And  secondly,LordL'Estrangeseemstomeaman  in  whose  organ- 
ization ^«//w<?«/ usurps  too  large  a  share  for  practical  existence." 

"You  have  a  keen  eye,"  said  Audley,  with  some  admiration  - 
"  keen  for  one  so  young.  Poor  Harley  !  " 

Mr.  Egerton's  last  words  were  said  to  himself.  He  resumed, 
quickly— 

"  There  is  something  on  my  mind,  my  young  friend.     Let  us  -1 
be  frank  with  each  other.-     I  placed  before  you  fairly  the  advan- 
tages and  disadvantages  of  the  choice  I  gave  you.     To  take  your  ' 
degree  with  such  honors  as  no  doubt  you  would  have  won,  to 
obtain  your  fellowship,  to  go  to  ,the  bar,  :with  those  credentials 
in  favor  of  your  talents  : — this  was  one  career.     To  come  at  once 
into  public  life,  to  profit  by  my  experience,  avail  yourself  of  my 


350  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

interest,  to  take  the  chances  of  rise  or  fall  with  a  party  : — this 
was  another.  You  chose  the  last.  But,  in  so  doing,  there  was 
a  consideration  which  might  weigh  with  you ;  and  on  which,  in 
stating  your  reasons  for  your  option,  you  were  silent." 

"  What  is  that,  sir  ?  " 

"  You  might  have  counted  on  my  fortune,  should  the  chances 
of  party  fail  you; — speak — and  without  shame,  if  so  ;  it  would 
be  natural  in  a  young  man,  who  comes  from  the  elder  branch 
of  the  house  whose  heiress  was  my  wife." 

"  You  wound  me,  Mr.  Egerton,"  said  Randal,  turning  away. 

Mr.  Egerton's  cold  glance  followed  Randal's  movement ;  the 
face  was  hid  from  the  glance,  and  the  statesman's  eye  rested  On 
the  figure,  which  is  often  as  self-betraying  as  the  countenance  it- 
self. Randal  baffled  Mr.  Egerton's  penetration — the  young  man's 
emotion  might  be  honest  pride,  and  pained  and  generous  feel- 
ing; or  it  might  be  something  else.  Egerton  continued,  slowly — 

"  Once  for  all,  then;  distinctively  and  emphatically,  I  say — 
never  count  upon  that  ;  count  upon  all  else  that  I  can  do  for 
you,  and  forgive  me  when  I  advise  harshly  or  censure  coldly  ; 
ascribe  this  to  my  interest  in  your  career.  Moreover,  before 
decision  becomes  irrevocable,  I  wish  you  to  know  practically  all 
that  is  disagreeable  or  even  humiliating  in  the  first  subordinate 
steps  of  him  who,  without  .wealth  or  station,  would  rise  in  public 
life.  I  will  not  consider  your  choice  settled  till  the  end  of  a  year 
at  least — your  name  will  be  kept  on  the  college  books  till  then; 
if,  on  experience,  you  should  prefer  to  return  to  Oxford,  and  pur- 
sue the  slower  but  surer  path  to  independence  and  distinction, 
you  can.  And  now  give  me  your  hand,  Mr.  Leslie,  in  sign  that 
you  forgive  my  bluntness  ; — it  is  time  to  dress." 

Randal,  with  his  face  still  averted,  extended  his  hand.  Mr. 
Egerton  held  it  a  moment,  then,  dropping  it,  left  the  room. 
Randal  turned  as  the  door  closed.  And  there  was  in  his  dark 
face  a  power  of  sinister  passion,  that  justified  all  Harley's  warn- 
ings. His  lips  moved,  but  not  audibly  ;  then,  as  if  struck  by  a 
sudden  thought,  he  followed  Egerton  into  the  hall. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  I  forgot  to  say,  that  on  returning  from  Maida 
Hill,  I  took  shelter  from  the  rain  under  a  covered  passage,  and 
there  I  met,  unexpectedly,  with  your  nephew,  Frank  Hazeldean." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Egerton,  indifferently,  "  a  fine  young  man  ;  in 
the  Guards.  It  is  a  pity  that  my  brother  has  such  antiquated 
notions  ;  he  should  put  his  son  into  Parliament,  and  under 
my  guidance  ;  I  could  push  him.  Well,  and  what  said 
Frank  ?  " 

"  He  invited  me  to  call  on  him.     I  remember  that  you  once 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  351 

rather  cautioned  me  against  too  intimate  an  acquaintance  with 
those  who  have  not  got  their  fortune  to  make." 

"  Because  they  are  idle,  and  idleness  is  contagious.  Right — 
better  not  to  be  intimate  with  a  young  Guardsman." 

"Then  you  would  not  have  me  call  on  him,  sir  ?  We  were 
rather  friends  at  Eton  ;  and  if  I  wholly  reject  his  overtures, 
might  he  not  think  that  you — " 

"  I  !  "  interrupted  Egerton.  "  Ah,  true  ;  my  brother  might 
think  I  bore  him  a  grudge  ;  absurd.  Call  then,  and  ask  the 
young  man  here.  Yet  still,  I  do  not  advise  intimacy."  ; 

Egerton  turned  into  his  dressing-room.  "  Sir,"  said  his  valet, 
who  was  in  waiting,  "  Mr.  Levy  is  here — he  says,  by  appoint 
ment ;  and  Mr.  Grinders  is  also  just  come  from  the  country." 

"Tell  Mr.  Grinders  to  come  in  first,"  said  Egerton,  seating 
himself.  "  You  need  not  wait ;  I  can  dress  without  you.  Tell 
Mr.  Levy  I  will  see  him  in  five  minutes." 

Mr.  Grinders  was  steward  to  Audley  Egerton. 

Mr.  Levy  was  a  handsome  man,  who  wore  a  camelia  in  his 
button-hole — drove,  in  his  cabriolet,  a  high-stepping  horse  that 
had  cost  ;£2°° ;  was  well  known  to  young  men  of  fashion,  and 
considered  by  their  fathers  a  very  dangerous  acquaintance. 
•  ir/iiu  O9iK.x}({f:.?!b  nonj 
CHAPTER  XII. 

As  the  company  assembled  in  the  drawing-rooms,  Mr.  Egerton 
introduced  Randal  Leslie  to  his  eminent  friends  in  a  way  that 
greatly  contrasted  the  distant  and  admonitory  manner  which  he 
had  exhibited  to  him  in  private.  The  presentation  was  made  with 
that  cordiality  and  that  gracious  respect  by  which  those  who  are  in 
station  command  notice  for  those  who  have  their  station  yet  to  win. 

"  My  dear  Lord,  let  me  introduce  to  you  a  kinsman  of  my  late 
wife's  [in  a.  whisper] — the  heir  to  the  eldest  branch  of  her  family. 
Stanmore,  this  is  Mr.  Leslie,  of  whom  I  spoke  to  you.  You,  who 
were  so  distinguished  at  Oxford,  will  not  like  him  the  worse  for 
the  prizes  he  gained  there.  Duke,  let  me  present  to  you  Mr.  Les- 
lie. The  duchess  is  angry  with  me  for  deserting  her  balls;  I  shall 
hope  to  make  my  peace  by  providing  myself  with  a  younger  and 
livelier  substitute.  Ah,  Mr.  Howard, here  is  a  young  gentleman  just 
fresh  from  Oxford,  who  will  tell  us  all  about  the  new  sect  spring- 
ing up  there.  He  has  not  wasted  his  time  on  billiards  and  horses." 

Leslie  was  received  with  all  that  charmirrg  courtesy  which  is 
the  To  Kalon  of  an  aristocracy. 

After  dinner,  conversation  settled  on  politics,  Randal  listened 
with  attention,  and  in  silence,  till  Egerton  drew  him  gently  out ; 


352  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

just  enough,  and  no  more—just  enough  to  make  his  intelligence 
evident,  without  subjecting  him  to  the  charge  of  laying  down  the 
law.  Egerton  knew  how  to  draw  out  young  men — la  difficult  art. 
It  was  one  reason  why  he  was  so  peculiarly  popular  with  the 
m'ore  rising  members  of  his  party. 

The  party  broke  up  early. 

"We  are  in  time  for  Almack's."- said  Egerton,  glancing  at  the 
clock,  "and  I  have  a  voucher  for  you;  come." 

Randal  followed  his  patron  into  the  carriage.  By  the  way, 
Egerton  thus  addressed  him  : 

"I  shalUritroduce  you  to  the  principal  leaders  of  society;  know 
them  and  study  them.  I  do  not  advise  you  to  attempt  to  do  morej — 
that  is,  to  attempt  to  become  the  fashion.  It  is  a  very  expensive 
ambition;  some  men  it  helps,  most  men  it  ruins.  On  the  whole, 
you  have  better  cards  in  your  hands.  Dance  or  not, as  it  pleases 
you — don't  flirt.  If  you  flirt,  people  will  inquire  into  your  fortune 
— an  inquiry  that  will  do  you  little  good;  and  flirting  entangles  a 
young  man  into  marrying;  that  would  never  do. — Here  we  are." 

In  two  minutes  more  they  'were  in  the  great  ball-room,  and 
Randal's  eyes  were  dazzled  with  the  lights,  the  diamonds,  the 
blaze  of  beauty.  Audle'y  presented  him  in  quick  succession  to 
some  dozen  ladies,  and  then  disappeared  amidst  the  crowd.  Ran- 
dal was  not  at  a  loss;  hewas  without  shyness;  orifhe  had  that  dis- 
abling infirmity,  he  concealed  it.  He  answered  the  languid  ques- 
tions put  to  him  with  a  certain  spirit  that  kept  up  talk,  and  left  a 
favorable  impression  of  his  agreeable  qualities.  But  the  lady  with 
whom  he  got  on  the  best,  was  one  who  had  no  daughters  out,  a  hand- 
some and  witty  woman  of  the  world-^Lady:  Frederick  Coniers. 

"It  is  your  first  ball  at  Almack's  then,  Mr.  Leslie?" 

"My  first." 

"  And  you  have  not  secured  a  partner  ?  Shall  I  frnd  you  one  ? 
What  'do  you  think  of  that  pretty  girl  in  pink  ?" 

"I  see  her — but  I  cannot  think  of  her." 

"You  are  rather,  perhaps,  like  a  diplomatist  in  a  new  court, 
and  your  first  object  is  to  know  who  is  who." 

"I  confess  that  on  beginning  to  study  the 'history  of  my  own 
day,  I  should  like  to  distinguish  the  portraits  that  illustrate  the 
memoir." 

"Give  me  your  arm;  then,  and  we  will  come  into  the  next  room. 
We  shall  see  the  different  notability  enter  one  by  one,  and  observe 
without  being  observed.  This  is  the  least  I  can  do  for  a  friend 
of  Mr.  Egerton's." 

"Mr.  Egerton,  then,"  said  Randal  (as  they  threaded  their  way 
through  the  space  without  the  rope  that  protected  the  dancers) — 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  353 

Mr.  Egerton  has  had  the  good  fortune  to  win  your  esteem, 
even  for  his  friends,  however  obscure? " 

"Why,  to  say  the  truth,  I  think  no  one  whotn  Mr.  Egerton 
calls  his  friend  need  long  remain  obscure,  if  he  has  the  ambition 
to  be  otherwise;  for  Mr.  Egerton  holds  it  a  maxim  never  to 
forget  a  friend,  nor  a  service." 

"  Ah,  indeed  !  "  said  Randal,  surprised. 

"  And,  therefore,"  continued  Lady  Frederick,  "  as  he  passes 
through  life,  friends  gather  round  him.  He  will  rise  even 
higher  yet.  Gratitude,  Mr:  Leslie,  is  a  very  good  policy." 

"  Hem  !  "muttered  Mr.  Leslie. 

They  had  now  gained  the  room  where  tea  and  bread-and-butter 
were  the  homely  refreshments  to  the  habitues  of  what  at  that  day 
was  the  most  exclusive  assembly  in  London.  They  ensconced 
themselves  in  a  corner  by  a  window,  and  Lady  Frederick  per- 
formed her  task  of  cicerone  with  lively  ease,  accompanying  each 
notice  of  the  various  persons  who  passed  panoramically  before 
them  with  sketch  and  anecdote,  sometimes  good-natured,  gen- 
erally satirical,  always  graphic  and  amusing. 

By-and-by,  Frank  Hazeldean,  having  on  his  arm  a  young  lady 
of  haughty  air,  and  with  high  though  delicate  features,  came  to 
the  tea-table. 

"The  last  new  Guardsman,"  said  Lady  Frederick;  "very  hand- 
some, and  notyetquite  spoiled.  Buthehasgotintoadangerousset." 

RANDAL. — :The  young  lady  with  him  is  handsome  enough  to 
be  dangerous. 

LADY  FREDERICK  (laughing). — No  danger  for  him  there, — as 
yet  at  least.  Lady  Mary  (the  Duke  of  Knaresborough's  daughter) 
is  only  in  her  second  year.  The  first  year,  nothing  under  an 
earl',  the  second,  nothing  under  a  baron.  It  will  be  full  four 
years  before  she  comes  down  to  a  commoner.  Mr.  Hazeldean's 
danger  is  of  another  kind.  He  lives  much  with  men  who  are 
not  exactly  mauvais  ton,  but  certainly  not  of  the  best  taste.  'Yet 
he  is  very  young  ;  he  may  extricate  himself — leaving  half  his 
fortune  behind  him.  What,  he  nods  to  you!  You  know  him?" 

"  Very  well  ;  he  is  nephew  to  Mr.  Egerton." 

"  Indeed  !  I  did  not  know  that.  Hazeldean  is  a  new  name 
in  London.  I  heard  his  father  was  a  plain  country  gentleman, 
of  good  fortune,  but  not  that  he  was  related  to  Mr.  Egerton." 

"  Half-brother," 

"  Will  Mr.  Egerton  pay  the  young  gentleman's  debts  ?  He 
has  no  sons  himself." 

RANDAL. — Mr.  Egerton's  fortune  comes  from  his  wife,  from 
my  family — from  a  Leslie,  and  not  from  a  Hazeldean. 


354  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

Lady  Frederick  turned  sharply,  looked  at  Randal's  counte- 
nance with  more  attention  than  she  had  yet  vouchsafed  to  it,  and 
tried  to  talk  of  the  Leslies.  Randal  was  very  short  there. 

An  hour  afterward,  Randal,  who  had  not  danced,  was  still  in 
the  refreshment-room,  but  Lady  Frederick  had  long  quitted  him. 
He  was  talking  with  some  old  Etonians  who  had  recognized 
him,  when  there  entered  a  lady  of  very  remarkable  appearance, 
and  a  murmur  passed  through  the  room  as  she  appeared. 

She  might  be  three  or  four  and  twenty.  She  was  dressed  in 
black  velvet,  which  contrasted  with  the  alabaster  whiteness  of 
her  throat  and  the  clear  paleness  of  her  complexion,  while  it  set 
off  the  diamonds  with  which  she  was  profusely  covered.  Her 
hair  was  of  the  deepest  jet,  and  worn  simply  braided.  Her  eyes, 
too,  were  dark  and  brilliant,  her  features  regular  and  striking ; 
but  their  expression,  when  in  repose,  was  not  prepossessing  to 
such  as  love  modesty  and  softness  in  the  looks  of  woman.  But 
when  she  spoke  and  smiled,  there  was  so  much  spirit  and  vivacity 
in  the  countenance,  so  much  fascination  in  the  smile,  that  all 
which  might  before  have  marred  the  effect  of  her  beauty 
strangely  and  suddenly  disappeared. 

"  Who  is  that  very  handsome  woman  ?  "  asked  Randal. 

"  An  Italian — a  Marchesa  something,"said  one  of  the  Etonians. 

"  Di  Negra," suggested  another,  who  had  been  abroad  :  "she 
is  a  widow  ;  her  husband  was  of  the  great  Genoese  family  of 
Negra' — a  younger  branch  of  it." 

Several  men  now  gathered  thickly  around  the  fair  Italian.  A 
few  ladies  of  the  highest  rank  spoke  to  her,  but  with  a  more  distant 
courtesy  than  ladies  of  high  rank  usually  show  to  foreigners  of  such 
quality  as  Madame  di  Negra.  Ladies  of  a  rank  less  elevated  seemed 
rather  shy  of  her; — that  might  be  from  jealousy.  As  Randal 
gazed  at  the  Marchesa  with  more  admiration  than  any  woman. per- 
haps, had  before  excited  in  him,  he  heard  a  voice  near  him  say — 

"  Oh,  Madame  di  Negra  is  resolved  to  settle  amongst  us  and 
marry  an  Englishman." 

"  If  she  can  find  one  sufficiently  courageous,"  returned  a 
female  voice. 

"  Well,  she's  trying  hard  for  Egerton  ;  and  he  has  courage 
enough  for  anything." 

The  female  voice  replied,  with  a  laugh,  "  Mr.  Egerton  knows 
the  world  too  well,  and  has  resisted  too  many  temptations, 
to  be — " 

"  Hush  !— there  he  is." 

Egerton  came  into  the  room  with  his  usual  firm  step  and  erect 
mien.  Randal  observed  that  a  quick  glance  was  exchanged  be- 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIKE.  355 

tween  him  and  the  Marchesa ;  but  the  minister  passed  her  by 
with  a  bow. 

Still  Randal  watched,  and,  in  ten  minutes  afterward,  Egerton 
and  the  Marchesa  was  seated  apart  in  the  very  same  convenient 
nook  that  Randal  and  Lady  Frederick  had  occupied  an  hour 
or  so  before. 

"  Is  this  the  reason  why  Mr.  Egerton  so  insultingly  warns  me 
against  counting  on  his  fortune  ?  "  muttered  Randal.  "  Does 
he  mean  to  marry  again  ?  " 

Unjust  suspicion  ! — for,  at  that  moment,  these  were  the  words 
that  Audley  Egerton  was  dropping  forth  from  his  lips  of  bronze — 

"  Nay,  dear  madame,  do  not  ascribe  to  my  frank  admiration 
more  gallantry  than  it  merits.  Your  conversation  charms  me, 
your  beauty  delights  me  ;  your  society  is  as  a  holiday  that  I  look 
forward  to  in  the  fatigues  of  my  life.  But  I  have  done  with 
love,  and  I  shall  never  marry  again." 

"  You  almost  pique  me  into  trying  to  win,  in  order  to  reject 
you,"  said  the  Italian,  with  a  flash  from  her  bright  eyes. 

"  I  defy  even  you, "answered  Audley,  with  his  cold  hard  smile. 
"  But  to  return  to  the  point :  You  have  more  influence,  at  least, 
over  this  subtle  ambassador ;  and  the  secret  we  speak  of  I  rely 
on  you  to  obtain  me.  Ah,  madame,  let  us  rest  friends.  You  see 
I  have  conquered  the  unjust  prejudices  against  you  ;  you  are  re- 
ceived an&fetee  everwhere,as  becomes  your  birth  and  attractions. 
Rely  on  me  ever,  as  I  on  you.  But  I  shall  excite  too  much  envy 
if  I  stay  here  longer,  and  am  vain  enough  to  think  that  I  may 
injure  you  if  I  provoke  the  gossip  df  the  ill-natured.  As  the 
avowed  friend,  I  can  serve  you — as  the  supposed  lover,  No — " 
Audley  rose  as  he  said  this,  and,  standing  by  the  chair,  added 
carelessly,  "  Apropos,  the  sum  you  do  me  the  honor  to  borrow 
will  be  paid  to  your  bankers  to-morrow." 

"  A  thousand  thanks  ! — my  brother  will  hasten  to  repay  you." 

Audley  bowed.  "  Your  brother,  I  hope,  will  repay  me  in 
person,  not  before.  When  does  he  come  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  has  again  postponed  his  visit  to  London  ;  he  is  so 
much  needed  in  Vienna.  But  while  we  are  talking  of  him,  allow 
me  to  ask  if  your  friend,  Lord  L'Estrange,  is  indeed  still  so 
bitter  against  that  poor  brother  of  mine  ?  " 

"  Still  the  same." 

"It  is  shameful !  "cried  the  Italian, with  warmth  ;  "what  has 
my  brother  ever  done  to  him  that  he  should  actually  intrigue 
against  the  Count  in  his  own  court." 

"Intrigue!  I  think  you  wrong  Lord  L'Estrange;  hebutrepre- 
sented  what  hebelievedto  be  thetruth,indefence  of  aruined  exile." 


356  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  And  you  will  not  tell  me  where  that  exile  is,  or  if  his 
daughter  still  lives  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Mafchesa,  I  have  called  you  friend,  therefore  I  will 
not  aid  L'Estrange  to  injure  you  or  yours.  But  I  call  L'Estrange 
a  friend  also  ;  and  I  cannot  violate  the  trust  that—"  Audley 
stopped  short,  and  bit  his  lip..  "You  understand  me/'  he  re- 
sumed, withamoregenialsmile  than  usual ;  and  he  took  his  leave. 

The  Italian's  brows  met  as  her  eye  followed  him  ;  then,  as 
she  too  rose,  that  eye  encountered  Randal's. 

"  That  young  man  has  the  eye  of  ah  Italian,"  said  the  Mar- 
chesa  to  herself,  as  she  passed  by  him  into  the  ball-room. 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

LEONARD  and  Helen  settled  themselves  in  two  little  chambers 
in  a  small  lane.  The  neighborhood  was  dull  enough — the 
accommodation  humble;  but  their  landlady  had  a  smile.  That 
was  the  reason,  perhaps,  why  Helen  chose  the  lodgings  ;  a  smile 
is  not  always  found  on  the  face  of  a  landlady  when  the  lodger 
is  poor.  And  out  of  their  windows  they  caught  sight  of  a  green 
tree,  an  elm,  that  grew  up  fair  and  tall  in  a  carpenter's  yard  at 
the  rear.  That  tree  was  like  another  smile  to  the  place.  They 
saw  the  birds  come  and  go  to  its  shelter ;  and  they  even  heard, 
when  a  breeze  arose,  the  pleasant  murmur  of  its  boughs. 

Leonard  went  the  same  evening  to  Captain  Digby's  old  lodg- 
ings ;  but  he  could  learn  there  no  intelligence  of  friends  or  pro- 
tectors for  Helen.  The  people  were  rude  and  surly,  and  said 
that  the  Captain  still  owed  them^i  175.  The  claim,  however, 
seemed  very  disreputable,  and  was  stoutly  denied  by  Helen. 
The  next  morning  Leonard  set  off  in  search  for  Dr.  Morgan. 
He  thought  his  best  plan  was  to  inquire  the  address  of  the 
Doctor  at  the  nearest  chemist's  ;  and  the  chemist  civilly  looked 
into  the  Court  Guide,  and  referred  him  to  a  house  in  Balstrode 
Street,  Manchester  Square.  To  this  street  Leonard  contrived 
to  find  his  way,  much  marvelling  at  the  meanness  of  London  : 
Screwstown  seemed  to  him  the  handsomer  town  of  the  two. 

A  shabby  man-servant  opened  the.  door,  and  Leonard  remarked 
that  the  narrow  passage  was  choked  with  boxes, trunks,and  various 
articles  of  furniture.  He  was  shown  into  a  small  room  containing  a 
•  very  large  round  table,  whereon  were  sundry  works  on  homoeo- 
pathy, Parry's  Cymbrian  Phitarch,  Davies's  Celtic  Researches,  and 
a  Sunday  newspaper.  An  -engraved  portrait  of  the  illustrious 
Hahnemann  occupied  the  place  of  honor,  over  the  chimney- 
piece..  .In  a  few  minutes  the  door  to  an  inner  room  opened,  and 
Dr.  Morgan  appeared,  and  said,  politely,  "Come  in,  sir." 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  357 

The  Doctor  seated  himself  at  a  desk,  looked  hastily  at  Leonard, 
and  then  at. a  great  chronometer  lying  on  the  table.  "My time's 
short,  sir — -going  abroad :  and  now  that  I  am  going,  patients 
flock  to  me.  Too  late.  London  will  repent  its  apathy.  Let  it." 

The  Doctor  paused  majestically,  and  not  remarking  on  Leon- 
ard's face  the  consternation  he  had  anticipated,  he  repeated, 
peevishly, — "I  am  going  abroad,  sir,  but  I  will  make  a  synopsis 
of  your  case,  and  leave  it  to  my  successor.  Hum  !  Hair  chestnut ; 
eyes — what  color?  Lopk  this  way — blue,  dark  blue.  Hem! 
Constitution  nervous.  What  are  the  symptoms?" 

"Sir,"  began  Leonard,  "a  little  girl — " 

DR.  MORGAN  (impatiently).— Little  girl!  Never  mind  the  histo- 
ry of  your  sufferings ;  stick  to  the  symptoms,stick  to  the  symptoms. 

LEONARD. — You  mistake  me,  Doctor ;  I  have  nothing  the 
matter  with  me.  A  little  girl — 

DR.  MORGAN. — Girl  again  !  I  understand  !  it  is  she  who  is  ill ! 
Shall  I  go  to  her?  She  must  describe  her  own  symptoms — I  can't 
judge  from  your  talk.  You'll  be  telling  me  she  has  consumption, 
or  dyspepsia,  or  some  such  disease  that  don't  exist  :  mere  allo- 
pathic inventions — symptoms,  sir,  symptoms.  . 

LEONARD  (forcing  his  way). — You  attended  her  poor  father, 
Captain  Digby,  when  he  was  taken  ill  in  the  coach  with  you. 
He  is  dead,  and  his  child  is  an  orphan. 

PR.  MORGAN  (fumblinginhismedical  pocket-book.)— Orphan! 
nothing  for  orphans,  especially  if  inconsolable,  like  aconite  and 
chamomilla* 

With  some  difficulty  Leonard  succeeded  in  bringing  Helen  to 
the  recollection  of  the  homoeopathist,  stating  how  he  came  in 
charge  of  her,  and  why  he  sought  Dr.  Morga^i. 

The  Doctor  was  much  moved. 

"  But,  really,"  said  he,  after  a  pause,  "  I  don't  see  how  I  can 
help  the  poor  child.  I  know  nothing  of  her  relations.  This  Lord 
Les — whatever  his  name  is — I  know  of  no  lords  in  London.  I 
knew  lords,  and  physicked  them  too,  when  I  was  a  blundering 
allopathist.  There  was  the  Earl  of  Lansmere- — has  had  many  a 
blue  pill  from  me,  sinner  that  I  was.  His  son  was  wiser  ;  never 
would  take  physic.  Very  clever  boy  was  Lord  L'Estrange — " 

"  Lord  L'Estrange  !  that  name  begins  with  Les- — " 

".Stuff  !  He's  always  abroad — shows  his.  sense.  I'm  going 
abroad  too.  No  development  for  science  in  this  horrid  city — 
full  of  prejudices,  sir,  and  given  up  to  the  most  barbarous  allo- 
pathical  andphlebotomical  propensities.  I'm  going  to  the  land  of 
Hahnemann,  sir, — sold  my  good- will,  lease,  and  furniture,  and 

*  It  may  be  necessary  to  observe  that  homoeopathy  professes  to  deal  with  our  moral  affec- 
tions as  well  as  with  our  physical  maladies,  and  has  a  globule  for  every  sorrow. 


358  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

have  bought  in  on  the  Rhine.  Natural  life,  there,  sir — homoeo- 
pathy needs  nature :  dine  at  one  o'clock,  get  up  at  four — tea 
little  known,  and  science  appreciated.  But  I  forget.  Cott ! 
what  can  I  do  for  the  orphan?" 

"Well,  sir,"  said  Leonard,  rising,  "  Heaven  will  give  me 
strength  to  support  her." 

The  Doctor  looked  at  the  young  man  attentively.  "And  yet," 
said  he,  in  a  gentler  voice,  "you,  young  man,  are,by  your  account, 
a  perfect  stranger  to  her,  or  were  so  when  you  undertook  to  bring 
her  to  London.  You  have  a  good  heart — always  keep  it.  Very 
healthy  thing,  sir.  a  good  heart  — that  is,  when  not  carried  to 
excess.  But  you  have  friends  of  your  own  in  town?" 

LEONARD. — Not  yet,  sir  ;     I  hope  to  make  them. 

DOCTOR. — Pless  me,  you  do  ? — How  ? — I  can't  make  any. 

Leonard  colored  and  hung  hishead.  He longed,to  say  "Authors 
find  friends  in  their  readers — I  am  going  to  be  an  author."  But  he 
felt  that  the  reply  would  savor  of  presumption,  and  held  his  tongue. 

The  Doctor  continued  to  examine  him,  and  with  friendly 
interest. 

"  You  say  you  walked  up  to  London — was  that  from  choice 
or  economy  ? " 

LEONARD.— Both,  sir. 

DOCTOR. — Sit  down  again,  and  let  us  talk.  I  can  give  you  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  and  I'll  see  if  I  can  help  either  of  you,  pro- 
vided you  tell  me  all  the  symptoms — I  mean  all  the  particulars. 

Then,  with  that  peculiar  adroitness  which  belongs  to  experi- 
ence in  the  medical  profession,  Dr.  Morgan,  who  was  really  an 
acute  and  able  man,  proceeded  to  put  his  questions,  and  soon 
extracted  from  Leonard  the  boy's  history  and  hopes.  But  when 
the  Doctor,  in  admiration  at  a  simplicity  which  contrasted  so 
evident  an  intelligence,  finally  asked  him  his  name  and  connec- 
tions, and  Leonard  told  them,  the  homoeopathist  actually  started. 
"  Leonard  Fairfield,  grandson  of  my  old  friend,  John  Avenel, 
ofLansmere!  I  must  shake  you  by  the  hand.  Brought  up  by  Mrs. 
Fairfield! — Ah, now  I  look,  strong  family  likeness — very  strong!" 

The  tears  stood  in  the  Doctor's  eyes.     "  Poor  Nora  !  "said  he. 

"  Nora  !     Did  you  know  my  aunt  ?  " 

"  Your  aunt !  Ah  ? — ah  ! — ah  ;  yes — yes  !  Poor  Nora  ! — she 
died  almost  in  these  arms— so  young,  so  beautiful.  I  remem- 
ber it  as  if  yesterday." 

The  Doctor  brushed  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  and  swallowed 
a  globule  ;  and  before  the  boy  knew  what  he  was  about,  had  in 
his  benevolence  thrust  another  between  Leonard's  quivering  lips. 

A  knock  was  heard  at  the  door. 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  359 

"  Ha  !  that's  my  great  patient,"  cried  the  Doctor,  recovering 
his  self-possession — "  must  see  him.  A  chronic  case — excellent 
patient — tic,  sir,  tic.  Puzzling  and  interesting.  If  I  could  take 
that  tic  with  me,  I  should  ask  nothing  more  from  Heaven.  Call 
again  on  Monday  ;  I  may  have  something  to  tell  you  then  as  to 
yourself.  The  little  girl  can't  stay  with  you — wrong  and  non- 
sensical. I  will  see  after  her.  Leave  me  your  address — write 
it  here.  I  think  I  know  a  lady  who  will  take  charge  of  her. 
Good-bye.  Monday  next,  ten  o'clock." 

With  this  the  Doctor  thrust  out  Leonard,  and  ushered  in  his 
grand  patient,  whom  he  was  very  anxious  to  take  with  him  to 
the  banks  of  the  Rhine. 

Leonard  had  now  only  to  discover  the  nobleman  whose  name 
had  been  so  vaguely  uttered  by  poor  Captain  Digby.  He  had 
again  recourse  to  the  Court  Guidey  and  rinding  the  address  of 
two  or  three  lords,  the  first  syllable  of  whose  titles  seemed  simi- 
lar to  that  repeated  to  him,  and  all  living  pretty  near  to  each 
other,  in  the  regions  of  May-Fair,  he  ascertained  his  way  to  that 
quarter^  and,  exercising  his  mother-wit,  inquired  at  the  neigh- 
boring shops  as  to  the  personal  appearance  of  these  noblemen. 
Out  of  consideration  for  his  rusticity  he  got  very  civil  and  clear 
answers  ;  but  none  of  the  lords  in  question  corresponded  with 
the  description  given  by  Helen.  One  was  old,  another  was  ex- 
ceedingly corpulent,  a  third  was  bed-ridden— none  of  them  was 
known  to  keep  a  great  dog.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  name 
of  L'Estrange  (no  habitant  of  London),  was  not  in  the  Court 
Guide ;  and  Mr.  Morgan's  assertion  that  that  person  was  always 
abroad  unluckily  dismissed  from  Leonard's  mind  the  name  the 
homceopathist  had  so  casually  mentioned.  But  Helen  was  not 
disappointed  when  her  young  protector  returned,  late  in  the  day, 
and  teld  her  of  his  ill-success.  Poor  child  !  she  was  so  pleased 
in  her  heart  not  to  be  separated  from  her  new  brother  ;  and 
Leonard  was  touched  to  see  how  she  had  contrived  in  his  absence 
to  give  a  certain  comfort  and  cheerful  grace  to  the  bare  room 
devoted  to  himself.  She  had  arranged  his  few  books  and  papers 
so  neatly,  near  the  window,  in  sight  of  the  one  green  elm.  She 
had  coaxed  the  smiling  landlady  out  of  one  or  two  extra  articles 
of  furniture,  especially  a  walnut-tree  bureau,  and  some  oddsand 
ends  of  ribbon — with  which  last  she  had  looped  up  the  curtains. 
Even  the  old  rush-bottom  chairs  had  a  strange  air  of  elegance, 
from  the  mode  in  which  they  were  placed.  The  fairies  had 
given  sweet  Helen  the  art  that  adorns  a  home,  and  brings  out 
a  smile  from  the  dingiest  corner  of  hut  and  attic. 

Leonard  wondered  and  praised.     He   kissed   his   blushing 


360  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

minislrant  gratefully,  and  they  sate  down  in  joy  to  their  abstemi- 
ous meal;  when  suddenly  his  face  was  overclouded — there  shot 
through  hirh  the  remembrance  of  Dr.Morgan's  words — "Thelittle 
girl  can't  stay  with  you — wrong  and  nonsensical.  J  think  I 
know  a  lady  who  will  take  charge  of  her." 

"Ah,"  cried  Leonard,  sorrowfully,  "  how  could  I  forget?" 
And  he  told  Helen  what  grieved  him.  Helen  at  first  exclaimed, 
"  that  she  would  not  go."  Leonard,  rejoiced,  then  began  to 
talk  as  usual  of  his  great  prospects ;  and,  hastily  finishing  his 
meal,  as  if  .there  was  no  time  to  lose,  sate  down  at  once  to  his 
papers.  Then  :Helen. contemplated. him  sadly,  as  he  bent  over 
his  delighted  work.  And  when,  lifting  his  radiant  eyes  from  his 
manuscripts,  he  exclaimed,  "  No,  no,  you  shall  not  go.  This 
must  succeed— and  we  shall  live  together  in  some  pretty  cottage, 
where  we  can  see  more  than  one  tree  ";  then  Helen  sighed,  and 
did  not  answer  this  time,  "  No,  I  will  not  go."  • 

Shortly  after,  she  stole  from  the  room,  and  into  her  own  ;  and 
there,  kneeling  down,  she  prayed,  and  her  prayer  was  something 
like  this:  "  Guard,  me  against  my  own  selfish  heart;  may  I 
never  be  a  burden  to  him  who  has  shielded  me." 

Perhaps,  as  the  Creator  looks  down  on  this  world,  whose  won- 
drous beauty  beams  on  us  more  and  m.ore  in  proportion  as  our 
science  would  take  it  from  poetry  into  law — perhaps  He  beholds 
nothing  so  beautiful  as  the  pure  heart  of  a  simple,  loving  child. 

n  ?  f  i  1 
CHAPTER  XIV;-' 

LEONARD  went  out  the  next  day  with  his  precious  manuscripts. 
He  had  read  sufficient  of  modern  literature  to  know  the  names 
of  the  .principal  London  publishers  ;  and  to  these  he  took  his 
way  with  a  bold  step,  though  a  beating  heart. 

That  day  he  was  out  longer  than  the  last;  and  when  he  returned, 
and  cdme  into  the  little  room,  Helen  uttered  a  cry,  for  she  scarcely 
recognized  him  ;  there  was  on  his  face  so  deep,  so  silent,  and  so 
concentrated  a  despondency.  He  sate  down  listlessly,  and  did  not 
kiss  her  this  time,  as  she  stole  toward  him.  He  felt  so  humbled. 
He  was  a  king  deposed.  He  take  charge  of  another  life  !  He  ! 

She  coaxed  him^  at  last,  into  communicating  his  day's  chroni- 
cle. The  reader  beforehand  knows  too  well  what  it  must  be,  to 
need  detailed  repetition.  Most  of  the. publishers  had  absolutely 
refused  to  look  at  his  manuscripts;  oneortwoha,d  good-naturedly 
glanced  over  and  returned  them  at  once,  with  a  civil  word  or  two 
of  flat  rejection.  One  publisher  alone — himself  a  man  of  letters 
and  who  in  youth  had  gone  through  the  same  bitter  process  o' 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  30! 

disillusion  that  now  awaited  the  village  genius — volunteered  some 
kindly  though  stern  explanation  and  counsel  to  the  unhappy  boy. 
This  gentleman  read  a  portion  of  Leonard's  principal  poem  with 
attention,  and  even  with  frank  admiration.  He  could  appreciate 
the  rare  promise  that  it  manifested.  He  sympathized  with  the 
boy's  history,  and  even  with  his  hopes ;  and  then  he  said,  in 
bidding  him  farewell, — . 

"  If  I  publish  this  poem  for  you,  speaking  as  a  trader,  I  shall 
be  a  considerable  loser.  Did  I  publish  all  i  admire,  out  of  sym- 
pathy with  the  author,  I  should  be  a  ruined  man.  But  suppose 
that,  impressed  as  I  really  am  with  the  evidence  of  no  common 
poetic  gifts  in  this  manuscript,  I  publish  it,  not  as  a  trader,  but 
a  lover  of  literature,  I  shall  in  reality,  I  fear,  render  you  a  great 
disservice,  and  perhaps  unfit  your  whole  life  for  the  exertions 
on  which  you  must  rely  for  independence." 

*'  How,  sir?"  cried  Leonard — "  Not  that  I  would  ask  you  to 
injure  yourself  for  me,"  he  added,  with  proud  tears  in  his  eyes." 

"  How,  my  young  friend  ?  I  will  explain.  There  is  enough 
talent  in  these  verses  to  induce  very  flattering  reviews  in  some 
of  the  literary  journals.  You  will  read  these,  find  yourself  pro- 
claimed a  poet,  will  cry,  'I  am  on  the  road  to  fame.'  You  will 
come  to  me,  'And  my  poem,  how  does  it  sell  ? '  I  shall  point 
to  some  groaning  shelf,  and  say,  '  Not  twenty  copies  !  '  The 
journals  may  praise,  but  the  public  will  not  buy  it.  '  But  you 
have  got  a  name,1  you  say.  Yes,  a  name  as  a  poet  just  suffi- 
ciently known  to  make  every  man  in  practical  business  disinclined 
to  give  a  fair  trial  to  your  talents  in  a  single  department  of  posi- 
tive life;  none  like  to  employ  poets, — a  name  that  will  not  put 
a  penny  in  your  purse  ;  worse  still,  that  will  operate  as  a  barrier 
against  every  escape  into  the  ways  whereby  men  get  to  fortune. 
But,  having  once  tasted  praise,  you  will  continue  to  sigh  for  it; 
you  will  perhaps  never  again  get  a  publisher  to  bring  forth  a  poem, 
but  you  will  hanker  round  the  purlieus  of  the  Muses,  scribble  for 
periodicals — fall,  at  last  into  a  bookseller's  drudge.  Profits  will 
be  so  precarious  and  uncertain,  that  to  avoid  debt  may  be  impossi- 
ble; then,  you  who  now  seem  so  ingenuous  and  so  proud,  will  sink 
deeper  still  into  the  literary  mendicant — begging,  borrowing — " 

"  Never — never — never !  "  cried  Leonard,  veiling  his  face  with 
his  hands. 

"Such  would  have  been  my  career,"  continued  the  publisher  ; 
"but  I,  luckily,  had  a  rich  relative,  a  trader,  whose  calling  I 
despised  as  a  boy,  who  kindly  forgave  my  folly,  bound  me  as  an 
apprentice,  and  here  J  am;  and  now  I  can  afford  to  write  books, 
as  well  as  sell  them.  Young  man,  you  .  must  have  respectable 


362  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

relations — go  by  their  advice  and  counsel ;  cling  fast  to  some 
positive  calling.  Be  anything  in  this  city  rather  than  poet  by 
profession." 

"  And  how,  sir,  have  there  ever  been  poets  ?  Had  they  other 
callings?" 

"  Read  their  biography,  and  then — envy  them  ! " 

Leonard  was  silent  a  moment;  but,  lifting  his  head,  answered 
loud  and  quickly, — "  I  have  read  their  biography.  True,  their 
lot  was  poverty — perhaps  hunger.  Sir,  I — envy  them  !  " 

"  Poverty  and  hunger  are  small  evils,"  answered  the  book- 
seller, with  a  grave,  kind  smile  ;  "  there  are  worse, — debt,  and 
degradation,  and — despair!" 

"  No,  sir,  no — you  exaggerate  ;  these  last  are  not  the  lot  of 
all  poets." 

"  Right ;  for  most  of  our  greatest  poets  had  some  private  means 
of  their  own.  And  for  others — why,  all  who  have  put  into  a  lottery 
have  not  drawn  blanks.  But  who  could  advise  another  man  to  set 
his  whole  hope  of  fortune  on  the  chance  of  a  prize  in  a  lottery? 
And  such  a  lottery!"  groaned  the  publisher,  glancing  toward 
sheets  and  reams  of  dead  authors,  lying  like  lead  upon  his  shelves. 

Leonard  clutched  his  manuscripts  to  his  heart,  and  hurried 
away. 

"  Yes,"  he  muttered,  as  Helen  clung  to  him,  and  tried  to  console 
— "  yes,  you  were  right;  London  is  very  vast,  very  strong,  and  very 
cruel";  and  his  kead  sank  lower  and  lower  yet  upon  his  bosom. 

The  door  was  flung  widely  open,  and  in,  unannounced,  walked 
Dr.  Morgan. 

The  child  turned  to  him,  and  at  the  sight  of  his  face  she 
remembered  her  father ;  and  the  tears  that,  for  Leonard's  sake, 
she  had  been  trying  to  suppress,  found  way. 

The  good  Doctor  soon  gained  all  the  confidence  of  these  two 
young  hearts.  And  after  listening  to  Leonard's  story  of  his  para- 
dise lost  in  a  day,  he  patted  him  on  the  shoulder  and  said,  "Well, 
you  will  call  on  me  on  Monday,  and  we  will  see.  Meanwhile, 
borrow  these  of  me"; — and  he  tried  to  slip  three  sovereigns  into 
the  boy's  hand.  Leonard  was  indignant.  The  bookseller's  warn- 
ing flashed  on  him.  Mendicancy!  Oh  no,  he  had  not  yet 
come  to  that !  He  was  almost  rude  and  savage  in  his  rejection  ; 
and  the  Doctor  did  not  like  him  the  less  for  it. 

"You  are  an  obstinate  mule,"  said  the  homceopathist,  reluc- 
tantly putting  up  his  sovereigns.  "Will  you  work  at  something 
practical  and  prosy,  and  let  the  poetry  rest  awhile?" 

"Yes,"  said  Leonard,  doggedly,  "I  will  work." 

"Very  well,  then.   I  know  an  honest  bookseller,  and  he  shall 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  363 

give  you  some  employment ;  and  meanwhile,  at  all  events,  you 
will  be  among  books,  and  that  will  be  some  comfort." 

Leonard's  eyes  brightened — "  A  great  comfort,  sir."  Repressed 
the  hand  he  had  before  put  aside  to  his  grateful  heart. 

"But,"  resumed  the  Doctor,  seriously,  "you  really  feel  a 
strong  predisposition  to  make  verses?" 

"I  did,  sir." 

"Very  bad  symptom  indeed,  and  must  be  stopped  before  a 
relapse  !  Here,  I  have  cured  three  prophets  and  ten  poets  with 
this  novel  specific." 

While  thus  speaking,  he  had  got  out  his  book  and  a  globule. 
"  Agaricus  muscarius  dissolved  in  a  tumbler  of  distilled  water — 
teaspoonful  whenever  the  fit  comes  on.  Sir,  it  would  have  cured 
Milton  himself.  And  now  for  you,  my  child,"  turning  to  Helen — 
"I  have  found  a  lady  who  will  be  very  kind  to  you, — not  a  menial 
situation  ;  she  wants  some  one  to  read  to  her,  and  tend  oh  her — 
she  is  old,  and  has  no  children.  She  wants  a  companion,  and 
prefers  a  girl  of  your  age  to  one  older.  Will  this  suit  you?" 

Leonard  walked  away. 

Helen  got  close  to  the  Doctor's  ear,  and  whispered,  "No,  I 
cannot  leave  him  now — he  is  so  sad." 

"  Cott ! "  grunted  the  Doctor,  "  you  two  must  have  been  reading 
Pautand  Virginia.  If  I  could  but  stay  in  England,  I  would  try 
what  ignatia  would  do  in  this  case — interesting  experiment ! 
Listen  to  me — little  girl ;  and  go  out  of  the  room,  you,  sir." 

Leonard,  avertinghis  face,  obeyed.  Helen  made  an  involuntary 
6tep  after  him — the  doctor  detained  and  drew  her  on  his  knee. 

"What's  your  Christian  name? — I  forget." 

"Helen." 

"  Helen,  listen.  In  a  year  or  two  you  will  be  a  young  woman, 
and  it  would  be  very  wrong  then  to  live  alone  with  that  young  man. 
Meanwhile,  you  have  no  right  to  cripple  all  his  energies.  He 
must  not  have  you  leaning  on  his  right  arm — you  would  weigh 
it  down.  I  am  going  away,  and  when  I  am  gone  there  will  be 
no  one  to  help  you,  if  you  reject  the  friend  I  offer  you.  Do  as 
I  tell  you,  for  a  little  girl  so  peculiarly  susceptible  (a  thorough 
pulsatilla  constitution)  cannot  be  obstinate  and  egotistical." 

"  Let  me  see  him  cared  for  and  happy,  sir,"  said  she  firmly, 
"and  I  will  go  where  you  wish." 

"  He  shall  be  so  ;  and  to-morrow,  while  he  is  out,  I.  will  come 
and  fetch  you.  Nothing  so  painful  as  leave-taking—shakes  the 
nervous  system,  and  is  a  mere  waste  of  the  animal  economy." 

Helen  sobbed  aloud  ;  then,  writhing  from  the  Doctor,  she  ex- 
claimed, "  But  he  may  know  where  I  am  ?  We  may  see  each 


364  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

other  sometimes  ?  Ah,  sir,  it  was  at  my  father's  grave  that  we  first 
met,  and  I  think  Heaven  sent  him  to  me.  Do  not  part  us  for  ever!'' 
"I  should  have  a  heart  of  stone  if  I  did,"  cried  the  Doctorl 
vehemently  ;  "and  Miss  Starke  shall  let  him  come  and  visit  you 
once  a  week— I'll  give  her  something  to  make  her.  She  is  nat- 
urally indifferent  to  others  ;  I  will  alter  her  whole  constitution, 
and  melt  her  into  sympathy — with  rhododendron  and  arsenic!" 

CHAPTER  XV. 

BEFORE  he  went,  the  doctor  wrote  a  line  to  "  Mr.  Prickett, 
Bookseller,  Holborn,"  and  told  Leonard  to  take  it,  the  next 
morning  as  addressed.  "  I  will  call  on  Prickett  myself  to-night, 
and. prepare  him  for  your  visit;  but  I  hope  and  trust  you  will 
only  have  to  stay  there  a  few  days." 

He  then  turned  the  conversation,  to  communicate  his  plans 
for  Helen.  Miss  Starke  lived  at  Highgate — a  worthy  woman, 
stiff  and  prim,  as  old  maids  sometimes  are  ;  but  just  the  place 
for  a  little  girl  like  Helen,  and  Leonard  should  certainly  be  al- 
lowed to  call  and  see  her. 

Leonard  listened  and  made  no  opposition  ; — now  that  his  day- 
dream was  dispelled,  he  had  no  right  to  pretend  to  be  Helen's 
protector.  He  could  have  prayed  her  to  share  his  wealth  and 
his  fame  ;  his  penury  and  his  drudgery — no. 

It  was  a  very  sorrowful  evening — that  between  the  adven- 
turer and  the  child.  They  sate  up  late,  till  their  candle  had 
burned  down  to  the  socket ;  neither  did  they  talk  much;  but  his 
hand  clasped  hers  all  the  time,  and  her  head  pillowed  itself  on 
his  shoulder.  I  fear,  when  they  parted  it  was  not  for  sleep. 

And  when  Leonard  weat  forth  the  next  morning,  Helen  stood 
at  the  street-door  watching  him  depart — slowly,  slowly.  No 
doubt,  in  that  humble  lane  there  were  many  sad  hearts  ;  but  no 
heart  so  heavy  as  that  of  the  still,  quiet  child,  when  the  form  she 
had  watched  was  to  be  seen  no  more,  and  still  standing  on  the 
desolate  threshold,  she  gazed  into  space— and  all  was  vacant. 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

MR.  PRICKETT  was  a  believer  in  homoeopathy,  and  declared, 
to  the  indignation  of  all  the  apothecaries  round  Holborn,  that 
he  had  been  cured  of  a  chronic  rheumatism  by  Dr.  Morgan. 
The  good  Doctor  had,  as  he  promised,  seen  Mr.  Prickett  when 
he  left  Leonard,  and  asked  him  as  a  favor  to  find  some  light  oc- 
cupation for  the  boy,  that  would  serve  as  an  excuse  for  a  modest 
weekly  salary.  "  It  will  not  be  for  long,"  said  the  Doctor ;  "  his 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  365 

relations  are  respectable  and  well  off.  I  will  write  to  hisgrand- 
parents,  and  in  a  few  days  I  hope  to  relieve  you  of  the  charge.  Of 
course,if  you  don't  want  him, I  will  repay  what  hecosts  meanwhile." 

Mr.  Prickett,  thus  prepared  for  Leonard,  received  him  Very 
graciously,  and,  after  a  few  questions,  said  Leonard  was  just  the 
person  he  wanted  to  assist  him  in  cataloguing  his  books,  and  of- 
fered him  most  handsomely  £i  a  week  for  the  task. 

Plunged  at  once  into  a  world  of  books  vaster  than  he  had  ever 
before  won  admission  to,  that  old  divine  dream  of  knowledge, 
out  of  which  poetry  had  sprung,  returned  to  the  village  student 
at  the  very  sight  of  the  venerable  volumes.  The  collection  of 
Mr.  Prickett  was,  however,  in  reality  by  no  means  large ;  but 
it  comprised  not  only  the  ordinary  standard  works,  but  several 
curious  and  rare  ones.  ,  And  Leonard  paused  in  making  the 
•  catalogue,  and  took  many  a  hasty  snatch  of  the  contents  of  each 
tome,  as  it  passed  through  his  hands.  .The  bookseller,  who  was 
an  enthusiast  for  old  books,  was  pleased  to  see  a  kindred  feeling 
(which  his  shop-boy  had  never  exhibited)  in  his  new  assistant ; 
and  he  talked  about  rare  editions  and  scarce  copies,  and  initia- 
ted Leonard  into  many  of  the  mysteries  of  the  bibliographist. 

Nothing  could  be  more  dark  and  dingy  than  the  shop.  There 
was  a  booth  outside,  containing  cheap  books  and  old  volumes, 
round  which  there  was  always  an  attractive  group;  within,  a  gas- 
lamp  burned  night  and  day. 

But  time  passed  quickly  to  Leonard.  He  missed  not  the 
green  fields,  he  forgot  his  disappointments;  he  ceased  to  remem- 
ber even  Helen.  O  strange  passion  of  knowledge  !  nothing  like 
thee  for  strength  and  devotion. 

Mr.  Prickett  was  a  bachelor,  and  asked  Leonard  to  dine  with 
:  him  on  a  cold  shoulder  of  mutton.  During  dinner,  the  shop- 
boy  kept  the  shop,  and  Mr.  Prickett  was  really  pleasant^  as  well 
as  loquacious.  He  took  a  liking  to  Leonard — and  Leonard  told 
him  his  adventurers  with  the  publishers,  at  which  Mr.  Prickett 
rubbed  his  hands  and  laughed,  as  at  a  capital  joke.  "Oh,  give 
up  poetry,  and  stick  to  a  shop,"  cried  he;  "and,  to  cure  you 
forever  of  the  mad  whim  to  be  an  author,  I'll  just  lend  you  the 
Life  and  Works  of  Chatterton.  You  may  take  it  home  with  you 
and  read  before  you  go  to  bed.  You'll  come  back  quite  a  new 
man  to-morrow." 

Not  till  night,  when  the  shop  was  closed,  did  Leonard  return 
to  his  lodging.  And  when  he  entered  the  room,  he  was  struck 
to  the  soul  by  the  silence,  by  the  void  ;  Helen  was  gone  ! 

There  was  a  rose-tree  in  its.  pot  on  the  table  at  which  he 
wrote,  and  by  it  a  scrap  of  paper,  on  which  was  written — 


366  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

"  Dear,  dear  brother  Leonard,  God  bless  you.  I  will  let  you 
know  when  we  can  meet  again.  Take  care  of  this  rose,  brother, 
and  don't  forget  poor  HELEN." 

Over  the  word  "forget"  there  was  a  big  round  blistered  spot 
that  nearly  effaced  the  word. 

Leonard  leant  his  face  on  his  hands,  and  the  first  time  in  his  life 
he  felt  what  solitude  really  is.  He  could  not  stay  long  in  the  room. 
Hewalked  outagain,andwandered  objectless  toand  fro  the  streets. 
He  passed  that  stiller  and  humbler  neighborhood,  he  mixed  with 
the  throng  that  swarmed  in  the  more  populous  thoroughfares;  hun- 
dreds and  thousands  passed  him  by,  and  still — still  such  solitude. 

He  came  back,  lighted  his  candle,  and  resolutely  drew  forth 
the  "  Chatterton"  which  the  bookseller  had  lent  him.  It  was  an 
old  edition,  in  one  thick  volume.  It  had  evidently  belonged 
to  some  contemporary  of  the  poet's — apparently  an  inhabitant 
of  Bristol — some  one  who  had  gathered  up  many  anecdotes  re- 
specting Chatterton's  habits,  and  who  appeared  even  to  have 
seen  him,  nay  been  in  his  company  ;  for  the  book  was  inter- 
leaved, and  the  leaves  covered  with  notes  and  remarks,  in  a  stiff 
clear  hand-^all  evincing  personal  knowledge  of  the  mournful, 
immortal  dead.  At  first,  Leonard  read  with  an  effort,  then  the 
strange  and  fierce  spell  of  that  dread  life  seized  upon  him — 
seized  Mrith  pain,  and  gloom,  and  terror — this  boy  dying  by  his 
own  hand,  about  the  age  Leonard  had  attained  himself.  This 
wondrous  boy,  of  a  genius  beyond  all  comparison — the  greatest 
that  ever  yet  was  developed^ — and  extinguished  at  the  age  of 
eighteen ! — self-taught — self-struggling — ^self-immolated.  Noth- 
ing in  literature  like  that  life  and  that  death! 

With  intense  interest  Leonard  perused  the  tale  of  the  brilliant 
imposture,  which  had  been  so  harshly  and  so  absurdly  construed 
into  the  crime  of  a  forgery,  and  which  was  (if  not  wholly  inno- 
cent) so  akin  to  the  literary  devices  always  in  other  cases  viewed 
with  indulgence,  and  exhibiting  in  this  intellectual  qualities  in 
themselves  so  amazing — such  patience,  such  forethought,  such 
labor,  such  courage,  such  ingenuity — the  qualities  that,  well  di- 
rected, make  men  great,  notonly  in  books,  but  action.  And, 
turning  from  the  history  of  the  imposture  to  the  poems  them- 
selves, the  young  reader  bent  before  their  beauty,  literally  awed 
and  breathless.  How  this  strange  Bristol  boy  tamed  and  mas- 
tered his  rude  and  motley  materials  into  a  music  that  compre- 
hended every  tune  and  key,  from  the  simplest  to  the  subh'mest! 
He  turned  back  to. the  biography — he  read  on— he  saw  the  proud, 
daring,  mournful  spirit,  alone  in  the  Great  City  like  himself.  He 
followed  its  dismal,  career,  he  saw  it  falling  with  bruised  and 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  367 

soiled  wings  into  the  mire.  He  turned  again  to  the  later  works, 
wrung  forth  as  tasks  for  bread — the  satires  without  moral  gran- 
deur, the  politics  without  honest  faith.  He  shuddered  and  sick- 
ened as  he  read.  True,  even  here  his  poet  mind  appreciated 
(what  perhaps  only  poets  can)  the  divine  fire  that  burned  fitful- 
ly through  that  meaner  and  more  sordid  fuel — he  still  traced  in 
those  crude,  hasty,  bitter  offerings  to  dire  Necessity,  the  hand 
of  the  young  giant  who  had  built  up  the  stately  verse  of  Rowley. 
But,  alas!  how  different  from  that  "mighty  line."  How  all 
serenity  and  joy  had  fled  from  these  later  exercises  of  art  degrad- 
ed into  journey-work  !  Then  rapidly  came  on  the  catastrophe — 
the  closed  doors — the  poison — the  suicide — the  manuscripts 
torn,  by  the  hands  of  despairing  wrath,  and  strewed  round  the 
corpse  upon  the  funeral  floors.  It  was  terrible  !  The  spectre  of 
the  Titan  boy  (as  described  in  the  notes  written  on  the  margin), 
with  his  haughty  brow,  his  cynic  smile,  his  lustrous  eyes, 
haunted  all  the  night  the  baffled  and  solitary  child  of  song. 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

IT  will  often  happen  that  what  ought  to  turn  the  human  mind 
from  some  peculiar  tendency  produces  the  opposite  effect.  One 
would  think  that  the  perusal  in  the  newspapers  of  some  crime 
and  capital  punishment  would  warn  away  all  who  had  ever  medi- 
tated the  crime,  or  dreaded  the-  chance  of  detection  ;  yet  it  is 
well  known  to  us  that  many  a  criminal  is  made  by  pondering  over 
the  fate  of  some  predecessor  in  guilt.  There  is  a  fascination  in 
the  Dark  and  Forbidden,  which,  strange  to  say,  is  only  lost  in 
fiction.  No  man  is  more  inclined  to  murder  his  nephews,  or  stifle 
his  wife,  after  reading  Richard  the  Third  or  Othello.  It  is  the 
reality  that  is  necessary  to  constitute  the  danger  of  contagion. 
Now,  it  was  this  reality  in  the  fate,  and  life,  and  crowning  suicide 
of  Chatterton,  that  forced  itself  upon  Leonard's  thoughts,  and 
sate  there  like  a  visible  evil  thing,  gathering  evil  like  cloud  around 
it.  There  was  much  in  the  dead  poet's  character,  his  trials  and 
his  doom,  that  stood  out  to  Leonard  like  a  bold  and  colossal 
shadow  of  himself  and  his  fate.  Alas!,  the  bookseller  in  one  re- 
spect, had  said  truly;  Leonard  came  back  to  him  thenextdaya 
new  man  ;  anditseem.ed  even  to  himself  as  if  he  had  lost  a  good 
angel  in  losing  Helen.  "Oh,  that  she  had  been  by  my  side," 
thought  he;  "oh,  that  I  could  have  felt  the  touch  of  her  con- 
fiding hand — that,  looking  up  from  the  scathed  and  dreary  ruin 
of  this  life,  that  had  sublimely  lifted  itself  from  the  plain,  and 
sought  to  tower  aloft  from  a  deluge,  her  mild  look  had  spoken  to 


368  MY    NOVEL ;    OR 

me  of  innocent,  humble,  unaspiring  childhood  !  Ah!  if  indeed  I 
were  still  necessary  to  her — still  the  sole  guardian  and  protector — 
then  could  I  say  to  myself, 'Thou  must  not  despair  and  die ! 
thou  hast  her  to  live  and  to  strive  for.'  But  no,  no  !  Only  this 
vast  and  terrible  London — the  solitude  of  the  dreary  garret,  and 
those  lustrous  ey^s  glaring  alike  through  the  throng  and  through 
the  solitude." 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

ON  the  following  Monday,  Dr.  Morgan's  shabby  man-servant 
opened  the  door  to  a  young  man  in  whom  he  did  not  at  first 
remember  a  former  visitor.  A  few  days  before,  embrowned  with 
healthful  travel — serene  light  in  his  eye,  simple  trust  in  his  careless 
lip — Leonard  Fail-field  had  stood  at  that  threshold.  Now  again 
he  stood  there,  pale  and  haggard,  with  a  cheek  already  hollowed 
into  those  deep  anxious  lines  that  speak  of  working  thoughts  and 
sleepless  nights;  and  a  settled  sullen  gloom  resting  heavily  on 
his  whole  aspect. 

"I  call  by  appointment,"  said  the  boy,  testily,  as  the  servant 
stood  irresolute.  The  man  gave  way.  "  Master  is  just  gone  out 
to  a  patient ;  please  to  wait,  sir";,  and  he  showed  him  into, the 
little  parlor.  In  a  few  moments,  two  other  patients  were  admitted. 
These  were  women,  and  they  began  talking  very  loud.  They 
disturbed  Leonard's  unsocial  thoughts.  He  saw  that  the  door 
into  the  Doctor's  receiving-room  was  half-open,  and  ignorant  of 
the  etiquette  which  holds  such  penetralia  as  sacred,  he  walked  in 
to  escape  from  the  gossips.  He  threw  himself  into  the  Doctor's 
own  well-worn  chair,  and  muttered  to  himself, '!  Why  did  he  tell 
me  to  come?  What  new  can  he  think  of  for  me?  And  if  a 
favor,  should  I  take  it?  He  has  given  me  the  means  of  bread  by 
work;  that,  is  all. I  have  a  right  to  ask  from  him,  from  any 
man — all  I  should  accept."  . 

While  thus  soliloquizing,  his  eye  fell  on  a  letter  lying  open  on 
the  table.  He  started..  He  recognized  the  handwriting' — the  same 
;as  that  of  the  letter  which  had  enclosed  ^50  to  his  mother— the 
letter  of  his  grandparents.  He  saw  his  ownt  name;  ;he  saw  some- 
thing more — words  that  made  his  heart  stand  still,  and  his  blood 
seem  like  ice  in  his  veins.  As  he  thus  stood  aghast,  a  hand  was  laid 
on  the  letter,  and  a  voice,  in  an  angry  growl,  muttered,  "  How  dare 
you  come  into  my  room,  and  be  reading  my  letters?  Er — r — r !" 

Leonard  placed  his  own  hand  on  the  Doctor's  firmly,  and  said, 
in  a  fierce  tone,  "  This  letter  relates  to  me— belongs  to  me — 
crushes  me.  I  have  seen  enough  to  know  that.  I  demand  to 
read  all— learn  all." 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  369 

The  Doctor  looked  round,  and  seeing  the  door  into  the  wait 
ing-room  still  open,  kicked  it  with  his  foot,  and  said  under  hi? 
breath,  "  What  have  you  read  !  Tell  me  the  truth." 

"Two  lines  only;  and  I  am  called — I  am  called — "Leon- 
ard's frame  shook  from  head  to  foot,  and  the  veins  on  his  fore- 
head swelled  like  cords.  He  could  not  complete  the  sentence. 
It  seemed  as  if  an  ocean  was  rolling  up  through  his  brain,  and 
roaring  in  his  ears.  The  Doctor  saw  at  a  glance  that  there  was 
physicaldanger  in  this  state,and  hastily  and  soothingly  answered — 
"  Sit  down,  sit  down — calm  yourself — you  shall  know  all — read 
all — drink  this  water";  and  he  poured  into  a  tumbler  of  the  pure 
liquid  a  drop  or  two  from  a  tiny  phial.  Leonard  obeyed  mechanic- 
ally, for  he  was  no  longer  able  to  stand.  He  closed  his  eyes, 
and  for  a  minute  or  two  life  seemed  to  pass  from  him ;  then  he 
recovered,  and  saw  the  good  Doctor's  gaze  fixed  on  him  with 
great  compassion.  He  silently  stretched  forth  his  hand  toward 
the  letter.  ''Wait  a  few  moments,"  said  the  physician,  judi- 
ciously, "  and  hear  me,  meanwhile.  It  is  very  unfortunate  you 
should  have  seen  a  letter  never  meant  for  your  eye,  and  containing 
allusions  to  a  secret  you  were  never  to  have  known.  But,  if  I  tell 
you  more,  will  you  promise  me,  on  your  word  of  honor,  that  you 
will  hold  the  confidence  sacred  from  Mrs.  Fairfield,  the  Avenels— 
from  all  ?  I  myself  am  pledged  to  conceal  a  secret,  which  I  can 
only  share  with  you  on  the  same  condition." 

"  There  is  nothing,"  announced  Leonard,  indistinctly,  and 
with  a  bitter  smile  on  his  lip — "  nothing,  it  seems,  that  I  should 
be  proud  to  boast  of.  Yes,  I  promise — the  letter,  the  letter." 

The  Doctor  placed  it  in  Leonard's  right  hand,  and  quietly 
slipped  to  the  wrist  of  the  left  his  forefinger  and  thumb,  as  physi- 
cians are  said  to  do  when  a  victim  is  stretched  on  the  rack. 
"  Pulse  decreasing," he  muttered  ;  "wonderful  thing,  Aconite  /" 
Meanwhile  Leonard  read  as  follows,  faults  in  spelling  and  all : 

"DR.  MORGAN.  Sir, — I  received  your  favur  duly,  and  am 
glad  to  hear  that  the  pore  boy  is  safe  and  Well.  But  he  has  been 
behaving  ill,  and  ungrateful  to  my  good  son  Richard,  who  is  a 
credit  to  the  whole  Famuly,  and  has  made  himself  a  Gentleman, 
and  Was  very  kind  and  good  to  the  boy,  not  knowing  who  and 
What  he  is — God  forbid  !  I  don't  want  never  to  see  him  again — 
the  boy.  Pore  John  was  ill  and  Restless  for  days  afterward. 
John  is  a  poor  cretur  now,  and  has  had  paralyticks.  And  hfe 
Talked  of  nothing  but  Nora — the  boy's  eyes  were  so  like  his 
Mother's.  I  cannot,  cannot  see  the  Child  of  Shame.  He  can't 
cum  here — for  our  Lord's  sake,  sir,  don't  ask  it — he  can't,  so 
Respectable  as  we've  always  been  ! — and  such  disgrace  !  Base 


370  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

born — base  born.-  Keep  him  where  he  is,  bind  him  prentis,  I'll 
pay  anything  for  That.  You  says,  sir,  he's  clever,  and  quick  at 
learning ;  so  did  Parson  Dale,  and  wanted  him  to  go  to  Collidge 
and  make  a  Figur — then  all  would  cum  out.  It  would  be  my 
death,  sir  ;  I  could  not  sleep  in  my  grave,  sir.  Nora,  that  we 
were  all  so  proud  of.  Sinful  creturs  that  we  are  !  Nora's  good 
name  that  we've  saved  now,  gone,  gone.  And  Richard,  who  is 
so  grand,  and  who  was  so  fond  of  pore,  pore  Nora  !  He  would 
not  hold  up  his  Head  again.  Don't  let  him  make  a  Figur  in  the 
world — let  him  be  a  tradesman,  as  we  were  afore  him — any  trade 
he  takes  to— and  not  cross  us  any  more  while  he  lives.  Then  I 
shall  pray  for  -him,  and  wish  him  happy.  And  have  not  we  had 
enuff  of  bringing  up  children  to  be  above  their  birth  ?  Nora,  that 
I  used  to  say  was  like  the  first  lady  o'the  land — oh,  but  we  were 
rightly  punished  !  So  now,  sir,  I  leave  all  to  you,  and  will  Pay 
all  you  want  for  the  boy.  .  And  be  sure  that  the  secret's  kept. 
For  we  have  never  heard  from  the  father,  and,  at  leest,  no  one 
knows  that  Nora  has  a  living  son  but.  I  and  my  daughter  Jane, 
and  Parson  Dale  and  you — and  you  Two  are  good  Gentlemen — 
and  Jane  will  keep  her  word,  and  I  am  old,  and  shall  be  in  my 
grave  Soon,  but  I  hope  it  wont  be  while  poor  John  needs  me. 
What  could  he  do  without  me?  And  if  that  got  wind, it  would 
kill  me  straight,  sir.  Pore  John  is  a  helpless  cretur,  God  bless  him. 
So  no  more  from  your  servant  in  all  dooty,  M.  AVENEL." 

Leonard  laid  down  this  letter  very  calmly,  and,  except  by  a 
slight  heaving  at  his  breast,  and  a  deathlike  whiteness  of  his  lips, 
the  emotions  he  felt  were  undetected.  And  it  is  a  proof  how 
much  exquisite  goodness  there  ;was  in  his  heart,  that  the  first 
words  he  spoke  were  "  Thank  Heaven  !  " 

The  Doctor  .did  not  expect  that  thanksgiving,  and  he  was  so 
startled  that  he  exclaimed,  "For  what?" 

"I  have  nothing  to  pity  or  excuse  in  the  woman  I  knew  and 
honored  as  a  mother.  I  am  not  her  son — her — " 

He  stopped  short. 

"  No  ;  but  don't  be  hard  on  your  true  mother — poor  Nora  !  " 

Leonard  staggered  and  then  burst  into  a  sudden  paroxysm 
of  tears. 

**  Oh,  my  own  mother! — my  dead  mother!  Thou  for  whom  I  felt 
so  mysteriously  a  love — thou  from  whom  I  took  this  poet  soul — 
pardon  me,pardon  me!  Hardonthee!  Would  that  thou  wert  living 
yet,  that  I  might  comfort  thee!  What  thou  must  have  suffered  !  " 

These  words  were  sobbed  forth  in  broken  gasps  from  the 
depth  of  his  heart.  Then  he  caught  up  the  letter  again,  and  his 
thoughts  were  changed  as  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  writer's  shame 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  371 

and  fear,  as  it  were,  of  his  very  existence.  All  his  native  haught- 
iness returned  to  him.  His  crest  rose,  his  tears  dried.  "  Tell  her," 
he  said,  with  a  stern,  unfaltering  voice — "  tell  M  rs.  Avenel  that  she 
is  obeyed — that  I  will  never  seek  her  roof,  never  cross  her  path, 
never  disgrace  herwealthy  son.  But  tell  her,  also,  that  I  will  choose 
ray  own  way  in  life — that  I  will  not  take  from  her  a  bribe  for  con- 
cealment. Tell  her  that  I  am  nameless,  and  will  yet  make  a  name." 

A  name !  Was  this  but  an  idle  boast,  or  was  it  one  of  those 
flashes  of  conviction  which  are  never  belied,  lighting  up  our 
future  for  one  lurid  instant,  and  then  fading  into  darkness? 

"I  do  not  doubt  it  my  prave  poy,"  said  Dr.  Morgan, growing 
exceedingly  Welsh  in  his  excitement ;  "and  perhaps  you  may 
find  a  father  who — 

"Father— who  is  he — what  is  he?  He  lives,  then  !  But  he 
has  deserted  me — he  must  have  betrayed  her !  I  need  him  not. 
The  law  gives  me  no  father." 

The  last  words  were  said  with  a  return  of  bitter  anguish;  then, 
in  a  calmer  tone,  he  resumed,  "But  I  should  know  who  he  is — 
as  another  one  whose  path  I  may  not  cross." 

Dr.  Morgan  looked  embarrassed,  and  paused  in  deliberation. 
"Nay,"  said  he  at  length,  "as  you  know  so  much,  it  is  surely 
best  that  you  should  know  all." 

The  Doctor  then  proceeded  to  detail  with  some  circumlocu- 
tion what  we  will  here  repeat  from  his  account  more  succinctly. 

Nora  Avenel,  while  yet  very  young,  left  her  native  village,  or 
rather  the  house  of  Lady  Lansmere,  by  whom  she  had  been  edu- 
cated and  brought  up,  in  order  to  accept  the  place  of  compan- 
ion to  a  lady  in  London.  One  evening,  she  suddenly  presented  her- 
self at  her  father's  house,  and  at  the  sight  of  her  mother's  face 
she  fell  down  insensible.  She  was  carried  to  bed.  Dr.  Morgan 
(then  the  chief  medical  practitioner  of  the  town)  was  sent  for; 
that  night  Leonard  came  into  the  world,  and  his  mother  died. 
She  never  recovered  her  senses,  never  spokeintelligibly  from  the 
time  she  entered  the  house.  "  And  never,  therefore,  named  your 
father,"  said  Dr.  Morgan.  "We  knew  not  who  he  was." 

"  And  how,"  cried  Leonard,  fiercely — "  how  have  they  dared 
to  slander  this  dead  mother?  How  knew  they  that  I — was — 
was — was  not  the  child  of  wedlock  ?" 

"There  was  no  wedding-ring  on  Nora's  finger — never  any 
rumor  of  her  marriage;  her  strange  and  sudden  appearance  at  her 
father's  house — her  emotions  on  entrance,  so  unlike  those  natural 
to  a  wife  returning  to  a  parent's  home;  these  are  all  the  evidence 
against  her.  But  Mrs.  Avenel  deemed  them  strong,  and  so  did  I. 
You  have  a  right  to  think  we  j  udged  too  harshly — perhaps  we  did." 


372  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

''And  no  inquiries  were  ever  made?"  said  Leonard  mourn- 
fully, and  after  a  long  silence — "  no  inquiries  to  learn  who  was 
the  father  of  the  motherless  child  ?" 

"  Inquiries  ! — Mrs.  Avenel  would  have  died  first.  Your  grand- 
mother's nature  is  very  rigid.  Had  she  come  from  princes, 
from  Cadwallader  himself,"  said  the  Welshman,  "she  could  not 
more  have  shrunk  from  the  thought  of  dishonor.  Even  over  her 
dead  child,  the  child  she  had  loved  the  best,  she  thought  but 
how  to  save  that  child's  name  and  memory  from  suspicion.  There 
was  luckily  no  servant  in  the  house,  only  Mark  Fairfield  and  his 
wife  (Nora's  sister) ;  they  had  arrived  the  same  day  on  a  visit. 

"  Mrs.  Fairfield  was  nursing  her  own  infant,  two  or  three  months 
old;  she  took  charge  of  you;  Nora  was  buried,  and  the  secret  kept. 
None  of  the  family  knew  of  it  but  myself  and  the  curate  of  the  town 
— Mr.Dale.  Thedayafteryourbirth,  Mrs.  Fairfield,  to  prevent  dis- 
covery, moved  to  a  village  at  some  distance.  There  her  child  died ; 
and  when  she  returned  to  Hazeldean,  where  her  husband  was  set- 
tled, you  passed  as  the  son  she  had  lost.  Mark,  I  know,  was  asa fath- 
er to  you,  for  he  had  loved  Nora;  they  had  been  children  together." 

"  And  she  came  to  London — London  is  strong  and  cruel," 
.muttered  Leonard.  "  She  was  friendless  and  deceived.  I  see 
all — I  desire  to  know  no  more.  This  father,  he  must  indeed  have 
been  likertliose  whom  I  have  read  of  in  books.  To  love,  to  wrong 
her — that  I  can  conceive  ;  but  then  to  leave,  to  abandon  ;  no  visit 
to  her  grave — no  remorse — no  search  for  his  own  child.  Well, 
well ;  Mrs.  Avenel  was  right.  Let  us,  think  of  him  no  more." 

The  man-servant  knocked  at  the  door,  and  then  put  in  his  head. 
"  Sir,  the  ladies  are  getting  very  impatient,  and  say  they'll  go." 

"  Sir,"  said  Leonard,  with  a  strange  calm  return  to  the  things 
about  him, "  I  ask  your  pardon  for  taking  up  your  tirpe  so  long,  I  go 
now.  I  will  never  mention  to  my  moth — I  mean  to  Mrs.  Fairfield — 
what  I  have  learned,  nor  to  any  one.  I  will  work  my  way  somehow. 
If  Mr.  Prickett  will  keep  me,  Iwill  stay  with  him  at  present ;  butl  re- 
peat, I  cannot  take  Mrs.  Avenel's  money  and  be  bound  apprentice. 
Sir, you  have  been  good  and  patient  with  me,Heaven  reward  you." 

The  Doctor  was  too  moved  to  answer.  He  wrung  Leonard's 
hand,  and  in  another  minute  the  door  closed  upon  the  nameless 
boy.  He  stood  alone  in  the  streets  of  London .;,  and  the  sun 
.flashed  on  him,  red  and  menacing,  like  the  eye  of  a  foe  ! 

-.  f; 
CHAPTER  XIX. 

LEONARD  did  not  appear  at  the  shop  of  Mr.  Prickett  that  day. 
Needless  it  is  to  say  where  he  wandered: — what  he  suffered — 
what  thought — what  felt.  All  within  was  storm.  Late  at  night 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  373, 

he  returned  to  his  solitary  lodging.  On  his  table,  neglected  since 
the  morning,was  Helen's  rose-tree.  It  looked  parched  and  fading. 
His  heart  smote  him  ;  he  watered  the  poor  plant — perhaps  with 
his  tears. 

Meanwhile  Dr.  Morgan,  after  some  debate  with  himself, 
whether  or  not  to  apprise  Mrs.  Avenel  of  Leonard's  discovery 
and  message,  resolved  to  spare  her  an  uneasiness  and  alarm  that 
might  be  dangerous  to  her  health,  and  unnecessary  in  itself. 
He  replied  shortly,  that  she  need  not  fear  Leonard's  coming  to 
her  house — that  he  was  disinclined  to  bind  himself  an  appren- 
tice, but  that  he  was  provided  for  at  present :  and  in  a  few  weeks, 
when  Dr.  Morgan  heard  more  of  him  through  the  tradesman  by 
whom  he  was  employed,  the  doctor  would  write  to  her  from  Get- 
many.  He  then  went  to  Mr.  Prickett's — told  the  willing  book- 
seller to  keep  the  young  man  for  the  present — -tobekindtohim, 
watch  over  his  habits  and  conduct,  and  to  report  to  the  Doctor 
in  his  new  home,  on  the  Rhine,  what  avocation  he  thought  Leon- 
ard would  be  best  suited  for,  and  most  inclined  to  adopt.  The 
charitable  Welshman  divided  with  the  bookseller  the  salary  given 
to  Leonard,  and  left  a  quarter  of  his  moiety  in  advance.  It  is  true 
that  he  knew  he  should  be  repaid  on  applying  to  Mrs.  Avenel ; 
but  being  a  man  of  independent  spirit  himself,  he  so  sympathized 
with  Leonard's  present  f eelings,that  he  felt  as  if  he  should  degrade 
the  boy  did  he  maintain  him,  even  secretly,  out  of  Mrs.  Avenel's 
money— money  intended  not  to  raise,  but  keep  him  down  in  life. 
At  the  worst,  it  was  a  sum  the  Doctor  could  afford,  and  he  had 
brought  the  boy  into  the  world. 

Having  thus,  as  he  thought,  safely  provided  for  his  two  young 
charges,  Helen  and  Leonard,  the  Doctor  then  gave  himself  up 
to  his  final  preparations  for  departure.  He  left  a  short  note  for 
Leonard  with  Mr.  Prickett,  containing  some  brief  advice,  some 
kind  cheering ;  a  postscript  to  the  effect  that  he  had  not  com- 
municated to  Mrs.  Arenel  the  information  Leonard  had  ac- 
quired, and  that  it  was  best  to  leave  her  in  that  ignorance  ;  and 
six  small  powders  to  be  dissolved  in  water,  and  a  teaspoonful 
every  fourth  hour — "Sovereign  against  rage  and  sombre  thoughts," 
wrote  the  Doctor. 

By  the  evening  of  the  next  day,  Dr.  Morgan,  accompanied  by 
his  pet  patient,  with  the  chronic  tic,  whom  he  had  talked  into 
exile,  was  on  the  steamboat  on  his  way  to  Ostend. 

Leonard  resumed  his  life  at  Mr.  Prickett's ;  but  thechangein 
him  did  not  escape  the  bookseller.  All  his  ingenuous  simplicity 
had  deserted  him.  He  was  very  distant  and  very  taciturn  ;  he 
seemed  to  have  grown  much  older.  I  shall  not  attempt  to  analyze 


374  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

metaphysically  this  change.  By  the  help  of  such  words  as  Leonard 
may  himself  occasionally  let  fall,  the  reader  will  dive  into  the 
boy's  heart,  and  see  how  there  the  change  has  worked,  and  is 
working  still.  The  happy,  dreamy,  peasant-genius,  gazingon  Glory 
with  inebriate,  undazzled  eyes,  is  no  more.  It  is  a  man,  suddenly 
cut  off  from  the  old  household  holy  ties — conscious  of  great 
powers,  and  confronted  on  all  sides  by  barriers  of  iron — alone 
with  hard  Reality,  and  scornful  London ;  and  if  he  catches  a 
glimpse  of  the  lost  Helicon,  he  sees,  where' he  saw  the  Muse,  a 
pale  melancholy  spirit  veiling  its  face  in  shame — the  ghost  of  the 
mournful  mother,  whose  child  has  no  name,  not  even  the  hum- 
blest, among  the  family  of  men. 

On  thesecond  evening  afterDr.  Morgan's  departure,  as  Leonard 
was  just  about  to  leave  the  shop,  a  customer  stepped  in  with  a  book 
in  his  hand,  which  he  had  snatched  from  the  shop-boy,  who  was 
removing  the  volumes  for  the  night  from  the  booth  without. 

"  Mr.  Prickett,  Mr.  Prickett ! "  said  the  customer,  "  I  am 
ashamed  of  you.  You  presume  to  put  upon  this  work,  in  two 
volumes,  the  sum  of  eight  shillings." 

Mr.  Prickett  stepped  forth  from  the  Cimmerian  gloom  of  some 
recess,  and  cried,  "What!  Mr.  Burley,  is  that  you?  But  for 
your  voice,  I  should  not  have  known  you." 

"Man  is.  like  a  book,  Mr.  Prickett;  the  commonalty  only 
look  to  his  binding.  I  am  better  bound,  it  is  very  true." 

Leonard  glanced  toward  the  speaker,  who  now  stood  under  the 
gas-lamp,  and  thought  he  recognized  his  face.  He  looked  again. 
Yes  ;  it  was  the  perch-fisher  whom  he  had  met  on  the  banks  of  the 
Brent,  and  who  had  warned  him  of  the  lost  fish  and  the  broken  line. 

MR.  BURLEY  (continuing). — But  the  "Art  of  Thinking!" — 
you  charge  eight  shillings  for  the  "Art  of  Thinking." 

MR.  PRICKETT. — Cheapenough,  Mr.  Burley.  A  vevy  clean  copy. 

MR.  BURLEY. — Usurer  !  I  sold  it  to  you  for  three  shillings. 
It  is  more  than  150  per  cent,  you  propose  to  gain  from  my 
0  Art  of  Thinking." 

MR.  PRICKETT  (stuttering,  and  taken  aback). —  You  sold  it  to 
me!  Ah,  no\v  I  remember.  But  it  was  more  than  three  shillings  I 
gave.  You  forget — two  glasses  of  brandy-and-water. 

MR.  BURLEY. — Hospitality,  sir,  is  not  to  be  priced.  If  you  sell 
your  hospitality,  you  are  not  worthy  to  possess  my  "Art  of  Think- 
ing." I  resume  it.  There  are  three  shillings,  and  a  shilling  more 
for  interest.  No;  on  second  thoughts,  instead  of  that  shilling, I 
will  return  your  hospitality;  and  the  first  time  you  come  my  way 
you  shall  have  two  glasses  of  brandy-and-water. 

Mr.  Prickett  did  not  look  pleased,  but  he  made  no  objection ; 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  375 

and  Mr.  Burley  put  the  book  into  his  pocket,  and  turned  to  ex- 
amine the  shelves.  He  bought  an  old  jest-book,  a  stray  volume 
of  the  "Comedies  of  Destouches  " — paid  for  them — put  them 
also  into  his  pocket,  and  was  sauntering  out — -when  he  perceived 
Leonard,  who  was  now  standing  at  the  doorway. 

"Hem!  who  is  that?"  he  asked,  whispering  Mr.  Prickett. 

"A  young  assistant  of  mine,  and  very  clever." 

Mr.  Burley  scanned  Leonard  from  top  to  toe. 

"Wehavemet  before,  sir.  But  you  look  as  if  you  had  returned 
to  the  Brent,  and  been  fishing  for  my  perch." 

"  Possibly,  sir,"  answered  Leonard.  "  But  my  line  is  tough  and 
is  not  yet  broken,  though  the  fish  drags  it  amongst  the  weeds, 
and  buries  itself  in  the  mud." 

He  lifted  his  hat,  bowed  slightly,  and  walked  on. 

"Hew  clever,"  said  Mr.  Burley  to  the  bookseller ;  "he  under- 
stands allegory." 

MR.  PRICKETT. — Poor  youth  !  He  came  to  town  with  the  idea 
of  turning  author;  you  know  what  that  is,  Mr.  Burley. 

MR.  BURLEY  (with  an  air  of  superb  dignity). — Bibliopole,  yes ! 
An  author  is  a  being  between  gods  and  men,  who  ought  to  be 
lodged  in  a  palace,  and  entertained  at  the  public  charge  upon 
ortolans  and  Tokay.  He  should  be  kept  lapped  in  down,  and 
curtained  with  silken  awnings  from  the  cares  of  life — have  noth- 
ing to  do  but  to  write  books  upon  tables  of  cedar,  and  fish  for 
perch  from  a  gilded  galley.  And  that's  what  will  come  to  pass 
when  the  ages  lose  their  barbarism,  and  know  their  benefactors. 
Meanwhile,  sir,  I  invite  you  to  my  rooms,  and  will  regale  you 
upon  brandy-and-water  as  long  as  I  can  pay  for  it ;  and  when  I 
cannot — you  shall  regale  me." 

Mr.  Prickett  muttered,  "A  very  bad  bargain,  indeed,"  as  Mr. 
Burley,  with  his  chin  in  the  air,  stepped  into  the  street. 

CHAPTER  XX. 

AT  first  Leonardhad  always  returnedhome  through  the  crowded 
thoroughfares — the  contact  of  numbers  had  animated  his  spirits. 
But  the  last  two  days,  since  his  discovery  of  his  birth,  he  had  taken 
his  way  down  the  comparatively  unpeopled  path  of  the  New  Road. 

He  had  just  gained  that  part  of  this  outskirt  in  which  the  stat- 
uaries and  tomb-makers  exhibit  their  gloomy  wares — furniture 
alike  for  gardens  and  for  graves — and,  pausing,  contemplated  a 
column,  on  which  was  placed  an  urn  half  covered  with  a  funeral 
mantle,  when  his  shoulder  was  lightly  tapped,  and,  turning  quick- 
ly, he  saw  Mr,  Burley  standing  behind  him.. 


376  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

" Excuse  me, sir, but  you  understand  perch-fishing;  and  since  we 
find  ourselves  on  the  same  road,  I  should  like  to  be  betteracquaint- 
ed  with  you.  I  hear  you  once  wished  to  be  an  author.  I  am  one." 

Leonard  had  never  before,  to  his  knowledge,  seen  an  author, 
andamournfulsmilepassedhis  lips  as  hesurveyed the  perch-fisher. 

Mr.  Burley  was  indeed  very  differently  attired  since  the  first 
interview  by  the  brooklet.  He  looked  much  less  like  an  author — 
but  more  perhaps  like  a  perch-fisher.  He  had  a  new  white  hat, 
stuck  on  one  side  of  his  head — a  new  green  overcoat — new  gray 
trousers,  and  new  boots.  In  his  hand  was  a  whalebone  stick,  with  a 
silver  handle.  Nothing  could  be  more  vagrant,  devil- me-carish, 
and,  to  use  a  slang  word,  tigrish,  than  his  whole  air.  Yet,  vulgar  as 
was  his  costume,  he  did  not  himself  seem  vulgar,  but  rather  eccen- 
tric— lawless — something  out  of  the  pale  of  convention.  His  face 
looked  more  pale  and  more  puffed  than  before,  the  tip  of  his  nose 
redder  ;  but  the  spark  in  his  eye  was  of  livelier  light,  and  there 
was  self-enjoyment  in  the  corners  of  his  sensual,  humorous  lip. 

"You  are  an  author,  sir,"  repeated  Leonard.  "Well.  And 
what  is  your  report  of  the  calling  ?  Yonder  column  props  an  urn. 
The  column  is  tall,  and  the  urn  is  graceful.  But  it  looks  out  of 
place  by  the  roadside  ;  what  say  you?" 

Mr.  BURLEY.— It  would  look  better  in  the  churchyard. 

LEONARD. — So  I  was  thinking.     And  you  are  an  author ! 

MR.  BURLEY.- — Ah,  I  said  you  had  a  quick  sense  of  allegory. 
And  so  you  think  an  author  looks  better  in  a  churchyard,  when 
you  see  him  but  as  a  muffled  urn  under  the  moonshine,  than 
standing  beneath  the  gas- lamp  in  a  white  hat,  and  with  a  red  tip 
to  his  nose.  Abstractedly,  you  are  right.  But  with  your  leave, 
the  author  would  rather  be  where  he  is.  Let  us  walk  on. 

The  two  men  felt  an  interest  in  each  other,  and  they  walked 
some  yards  in  silence. 

"  To  return  to  the  urn,"  said  Mr.  Burley — "you  think  of  fame 
and  churchyards.  Natural  enough,  before  illusion  dies  ;  but  I 
think  of  the  moment,  of  existence—and  I  laugh  at  fame.  Fame, 
sir — not  worth  a  glass  of  cold  without!  And  as  for  a  glass  of  wann, 
with  sugar — and  five  shillings  in  one's  pocket  to  spend  as  one 
pleases — what  isthere  in  Westminster  Abbey  tocompare  with  it  ? " 

"  Talk  on,  sir — I  should  like  to  hear  you  talk.  Let  me  listen 
and  hold  my  tongue."  Leonard  pulled  his  hat  over  his  brows, 
and  gave  up  his  moody,  questioning,  turbulent  mind  to  his  new 
acquaintance. 

And  John  Burley  talked  on.  A  dangerous  and  fascinating  talk 
it  was — the  talk  of  a  great  intellect  fallen.  A  serpent  trailing  its 
length  on  the  ground,  and  showing  bright,  shining,  glorious  hues 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  377 

a*  it  grovelled.  A  serpent,  yet  without  the  serpent's  guile.  If 
John  Burley  deceived  and  tempted,  he  meant  it  not — he  crawled 
and  glittered  alike  honestly.  No  dove  could  be  more  simple. 

Laughing  at  Fame,  he  yet  dwelt  with  an  eloquent  enthusiasm 
on  the  joy  of  composition.  "What  do  I  care  what  men  without  are 
to  say  and  think  of  the  words  that  gush  forth  on  my  page  ? "  cried 
he.  "If  you  think  of  the  public,  of  urns,  and  laurels,  while  you 
write,  you  are  no  genius  :  you  are  not  fit  to  be  an  author.  I  write 
because  it  rejoices  me — because  it  is  my  nature.  Written,  I  care 
no  more  what  becomes  of  it  than  the  lark  for  the  effect  that  the 
song  has  on  the  peasant  it  wakes  to  the  plough.  The  poet,  like 
the  lark,  sings  '  from  his  watchtower  in  the  skies.'  Is  this  true  ? " 

"Yes,  very  true  !  " 

"What  can  rob  us  of  this  joy  ?  The  bookseller  will  not  buy  ; 
the  public  will  not  read.  Let  them  sleep  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder 
of  the  angels — we  climb  it  all  the  same.  And  then  one  settles 
down  into  such  good-tempered  Lucianic  contempt  for  men.  One 
wants  so  little  from  them, when  one  knows  what  one's-self  is  worth, 
and  what  they  are.  They  are  just  worth  the  coin  one  can  ex- 
tract from  them,  in  order  to  live.  Our  life — that  is  worth  so  much 
to  us.  And  then  their  joys,  so  vulgar  to  them,  we  can  make  them 
golden  and  kingly.  Do  you  suppose  Burns  drinking  at  the  ale- 
house, with  his  boors  around  him,  was  drinking,  like  them,  only 
beer  and  whiskey?  No,  he  was  drinking  nectar — he  was  imbib- 
ing his  own  ambrosial  thoughts — shaking  with  the  laughter  of 
the  gods.  The  coarse  human  liquid  was  just  needed  to  unlock 
his  spirit  from  the  clay — take  it  from  jerkin  and  corduroys,  and 
wrap  it  in  the  '  singing  robes'  that  floated  wide  in  the  skies  ;  the 
beer  or  the  whiskey  needed  but  for  that,  and  then  it  changed 
at  once  into  the  drink  of  the  Hebe.  But  come,  you  have  not 
known  this  life — you  have  not  seen  it.  Come,  give  me  this  night. 
I  have  moneys  about  me — I  will  fling  them  abroad  as  liberally 
as  Alexander  himself,  when  he  left  to  his  share  but  hope.  Come  !" 

"Whither?" 

"  To  my  throne.  On  that  throne  last  sat  Edmund  Kean — 
mighty  mime.  I  am  his  successor.  We  will  see  whether  in  truth 
these  wild  sons  of  genius,  who  are  cited  but  'to  point  a  moral  and 
adorn  a  tale,'  were  objects  of  compassion  Sober-suited  cits  to 
lament  over  a  Savage  and  a  Morland — a  Person  and  a  Burns — !  " 

"Or  a  Chatterton,"  said  Leonard,  gloomily. 

"Chatterton  was  an  impostor  in  all  things  ;  he  feigned  ex- 
cesses that  he  never  knew.  He  a  bacchanalian — a  royster* 
HE  !— no.  We  will  talk  of  him.  Come  !" 

Leonard  went. 


378  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

CHAPTER  XXL 

THE  ROOM!  And  the  smoke-reek,  and  the  gas-glare  of  it! — 
The  whitewash  of  the  walls,  and  the  prints  thereon  of  the  actors 
in  their  mime  robes,  and  stage  postures;  actors  as  far  back  as  their 
own  lost  Augustan  era,  when  the  stage  was  a  real  living  influence 
on  the  manners  and  the  age  !  There  was  Betterton  in  wig  and 
gown — asCato,  moralizing  on  the  soul's  eternity,  and  halting  be- 
tween Plato  and  the  dagger.  There  was  Woodward  as  "  The 
Fine  Gentleman,"  with  the  inimitable  rake-hell  air  in  which  the 
heroes  of  Wycherly  and  Congreve  and  Farquhar  live  again 
There  was  jovial  Quin  as  Falstaff,  with  round  buckler  and  "fair 
round  belly."  There  was  Colley  Gibber  in  brocade — taking 
snuff  as  with  "his  Lord,"  the  thumb  and  forefinger  raised  in  air — 
and  looking  at  you  for  applause.  There  was  Macklin  as  Shylock, 
with  knife  in  hand  ;  andKemble  in  the  solemn  weeds  of  the  Dane; 
and  Kean  in  the  place  of  honor  over  the  chimney-piece. 

When  we  are  suddenly  taken  from  practical  life,  with  its  real 
work-day  men,  and  presented  to  the  portraits  of  those  sole  heroes 
of  a  world  Phantastic  and  Phantasmal,  in  the  garments  wherein 
they  did  "strut  and  fret  their  hour  upon  the  stage,"  verily  there 
is  something  in  the  sight  that  moves  an  inner  sense  within  our- 
selves— for  all  of  us  have  an  inner  sense  of  some  existence,  apart 
from  the  one  that  wears  away  our  days ;  an  existence,  that  afar 
from  St.  James's  and  St.  Giles's,  the  Law  Courts  and  Exchange, 
goes  its  way  in  terror  or  mirth,  in  smiles  or  in  tears,  through  a 
vague  magic  land  of  the  poets.  There,  see  those  actors — they 
are  the  men  who  lived  it — to  whom  our  world  was  the  false  one, 
to  whom  the  Imaginary  was  the  Actual !  And  did  Shakspeare 
himself,  in  his  life,  ever  hearken  to  such  applause  as  thundered 
round  the  personators  of  his  airy  images  ?  Vague  children  of  the 
most  transient  of  the  arts,  fleet  shadows  on  running  waters, 
though  thrown  down  from  the  steadfast  stars,  were  ye  not  hap- 
pier than  we  who  live  in  the  Real?  How  strange  you  must  feel 
in  the  great  circuit  that  ye  now  take  through  eternity  !  No 
prompt-books,  no  lamps,  no  acting  Congreve  and  Shakspeare 
there  !  For  what  parts  in  the  skies  have  your  studies  on  the 
earth  fitted  you  ?  Your  ultimate  destinies  are  very  puzzling. 
Hail  to  your  effigies,  and  pass  we  on  ! 

There,  too,  on  the  whitewashed  walls,  were  admitted  the  por- 
traits of  ruder  rivals  in  the  arena  of  fame — yet  they,  too,  had 
known  an  applause  warmer  than  his  age  gave  to  Shakspeare ; 
the  Champions  of  the  Ring — Crib  and  Molyneux,  and  Dutch 
Sam.  Interspersed  with  these  was  an  old  print  of  Newmarket  in 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  379 

the  early  part  of  the  last  century,  and  sundry  engravings  from 
Hogarth.  But  poets,  oh  !  they  were  there  too;  poets  who  might 
be  supposed  to  have  been  sufficiently  good  fellows  to  be  at  home 
with  such  companions.  Shakspeare,  of  course,  with  his  placid 
forehead  ;  Ben  Jonson,  with  his  heavy  scowl ;  Burns  and  Byron 
cheek  by  jowl.  But  the  strangest  of  all  these  heterogeneous  speci- 
mens of  graphic  art  was  a  full-length  print  of  William  Pitt ! — 
William  Pitt,  the  austere  and  imperious.  What  the  deuce  did  he 
do  there  amongst  prize-fighters,  and  actors,  and  poets?  It  seemed 
an  insult  to  his  grand  memory.  Nevertheless  there  he  was,  very 
erect,  and  with  a  look  of  ineffable  disgust  in  his  upturned  nostrils. 
The  portraits  on  the  sordid  walls  were  very  like  the  crambo  in 
the  minds  of  ordinary  men — very  like  the  motley  pictures  of  the 
FAMOUS  hung  up  in  your  parlor,  O  my  Public  !  Actors  and  prize- 
fighters, poets  and  statesmen,  all  without  congruity  and  fitness, 
all  whom  you  have  been  to  see  or  to  hear  for  a  moment,  and  whose 
names  have  stared  out  in  your  newspapers,  O  my  Public ! 

And  the  company?  Indescribable  !  Comedians,  from  small 
theatres,  out  of  employ ;  pale,  haggard-looking  boys,  probably 
the  sons  of  worthy  traders,  trying  their  best  to  break  their  fathers' 
hearts ;  here  and  there  the  marked  features  of  a  Jew.  Now  and 
then  you  might  see  the  curious  puzzled  face  of  some  greenhorn 
about  town,  or  perhaps  a  Cantab  ;  and  men  of  grave  age,  and 
gray-haired,  were  there,  and  amongst  them  a  wondrousproportion 
of  carbuncled  faces  and  bottle  noses.  And  when  John  Burley 
entered,  there  was  a  shout  that  made  William  Pitt  shake  in  his 
frame.  Such  stamping  and  hallooing,  and  such  hurrahs  for 
"Burly  John."  And  the  gentleman  who  had  filled  the  great  high 
leathern  chair  in  his  absence  gave  it  up  to  John  Burley  ;  and 
Leonard,  with  his  grave,  observant  eye,  and  lip  half  sad  and  half 
scornful,  placed  himself  by  the  side  of  his  introducer.  There 
was  a  nameless  expectant  stir  through  the  assembly,  as  there  is 
in  the  pit  of  the  opera  when  some  great  singer  advances  to  the 
lamps,  and  begins,  "  Di  tanti palpiti."  Time  flies.  Look  at  the 
Dutch  clock  over  the  door.  Half-an-hour.  John  Burley  begins 
to  warm.  A  yet  quicker  light  begins  to  break  from  his  eye  ;  his 
voice  has  a  mellow,  luscious  roll  in  it. 

"  He  will  be  grand  to-night,"  whispered  a  thin  man,  who  looked 
like  a  tailor,  seated  on  the  other  side  of  Leonard 

Time  flies — an  hour !  Look  again  at  the  Dutch  clock.  John 
Burley  is  grand,  he  is  in  his  zenith,  at  his  culminating  point. 
What  magnificent  drollery  !— what  luxuriant  humor  !  How  the 
Rabelais  shakes  in  his  easy-chair !  Under  the  rush  and  the  roar 
of  this  fun  (what  word  else  shall  describe  it?)  the  man's  intellect 


380  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

is  as  clear  as  gold  sand  under  a  river.  Such  wit  and  such  truth, 
and,  at  times,  such  a  flood  of,  quick  eloquence.  •  All  now  are 
listeners — :silent,  save  in  applause.  And  Leonard  listened  too. 
Not,  as  he  would  some  nights  ago,  in  innocent,  unquestioning 
delight.  No  ;  his  mind  has  passed  through  great  sorrow,  great 
passion,  and  it  comes  out  unsettled,  inquiring,  eager,  brooding 
over  joy  itself  as  over  a  problem.  And  the  drink  circulates,  and 
faceschange  ;  andthere  are  gabblingand babbling;  andBurley's 
head  sinks  in  his  bosom,  and  he  is  silent.  And  up  starts  a  wild, 
dissolute^  bacchanalian  glee  for  seven  voices.  And  the  smoke- 
reek  grows  denser  and  thicker,  and  the  gaslight  looks  dizzy 
through  the  haze.  And  John  Burley's  eyes  reel. 

Look. again  at  the  Dutch  clock.  Two  hours  have  gone.  John 
Burley  has  broken  put  again  from  his  silence,  his  voice  thick  and 
husky,  and  his  laugh  cracked  ;  and  he  talks,  O  ye  Gods  !  such 
rubbish  and  ribaldry  ;  and  the  listeners  roar  .aloud,  and  think  it 
finer  than  before.  And  Leonard, who  had  hithertobeen  measuring 
himself  in  his  mind  against  the  giant,  and  saying  inly,  "  He  soars 
out  of  my  reach,"  finds  the  giant  sink  smaller  and  smaller,and  saith 
to  himself,  "  He  is  but  of  man's  common  standard,  after  all ! " 

Look  again  at  the  Dutch  clock.  Three  hours  have  passed.  Is 
John  Burley  now  of  man's  common  standard  ?  Man  himself  seems 
to  have  vanished  from  the  scene ;  his  soul  stolen  from  him,  his 
form  gone  away  with  the  fumes  of  the  smoke,  and  the  nauseous 
steam  from  that  fiery  bowl.  And  Leonard  looked  round  and  saw 
but  the  swine  of  Circe — some  on  the  floor,  some  staggering  against 
the  walls,  some  hugging  each  other  on  the  tables,  some-fighting, 
some  bawling,  some  weeping.  The  divine  spark  had  fled  from 
the  human  face ;  the  Beast  is  everywhere  growing  more  and 
more  out  of  the  thing  that  had  been  Man.  And  John  Burley,  still 
unconquered,  but  clean  lost  to  his  senses,  fancies  himself  a 
preacher,  and  drawls  forth  the  most  lugubrious  sermon  upon  the 
brevity  of  life  that  mortal  ever  heard,  accompanied  with  unctuous 
sobs  ;  and  now  and  then,  in  the  midst  of  balderdash,  gleam?  out 
a  gorgeous  sentence,  that  Jeremy  Taylor  might  have  envied  ; 
drivelling  away  again  into  cadence  below  the  rhetoric  of  a  Mug- 
gletonian.  And  the  waiters  choked  up  the  doorway,  listening  and 
laughing,  and  prepared  to  call  cabs  and  coaches  ;  and  suddenly 
some  one  turned  off  the  gas-light,  and  all  was  dark  as  pitch- 
howls  and  laughter,  as  of  the  damned,  ringing  through  the  Pan- 
demonium. Out  from  the  black  atmosphere  stepped  the  boy- 
poet ;  and  the. still  stars  rushed  on  his  sight,  as  they  looker* 
over  the  grimy  roof-tops. 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  381 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

WELL,  Leonard,  this  is  the  first  time  thou  hast  shown  that  thou 
hast  in  thee  the  iron  out  of  which  true  manhood  is  forged  and  shap- 
ed. Thou  hast  the  power  to  resist.  Forth,  unebriate,  unpolluted,  he 
came  from  the  orgy,  as  yon  star  above  him  came  from  the  cloud. 

He  had  a  latch-key  to  his  lodgings.  He  let  himself  in,  and 
walked  noiselessly  up  the  creaking,  wooden  stair.  It  was  dawn. 
He  passed  on  to  his  window  and  threw  it  open.  The  green  elm- 
tree  from  the  carpenter's  yard  looked  as  fresh  and  fair  as  if  rooted 
in  solitudes,  leagues  away  from  the  smoke  of  Babylon. 

" Nature,  Nature  !"  murmured  Leonard,  "I  hear  thy  voice 
now.  This  stills — this  strengthens.  But  the  struggle  is  very 
dread.  Here,  despair  of  life — there,  faith  in  life.  Nature  thinks 
of  neither,  and  lives  serenely  on." 

By-and-by  a  bird  slid  softly  from  the  heart  of  a  tree,  and 
dropped  on  the  ground  below  out  of  sight.  But  Leonard  heard  its 
carol.  It  awoke  its  companions — wings  began  to  glance  in  the 
air,  and  the  clouds  grew  red  toward  the  east. 

Leonard  sighed  and  left  the  window.  On  the  table,  near  Hel- 
en's rose-tree,  which  he  bent  over  wistfully,  lay  a  letter.  He  had 
not  observed  it  before.  It  was  in  Helen's  hand.  He  took  it  to 
the  light,  and  read  it  by  the  pure  healthful  gleams  of  morn: 

"Oh,  my  dear  brother  Leonard,  will  this  find  you  well,  and 
(more  happy  I  dare  not  say,  but)  less  sad  than  when  we  parted? 
I  write  kneeling,  so  that  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  wrote  and  prayed 
at  the  same  time.  You  may  come  and  see  me' to-morrow  even- 
ing, Leonard.  Do  come,  do— we  shall  walk  together  in  this 
pretty  garden  ;  and  there  is  an  arbor  allcovered  with  jessamine 
and  honeysuckle,  from  which  we  can  look  down  on  London.  I 
have  looked  from  it  so  many  times — so  many — trying  if  I  can 
guess  the  roofs  in  OUT  poor  little  street,  and  fancying  that  I  do 
see  the  dear  elm-tree. 

"Miss  Starke  is  very  kind  to  me;  and  I  think  after  I  have 
seen  you,  that  I  shall  be  happy  here — that  is,  if  you  are  happy. 

"Your  own  grateful  sister, 
"  Ivy  Lodge.  HELEN. 

"P.  S. — Anyone  will  direct  you  to  our  house  ;  it  lies  near  the 
top  of  the  hill,  a  little  way  down  the  lane  that  is  overhung  on  one 
side  with  chestnut  trees  and  lilacs.  I  shall  be  watching  for  you 
at  the  gate." 

Leonard's  brow  softened,  he  looked  again  like  his  former  self. 
Up  from  the  dark  sea  at  his  heart  smiled  the  meek  face  of  a 
child,  and  the  waves  lay  still  as  at  the  charm  of  a  spirit. 


382  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

"AND  what  is  Mr.  Burley,  and  what  has  he  written?"  asked 
Leonard  of  Mr.  Prickett,  when  he  returned  to  the  shop. 

Let  us  reply  to  that  question  in  our  own  words,  for  we  know 
more  about  Mr.  Burley  than  Mr.  Prickett  does. 

John  Burley  was  the  only  son  of  a  poor  clergyman,  in  a  village 
near  Ealing,  who  had  scraped,  and  saved,  and  pinched,  to  send 
his  son  to  an  excellent  provincial  school  in  a  northern  county, 
and  thence  to  college.  At  the  latter,  during  his  first  year,  young 
Burley  was  remarked  by  the  undergraduates  for  his  thick  shoes 
and  coarse  linen,  and  remarkable  to  the  authorities  for  his  assi- 
duity and  learning.  The  highest  hopes  were  entertained  of  him 
by  the  tutors  and  examiners.  At  the  beginning  of  the  second 
year,  his  high  animal  spirits,  before  kept  down  by  study,  broke 
out.  Reading  had  become  easy  to  him.  He  knocked  off  his  tasks 
with  a  facile  stroke,  as  it  were.  He  gave  up  his  leisure  hours  to 
symposia  by  no  means  Socratical.  He  fell  into  an  idle,  hard- 
drinking  set.  He  got  into  all  kinds  of  scrapes.  The  authorities 
were  at  first  kind  and  forbearing  in  their  admonitions,  for  they 
respected  his  abilities,  and  still  hoped  he  might  become  an  honor 
to  the  university.  But  at  last  he  went  drunk  into  a  formal  ex- 
amination, and  sent  in  papers,  after  the  manner  of  Aristophanes, 
containing  capital  jokes  upon  the  Dons  and  Bigwigs  themselves. 
The  offense  was  greater,  and  seemed  the  more  premeditated,  for 
being  clothed  in  Greek.  John  Burley  was  expelled.  He  went 
home  to  his  father's  a  miserable  man,  for,  with  all  his  follies,  he 
had  a  good  heart.  Removed  from  ill  example,  his  life  for  a  year 
was  blameless.  He  got  admitted  as  usher  into  the  school  in 
which  he  had  received  instruction  as  a  pupil.  The  school  was 
in  a  large  town.  John  Burley  became  a  member  of  a  club  formed 
among  the  tradesmen,  and  spent  three  evenings  a  week  there. 
His  astonishing  convivial  and  conversational  powers  began  to 
declare  themselves.  He  grew  the  oracle  of  the  club  ;  and,  from 
being  the  most  sober,  peaceful  assembly  in  which  grave  fathers 
of  a  family  ever  smoked  a  pipe  or  sipped  a  glass,  it  grew  under 
Mr.  Burley's  auspices,  the  parent  of  revels  as  frolicking  and  fran- 
tic as  those  out  of  which  the  old  Greek  Goat  Song  ever  tipsily 
rose.  This  would  not  do.  There  was  a  great  riot  in  the  streets 
one  night,  and  the  next  morning  the  usher  was  dismissed.  For- 
tunately for  John  Burley's  conscience,  his  father  had  died  before 
this  happened — died  believing  in  the  reform  of  his  son.  During 
his  ushership  Mr.  Burley  had  scrnped  acquaintance  with  the  edi- 
tor of  the  county  newspaper,  and  given  him  some  capital  political 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  383 

articles;  for  Burley  was,  like  Parr  and  Person, a  notable  politician. 
The  editor  furnished  him  with  letters  to  the  journalists  in  Lon- 
don, and  John  came  to  the  metropolis  and  got  employed  on  a  very 
respectable  newspaper.  At  college  he  had  known  Audley  Eger- 
ton,  though  but  slightly  ;  that  gentleman  was  then  just  rising  into 
repute  in  Parliament.  Burley  sympathized  with  some  question 
on  which  Audley  had  distinguished  himself,  and  wrote  a  very 
good  article  thereon — an  article  so  good  that  Egerton  inquired 
into  the  authorship,  found  out  Burley,  and  resolved  in  his  own 
mind  to  provide  for  him  whenever  he  himself  came  into  office. 
But  Burley  was  a  man  whom  it  was  impossible  to  provide  for. 
He  soon  lost  his  connection  with  the  newspaper.  First,  he  was 
so  irregular  that  he  could  never  be  depended  upon.  Secondly, 
he  had  strange,  honest,  eccentric  twists  of  thinking,  that  could 
coalesce  with  the  thoughts  of  no  party  in  the  long  run.  An  article 
of  his,  inadvertently  admitted,  had  horrified  all  the  proprietors, 
staff  and  readers  of  the  paper.  It  was  diametrically  opposite  to 
the  principles  the  paper  advocated,  and  compared  its  pet  poli- 
tician to  Catiline.  Then  John  Burley  shut  himself  up  and  wrote 
books.  He  wrote  two  or  three  books,  very  clever,  but  not  at  all 
to  the  popular  taste — abstract  and  learned,  full  of  whims  that 
were  cavaire  to  the  multitude,  and  larded  with  Greek.  Neverthe- 
less they  obtained  for  him  a  little  money,  and  among  literary 
men  some  reputation.  No\v  Audley  Egerton  came  into  power, 
and  got  him,  though  with  great  difficulty — for  there  were  many 
prejudices  against  this  scampish,  harum-scarum  son  of  the 
Muses — a  place  in  a  public  office.  He  kept  it  about  a  month,  and 
then  voluntarily  resigned  it.  "My  crust  of  bread  and  liberty  !" 
quoth  John  Burley,  and  he  vanishedinto  a  garret.  From  that  time 
to  the  preseni  he  lived — Heaven  knows  how!  Literature  is  abusi- 
ness,  like  everything  else  ;  John  Burley  grew  more  and  more  in- 
capable of  business.  "He  could  not  do  task-work,"  he  said;  he 
wrote  when  the  whim  seized  him,  or  when  the  last  penny  was  in 
his  pouch,  or  when  he  was  actually  in  the  spunging-houseor  the 
Fleet — migrations  which  occurred  to  him,  on  an  average,  twice 
a-year.  He  could  generally  sell  what  he  had  actually  written,  but 
no  one  would  engage  him  beforehand.  Editors  of  magazines 
and  other  periodicals  were  very  glad  to  have  his  articles,  on  the 
condition  that  they  were  anonymous  ;  and  his  style  was  not 
necessarily  detected, for  he  could  vary  it  with  the  facility  of  a  prac- 
tised pen.  Audley  Egerton  continued  his  best  supporter,  for 
there  were  certain  questions  on  which  no  one  wrote  with  such 
force  as  John  Burley — questions  connected  with  the  metaphys- 
ics of  politics,  such  as  law  reforms  and  economical  science.  And 


384  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Audley  Egerton  was  the  only  man  John  Burley  put  himself  out 
of  the  way  to  serve,  and  for  whom  he  would  give  up  a  drinking 
bout  and  do  task-work  /  for  John  Burley  was  grateful  by  nature, 
and  he  felt  that  Egerton  had  really  tried  to  befriend  him.  In- 
deed, it  was  true,  as  he  had  stated  to  Leonard  by  the  Brent,  that 
even  after  he  had  resigned  his  desk  in  the  London  office,  he  had 
the  offer  of  an  appointment  in  Jamaica,  and  a  place  in  India, 
from  the  Minister.  But  probably  there  were  other  charms  then 
than  those  exercised  by  the  one-eyed  perch  that  kept  him  to  the 
neighborhood  of  London.  With  all  his  grave  faults  of  character 
and  conduct,  John  Burley  was  not  without  the  fine  qualities  of 
a  large  nature.  He  was  most  resolutely  his  own  enemy,  it  is  true, 
but  he  could  hardly  be  said  to  be  any  one  else's.  Even  when  he 
criticised  some  more  fortunate  writer,  he  was  good-humored  in 
his  very  satire  ;  he  had  no  bile,  no  envy.  And  as  for  freedom 
from  malignant  personalities,  he  might  have  been  a  model  to  all 
critics.  I  must  except  politics,  however,  for  in  these  he  could 
be  rabid  and  savage.  He  had  a  passion  for  independence,  which, 
though  pushed  to  excess,  was  not  without  grandeur.  No  lick- 
platter,  no  parasite,  no  toad-eater,  no  literary  beggar,  no  hunter 
after  patronage  and  subscriptions ;  even  in  his  dealings  with  Aud- 
ley Egerton,  he  insisted  on  naming  the  price  for  his  labors.  He 
took  a  price,  because,  as  the  papers  required  by  Audley  de- 
manded much  reading  and  detail,  which  was  not  at  all  to  his 
taste,  he  considered  himself  entitled  fairly  to  something  more 
than  the  editor  of  the  journal  wherein  the  papers  appeared  was 
in  the  habit  of  giving.  But  he  assessed  this  extra  price  himself, 
and  as  he  would  have  done  to  a  bookseller.  And  when  in  debt 
and  in  prison,  though  he  knew  a  line  to  Egerton  would  have  ex- 
tricated him,  he  never  wrote  that  line.  He  would  depend  alone 
on  his  pen — dipped  it  hastily  in  the  ink,  and  scrawled  himself 
free.  The  most  debased  pointabout  him  was  certainly  the  in- 
corrigible vice  of  drinking,  and  with  it  the  usual  concomitant 
of  that  vice — the  love  of  low  company.  To  be  King  of  the  Bo- 
hemians^-to  dazzle  by  his  wild  humor,  and  sometimes  to  exalt 
by  his  fanciful  eloquence,  the  rude,  gross  natures  that  gathered 
round  him — this  was  a  royalty  that  repaid  him  for  all  sacrifice 
of  solid  dignity;  a  foolscap  crown  that  he  would  not  have  changed 
for  an  emperor's  diadem.  Indeed,  to  appreciate  rightly  the  tal- 
ents of  John  Burley,  it  was  necessary  to  hear  him  talk  on  such  oc- 
casions. As  a  writer,  after  all,  he  was  now  only  capable  of  unequal 
desultory  efforts.  But  as  a  talker,  in  his  own  wild  way, he  was  origi- 
nal and  matchless.  And  the  gift  of  talk  is  one  of  the  most  dan- 
gerous gifts  a  man  can  possess  for  his  own  sake — the  applause  is 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  385 

so  immediate,  and  gained  with  so  little  labor.  Lower,  and  lower, 
and  lower,  had  sunk  John  Burley,  not  only  in  the  opinion  of  all 
who  knew  his  name,  but  in  the  habitual  exercise  of  his  talents. 
And  this  seemed  wilfully — from  choice.  He  would  write  for 
some  unstamped  journal  of  the  populace,  out  of  the  pale  of  the 
law,  for  pence,  when  he  could  haVe  got  pounds  from  journals  of 
high  repute.  He  was  very  fond  of  scribbling  off  penny  ballads^ 
and  then  standing  in  the  street  to  hear  them  sung.  He  actu- 
ally once  made  himself  the  poet  of  an-advertising  tailor,  and  en- 
joyed it  excessively.  But  that  did  not  last  long,  for  John  Burley 
was  a  Pittite — not  a  Tory,  he  used  to  say,  but  a  Pittite.  And  if  you 
had  heard' him  talk  of  Pitt,  you  would  never  have  known  what 
to  make  of  that  great  statesman.  He  treated  him  as  the  German 
commentators  do  Shakspeare,  and  invested  him  with  all  imagin- 
ary meanings  and  objects,  that  would  have  turned  die  grand 
practical  man  into  a  sybil.  Well,  he  was  a  Pittite;  the  tailor  a 
fanatic  for  Thelwall  and  Cobbett.  Mr.  Burley  wrote  a  poem, 
wherein  Britannia  appeared  to  the  tailor,  complimented  him 
highly  on  the  art  he  exhibited  in  adorning  the  persons  of  her  sons; 
and,  bestowing  upon  him  a  gigantic  mantle,;said  that  he,  and 
he  alone,  might  be  enabled  to  fit  it  to  the  shoulders  of  living 
men.  The  rest  of  the  poem  was  occupied  in  Mr.  Snip's  unavail- 
ing attempts  to  adjust  the  mantle  to  the  eminent  politicians  of 
the  day,  when,  just  as  he  had  sunk  down  in  despair,  Britannia 
re-appeared  to  him,  and  consoled  him  with  the  information  that 
he  had  done  all  mortal  man  could  do,  and  that  she  had  only  de- 
sired to  convince  pigmies  that  no  human  art  could  adjust  to  their 
proportions  the  mantle  of  William  Pitt.  Sic  itur  ad  astra — she 
went  back  to  the  stars,  maatle  and  .all !  Mr.  Snip  was  exceed- 
ingly indignant  at  this  allegorical  effusion,  and  with  wrathful 
shears  cut  the  tie  between  himself  and  his  poet. 

Thus,  then,  the  reader  has,  we  trust,  a  pretty  good  idea  of  John 
Btrrley?— a  specimen  of  his  genus,  not.  very  common  in  any  age, 
and  now  happily  almost  -extinct,  since  authors  of  all  degrees 
share  in  the  general  improvement  in  order,  economy,  and  sober 
decorum,  which  has  obtained  in  the  national  manners.  Mr. 
Prickett,  though  icntering  into  less  historical  detail  than  we  have 
done  conveyed  to  Leonard  a  .tolerably  accurate  notion  of  the 
man,  representing  him  as  a  person  of  great  powers  and  learning, 
who  had  thoroughly  thrown  himself  away.  . 

Leonard  did  not,  however,  see  how  much  Mr.Burley  himself  was 

to  be  blamed  for  his  waste  of  life  ;  he  could  not  conceive  a  man  of 

genius  voluntarily  seating  himself  at  the  lowest  step  in  the  social 

•  ladder.  He  rather  supposed  he  had  been  thrust  down  by  Necessity. 


386  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

And  when  Mr.  Prickett,  concluding  said, "  Well, I  should  think 
Burley  would  cure  you  of  the  desire  to  be  an  author  even  more 
than  Chatterton,"  the  young  man  answered,  gloomily, "  Perhaps,'5 
and  turned  to  the  book-shelves. 

With  Mr.  Prickett's  consent,  Leonard  was  released  earlier  than 
usual  from  his  task,  andalittle  before  sunset  he  took  his  way  to 
Highgate.  He  was  fortunately  directed  to  take  the  new  road  by 
the  Regent's  Park,  and' so  on  through  a  very  green  and  smiling 
country.  The  walk,  the  freshness  of  the  air,  the  songs  of  the 
birds,  and,  above  all,  when  he  had  got  half-way,  the  solitude  of 
the  road,  served  to  rouse  him  from  his  stern  and  sombre  medi- 
tations. And  .when  he  came  into  the  lane  overhung'  with  chest- 
nut trees,  andsuddenly  caught  sight  of  Helen's  watchful  and  then 
brightening  face,as;she  stood  by  the  wicket  and  under  the  shadow 
of  cool  murmurous  boughs,  the  blood  rushed  gaily  through  his 
veins,  and  his  heart  beat  loud  and  gratefully. 

:         •  •  , 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

< , .  -  •  .         '  ;  • 

•SHE  drew  him  into  the  garden  with  such  true  childlike  joy. : 

Now  behold  them  seated  in  the  arbor— a  perfect  bpwerof  sweets 
and  blossoms  ;  the  wilderness  of  roof-tops  and  spires  stretching 
below,  broad  and  far ;  London  seen  dim  and  silent,  a&  in  a  dream. 

She  tobk  his  hat  from  his  b'"rows!  gently,  and  looked  him  in  the 
face,  with  tearful,  penetrating  eyes. 

She  did  not  say,  M You  are  changed."  She  said,  "Why, 
why  did  I  leave  you  ? "  and  then  turned  away. 

"Never  mind  me,  Helen;  I  am  man,  and  rudely  born — 
speak  of  yourself.  This  lady  is  kind  to  you  then?" 

"Does  she  not  let  me  see  you.?   Oh!   very:kind-^-and  look  here." 

Helen  pointed  to  fruits  and  cakes  set  out  on  the  table.  "  A 
feast,  brother." 

And  she  began  to  press  her  hospitality  with  pretty  winning 
ways,  more  playful  than  was  usual  to  her,  and  talking  very  East, 
and  with  forced,  but;  silvery,  laughter. 

By  degrees  she  stole  him  from  his  gloom  and  reserve ;  arid 
though  he  could  not  reveal  to  her  the  cause  of  his  bitterest  sor- 
ro'w,  he  owned  that  he  had  suffered  much.  He  would  not,  have 
owned  that  to  another  living  being.  And  then,  quickly  turning 
from  this  brief  confession,  with  assurances  that  the  worst  was 
over,  he  sought  to' amuse  her  by  speaking  of  his  new  acquaint- 
ance with  the  perch-fisher.  But  when  he  spoke  of  this  man  with 
a  kind  of  reluctant  admiration,  mixed  with  Compassionate  yet 
gloomy  interest,  and  drew  a  grotesque,  though  subdued,  sketch 


VARIETIES    m    ENGLISH    LIFE.  387 

of  the  wild  scene  in  which  he  had  been  spectator,  Helen  grew 
alarmed  and  grave. 

"Oh,  brother,  do  not  go  there  again — do  not  see  more  of  this 
bad  man." 

"  Bad! — -no!  Hopeless  and  unhappy,  he  has  stooped  to  stimu- 
lants and  oblivion  ; — but  you  cannot  understand  these  things, 
my  pretty  preacher." 

"Yes,I  do, Leonard.  What  is  the  difference  between  being  good 
and  bad  ?  The  good  do  not  yield  to  temptations,  andthe  bad  do." 

The  definition  was  so  simple  and  so  wise,  that  Leonard  was 
more  struck  with  it  than  he  might  have  been  by  the  most  elabor- 
ate sermon  by  Parson  Dale. 

"  I  have  often  murmured  to  myself,  since  I  lost  you,  'Helen 
was  my  good  angel1; — say  on.  For  my  heart  is  dark  to  myself, 
and  while  you  speak:light  seeuis  to  dawn  on  it." 

This  praise  so  confused  Helen,  that  it  was  long  before  she  could 
obey  the  command  annexed  to  it.  But,  by  little  and  little,  words 
came  to  both  more  frankly.  And  then  he  told  her  the  sad,  tale 
of  Chatterton,  and  waited,  anxious  to  hear  her  comments. 

"Well,"  he  said,  seeing  that  she  remained  silent,  "  how  can  1 
hope, when  this  mighty  genius  labored  and  despaired!  What  did 
he  want,  save  birth  and  fortune,  and  friends,  and  human  justice?" 

"  Did  he  pray  to  God  ? "  asked  Helen,  drying  her  tears. 

Again  Leonard  was  startled.  In  reading  the  life  of  Chatter- 
ton,  he  had  not  much  noted  the  scepticism,  assumed  or  real,  of 
the  ill-fated  aspirer  to;  earthly  immortality.  At  Helen's  ques- 
tion, that  scepticism  struck  him  forcibly. 

"Why  do  you  ask  that,  Helen.?/1 

"  Because,  when  we  pray  ofteri,  wfegrowso  very,  very  patient," 
answered  the  child.  "Perhaps,  had  he  been  patieutaf  ew  months 
more,  all  would  have  been  won  by  him,  as  it  will  be  by  you, 
brother;  for  you  pray,  and  yoiv  will  be  patient." 

Leonard  bowed  his  head  in  deep  thought,  and  this  time  the 
thought  was  not  gloomy.  Then  out  from  that  awful  lite  there 
glowed  another  passage,  which  before  had  he  not  heeded  Tduly, 
but  regarded  rather  as  one  of  the  darkest  mysteries  in  the  fate 
of  Chatterton. 

At  the  very  first -time  the  despairing  poet  had  locked  himself 
up  in  his  garret,  to  dismiss  his  soul  from  its  earthly  ordeal,  his 
genius  had  just  found  its  way  into  the  light  of  renown.  Good, 
and  learned,  and  powerful  men  we're  preparing  to  serve  and 
save  him.  Another  year — nay,  perchance  another  month — and 
he  might  have  stood  acknowledged  and  sublime  in  the  foremost 
rank  of  his  age. 


388  MV    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  Oh,  Helen  !  "  cried  Leonard,  raising  his  brows  from  which 
the  cloud  had  passed,  "why,  indeed,  did  you  leave  me  ?" 
.  Helen  started  in  her  turn  as  he  repeated  this  regret,  and  iri  her 
turn  grew  thoughtful.  At  length  she  asked  him  if  he  had  written 
for  the  box  which  had  belonged  to  her  father,  and  been  left  at 
the  inn. 

And  Leonard,  though  a  little  chafed  at  what  he  thought  a 
childish  interruption  to  themes  of  greater  interest,  owned,  with 
self-reproach,  that  he  had  forgotten  to  do  so.  Should  he  not 
write  now  to  order  the  box  to  be  sent  to  her  at  Miss  Starke's  ? 

"No  ;  let  it  be  sent  to  you.  Take  care  of  it.  I  should  like 
to  know  that  something  of  mine  is  with  you  ;  and  perhaps  I  may 
not  stay  here  long." 

"  Not  stay  here  ?  That  you  must,  my  dear  Helen---at  least  as 
long  as  Miss  Starke  will  keep  you,  and  is  kind.  By-and-by  " 
(added  Leonard,  with  something  of  his  former  sanguine  tone) 
"  I  may  yet  make  my  way,  and  we  shall  have  our  cottage  to  our- 
selves. But — Oh,  Helen  ! — I  forgot— you  wounded  me;  you  left 
your  money  with  me.  I  only  found  it  in  my  drawers  the  other 
1  day.  Fie  ! — I  have  brought  it  back." 

"  It  was  not  mine — it  is>  yours.  We  were  to  share  together — 
you  paid  all ;  and  how  ean  I  want  it  here,  too  ? " 

But  Leonard  was  obstinaite  ;  and  as  Helen  mournfully  received 
back  all  that  of  fortune  her  father  had  bequeathed  to  her,  a  tall 
female  figure  stood  at  the;  entrance  of  the  arbor,  arid  said,  in  a 
voice  that  scattered- all  sentiment  to  the  winds — "Young  man, 
it  is  time  to  go." 

PRApf FR  YYV 

L.-tlAl'i&K  AAV. 

"  ALREADY  ?"  said  Helen,  with  faltering  accents  as  she  crept 
to 'Miss  Starke's  side,  while  Leonard  rose  and  bowed.  "lam 
very  grateful  to  you,  madam."  said  he,  with  the  grace  that  comes 
from  all  refinement  of  idea,  "  for  allowing  me  to  see  Miss  Helen. 
Do  not  let  me  abuse  your  kindness."  n 

Miss  Starke  seemed  struck  with  his  look  and  manner,  and 
make  a  stiff  half-curtsey. 

A  form  more  rigid  than  Miss  Starke's  it  was  hard  to  Conceive. 
She  was  like  the  Grim  White  Woman  in  the  nursery  ballads. 
Yet,  apparently,  there  was  a  good-nature  in  allowing  the  stranger 
to  enter  her  trim  garden,  and  providing  for  him  and  her  little 
charge  these  fruits  and  cakes,  which  belied  her  aspect.  "  May 
I  go  with  him  to  the  gate  ?  "  whispered  Helen,  as  Leonard  had 
already  passed  up  the  path. 

"  You  may,  child  ;  but  do  not  loiter.     And  then:  come  back, 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  389 

and  lock  up  the  cakes  and  cherries,  or  Patty  will  get  at  them." 

Helen  ran  after  Leonard. 

"  Write  to  me,  brother— write  to  me  ;  and  do  not,  do  not  be 
friends  with  this  man,  who  took  you  to  that  wicked,  wicked  place." 

"  Oh,  Helen,  I  go  from  you  strong  enough  to  brave  worse 
dangers  than  that,"  said  Leonard,  almost  gaily. 

They  kissed  each  other  at  the  little  wicket  gate,  and  parted. 

Leonard  walked  home  under  the  summer  moonlight,  and  on 
entering  his  chamber  looked  first  at  his  rose-tree.  The  leaves 
of  yesterday's  flowers  lay  strewn  around  it ;  but  the  tree  had  put 
forth  new  buds. 

"  Nature  ever  restores,"  said  the  young  man.  He  paused  a 
moment  and  added,  "  Is  it  that  Nature  is  very  patient  ? " 

His  sleep  that  night  was  not  broken  by  the  fearful  dreams  he 
had  lately  known.  He  rose  refreshed,  and  went  his  way  to  his 
day's  work,  not  stealing  along  the  less-crowded  paths,  but,  with 
firm  step,  through  the  throng  of  men.  Be  bold,  adventurer: — 
thou  hast  more  to  suffer  !  Wilt  thou  sink  ?  I  look  into  thy 
heart,  and  I  cannot  answer. 

NOTE  ON  HOMOEOPATHY. 

A  gentleman  who  practises  Homoeopathy,  and  who  rejoices  in  the  name  of  Luther,  has 
done  me  the  honor  to  issue  a  pamphlet  in  grave  vindication  of  the  art  of  Hahnemanrv  from 
what  he  conceives  to  be  the  assault  thereon  perpetrated  in  "  My  Novel."  Luther  the  First, 
though  as  combative  as  Luther  the  Second,  did  not  waste  his  polemical  vigor  upon  giants 
of  his  own  making-  It  is  true  that,  though  in  "  My  Novel"  Dr.  Morgan  is  represented  as 
an  able  und  warm-hearted  man,  there  is  a  joke  at  his  humors — what  then  ?  Do  I  turn  the 
art  itself  into  ridicule?  As  well  might  some  dignitary  of  the  Church  accuse  me  of  satiriz- 
ing his  sacred  profession,  whenever  the  reader  is  invited  to  smile  at  the  expense  of  Parson 
Dale, — or  a  country  gentleman  take  up  his  pen  to  clear  the  territorial  class  from  participa- 
tion in  the  prejudices  assigned  to  the  Squire  of  Hazeldean.  Nay,  as  well  might  some  liter- 
ary allopathist  address  to  me  a  homily  on  profaning  the  dignity  of  the  College  of  Physi- 
cians, by  the  irreverent  portraiture  of  Dr.  Dosewell.  "  My  Novel"  is  intended  as  a  survey 
of  varieties  in  English  life,  chiefly  through  >he  medium  of  the  prevailing,  humors  in  various 
modifications  of  character.  Like  other  enthusiasts,  Dr.  Morgan  puSnes  his  favorite  idea 
into  humorous  extravagance — and  must  bear  the  penalty  of  a  good-natured  banter.  If  I  were 
opposed  altogether  to  Homoeopathy,  I  should  take  a  very  different  mode  of  dealing  with 
it  ;  and  Dr.  Morgan,  instead  of  being  represented  as  an  experienced  practitioner  in  allo- 
pathy, converted  to  the  honiceopathical  theory  by  honest  convictions,  and  redeeming  his 
foibles  by  shrewd  observation  and  disinterested  benevolence,  would  be  drawn  as  an  ignorant 
charlatan  and  a  greedy  impostor. 

But  the  fact  is,  that,  if  I  do  n  >t  think  Homoeopathy  capable  of  all  the  wonders  ascribed 
to  it  by  some  of  its  professors,  or  the 'only  scientific  mode  of  dealing  with  human  infirmities, 
I  sincerely  believe  that  it  is  often  resorted  to  with  very  great  benefit — nay,  I  myself  have 
frequently  employed,  and  even  advised  it,  I  opine,  with  advantage.  And  if  it  had  done 
nothing  else  than  introduce  many  notable  reforms  in  aHopathical- practice  it  would  be 
entitled  to  the  profound  gratitude  of  all,  with  stomachs  no  longer  over-irrigated  by  the 
apothecary,  and  veins  no  longer  under-drained  by  the  phlebotomist. 

But  Dr.  Luther  assumes  that  I  have  no  authority  for  the  crotchets  ascribed  to  Dr;  Mor- 
gan— that  it  is  monstrous  in  me  to  assert  that  Homoeopathy  professes  to  have  globules  for 
the  mind  as  well  as  the  body,  that  I  have  evidently  only  read  some1  shallow  catch-penny 
treatises  on  the  subject,  etc.,  etc.  Unlucky  Dr.  Luther  !  Does  he  profess  to  be  a  Hotnoe  • 
opathist,  and  yet  forget  his  JAHR  !  Will  he  tell  me  that  JAHR  is  not  the  great  original 
manual  of  the  science— the  Blackstone  of  Homoeopathy  ?'•  And  what  says  this  master  tex't- 
book  ?  I  quote  therefrom,  not  for  the  purpose  only,  of  justifying  Mr.  Morgan  and  myself 
from  the  charges  so  inconsiderately  brought  against  Us  by  Dr.  Luther,  but  also' for  the  pur- 
pose of  proving  to  the  general  reader,  that  J)r.  Morgan  has  full  authority  for  prescribing 
CAUSTIC  for  tears,  and  AtTARicus  MUSCARIUS  for  the  propensity  to  indulge  in  Terse-making. 
Nay,  I  will  add  that  there  is  not  a  single  prescription  for  mental  disturbance  suggested  bj 


3QO  MY    NOVEL  ;   OR, 

Dr.  Morgan  for  which,  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  tlie •  uninitiated,  he  is  not  warranted  liter- 
ally by 'that  worthy  J  AUK,  which  is  the  ground-work  of  all  homceopathical  literature. 
Imprimis,  O  too  oblivious  Luther,  does  not  JAHR  assign  a  large  section  of  his  manual  to 
Moral  Affections?  Open  vol.  iii.  of  the  Paris  Edition  in  4  vols.,  1850.-— go  on  to  page  236. 
Docs  not  JAHK  precribe  ARSENIC  for  la  Melancolie  noire,  HELLEBORE  for  la  Melancolie 
'douce,  and,  with  the  nice  distinction  only  known  to  homoeopathical  philosophy,  GOLD  for 
la  Melancolie  religieuse?  If  it  be  the  patient's  inclination  to  rest  silent,  must  he  not  take 
IGNATJA — if  he  have  a  desire  to  drown  himself,  should  not  the  globule  be  PULSATILLA  ? 


JAHR  give  you — O  frowning  Luther — a  wide  choice  from  BELLADONNA  to  VEK ATRIUM  ? 
Nay<  if  it  be  in  a  close  apartment  rather  than  the  open  air  that  the  attack  seizes  you, 
should  you  not  ingurgitate  a  pin's  head  of  platinum?  JAHR,- JAHR!  O  Dr.  Luther,  would 
you  have  fallen  into  such  a  scrape,  if  you  had  consulted  your  JAHR  ? 

Turn  to  the  same  volume,  p.  30,  on  M-oral  Emotions,  is  there  not  aglobule  for  an  Amour 
malheureux — for  a  lover  disappointed  are  there  not  Hvos  :  IGN  :  PHOS-AC  ?  Nay,  to  svim 
up  and  clench  the  whole  by  the  very  proposition  which  I  undertook  to  prove,  does  not 
JAHB,  vol.  iii,  p,  255,  recommend  AGARICUS  for  the  disposition  afaire  des  ners  (to  make 
verses),and  more  than  once  or  twice  throughout  the  same  volume,  is  not  CAUSTIC  the  remedy, 
by  preference,  for  a  tendency  to  shed  tears,  provided,  of  course,  other  symptoms  invite  its 
application  ? 

And,  O  Dr.  Luther,  do  you  mean  to  tell  us  that  the  enthusiast  of  an  art,  to  which  this 
book,  by  JAHR,  is  an  acknowledged  text-book,  may  not,  whatever  the  skill  of  the  man  or 
the.  excellence  of  the  art,  or  the  value  of  the  text-book,  jncur  every  one  of  the  extravagances 
imputed  to  Dr.  Morgan,  or  not  freely  lay  himself  open  to  the  gall-less  pleasantries  of  a 
writer  in  search  of  the"  Humorous  ? 

Dr.  Morgan  is  represented  as  one  of  the  earliest  disciples  of  Hahnemann  in  this  country, 
and  therefore  likely,  in  the  zeal  of  a  tyroj  and  the  passion  of  a  convert,  aprunt  consumere 
fotiim — which  Horatian  elegancy  pur  vernacular  has  debased  into  the  familiar  vulgarism, 
"  Go  the  whole  hog."  But  even  in  the  present  day,  I  assure  Dr.  Luther,  and  my  readers 
generally,  that  I  have  met,  abroad,  Homoeopathic  physicians  of  considerable  eminence,  who 
have  seriously  contended  for  the  application  of  globules  to  the  varieties  of  mental  .affliction 
and  human  vicissitude ;  who  have  solemnly  declared  that,  while  the  rest  of  the  family  have 
been  plunged  into  despair  at  the  death  of  its  head,  one  of  the  bereaved  children  resorting 
to  Homoeopathy  has  been  preserved  from  the  depressing  consequence  of  s^rief,  and  been  as 
cheerful  as  usual ;  that  a  lover  who  meditated  suicide  at  the  perfidy  of  his  beloved,  has  in 
ten  days  been  homoeopathically  reduced  into  felicitous  indifference  ;  and  that  there  are 
secrets,  in  the  science  professed  by  Dr.  Luther,  that  cannot  be  too  earnestly  urged  on  his 
own  attention,  by  which  an  irritable  man  may  be  taught  to  control  his  temper,  and  a  dull 
man  to  comprehend  a  joke. 


BOOK  SEVENTH.     INITIAL  CHAPTER. 

MR.  CAXTON  UPON  COURAGE  AND  PATIENCE. 

"WHAT  is  courage  ?"  said  my  Uncle  Roland,  rousing  himself 
from  a  reverie  into  which  lie  had  fallen,  after  the  sixth  book  in 
this  history  had  been  read  to  our  family  circle. 

"  What  is  courage  ? "  he  repeated  more  earnestly.  "  Is  it  insensi- 
bility to  fear?  That  may  be  the  mere  accident  of  constitution  ; 
and,  if  so,  there  is  no  more  merit  in  being  courageous  than  in 
being  this  table." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  you  speak  thus,"  observed  Mr.  Caxton, 
"for  I  should  not  like  to  consider  myself  a  coward  ;  yet  I  am 
very  sensible  to  fear  in  all  dangers,  bodily  and  moral." 

"  La,  Austin,  how  can  you  say  so  ? "  Cried  my  mother,  firing  up  ; 
"was  it  not  only  last  week  that  you  faced  the  great  bull  that  was 
rushing  after  Blanche  and  the  children? " 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  391 

Blanche  at  that  recollection  stole  to  my  father's  chair,  and, 
hanging  .over  his  shoulder,  kissed  his  forehead. 

MR,  CAXTON  (sublimely  unmoved  by  those  flatteries). — I  don't 
deny  that  I  faced  thebull,  but  I  assert  that  I  was  horribly  frightened. 

ROLAND. — The  sense  of  honor  which  conquers  fear  is  the  true 
courage  of  chivalry  :  you  could  not  run  away  when  others  were 
looking  on — no  gentleman  could. 

MR.  CAXTQN. — Fiddlededee  !  It  was  not  on  my  gentility  that  I 
stood,  Captain.  I  should  have  run  fast  enough,  if  it  had  done 
any  good.  I  stood  upon  my  understanding.  As  the  bull  could 
run  faster  than  I  could,  the  only  chance  of  escape  was  to  make 
the  brute  as  frightened  as  myself. 

BLANCHE. — Ah,  you  did  not  think  of  that;  your  only  thought 
was  to  save  me  and  the  children. 

MR.  CAXTON. — Possibly,  my  dear— very  possibly  I  might  have 
been  afraid  for  you  too  ;— but  I  was  very  much  afraid  for  myself. 
However,  luckily,  I  had  the  umbrella,  and  I  sprang  it  up  and 
spread  it  forth  in  the  animal's  stupid  eyes,  hurling  at  him  sim- 
ultaneously the  biggest  lines  I  could  think  of  in  the  First  Chorus 
of  the  "Seven  against  Thebes."  I  began  with  ELEDEMNUS  PEDI- 
OPLOKTUPOS;  and  when  I  came  to  the  grand  howl  of  'loo  ioo, 
iaOj  ico,  the  beast  stood  appalled  as  at  the  roar  of  a  lion.  I  shall 
never  forget  his  amazed  snort  at  the  Greek.  Then  he  kicked  up 
his  hind  legs,  and  went  bolt  through  the  gap  in  the  hedge.  Thus 
armed  with  ^Eschylus  and  the  umbrella,  I  remained  master  of 
the  field  :  but,  (continued  Mr.  Caxton,  ingenuously)!  shauld  not 
like  to  go  through  that  half-minute  again. 

"No  man  would, "said  the  Captain,  kindly.  "I  should  be  very 
sorry  to  face  a  bull  myself,  even  with  a  bigger  umbrella  than 
yours,  and  even  though  I  -had  yEschylus,  and  Homer  to  boot, 
at  my  fingers'  ends." 

MR.  CAXTON, — You  would  not  have  minded  if  it  had  been  a 
Frenchman  with  a  sword  in  his  hand  ? 

CAPTAIN.— Of  course  not.  Rather  liked  it  than  otherwise,  he 
added,  grimly. 

MR.  CAXTON. — Yet  many  a  Spanish  matador,  who  doesn't  care 
a  button  for  a  bull,  would  take  to  his  heels  at  the  first  lunge  en 
quart  from  a  Frenchman.;  Therefore,  in  fact,  if  courage  be  a 
matter  of  constitution,  it  is  also  a  matter  of  custom.  We  face 
calmly  the  dangers  we  are  habituated  to,  and  recoil  from  those  of 
which  we  have  .no  familiar  experience.  I  doubt  if  Marshal  Tur- 
enne  himself  would  have  been  quite  at  his  ease  on  the  tight-rope  ; 
and  a  rope-dancer,  who  seems  disposed  to  scale  the  heavens  with 
Titanic  temerity,  might  possibly  object  to  charge  on  a  cannon. 


392  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

CAPTAIN  ROLAND. — Still  either  this  is  not  the  courage  I  mean, 
or  it  is  another  kind  of  it.  I  mean  by  courage  that  which  is  the 
especial  force  and  dignity  of  the  human  character,  without  which 
there  is  no  reliance  on  principle,  no  constancy  in  virtue — a  some- 
thing,-continued  my  uncle  gallantly,  and  with  a  half-bow  toward 
my  mother,  which  your  sex  shares  with  our  own.  When  the  lover, 
for  instance,  clasps  the  hand  of  his  betrothed,  and  says,  "Wilt 
thoube  true  to  me,  in  spite  of  absence  and  time,  in  spite  of  haz- 
ard and  fortune,  though  my  foes  malign  me,  though  thy  friends 
may  dissuade  thee,  and  our  lot  in  life  may  be  rough  and  rude?" 
and  when  the  betrothed  answers,  "I  will  be  true,"  does  not  the 
lover  trust  to  her  courage  as  well  as  her  love  ? 

"  Admirably  put,Roland,"  said  my  father.  "But  Apropos  of 
what  do  you  puzzle  us  with  these  queries  on  courage?" 

CAPTAIN  .ROLAND  (with  a  slight  blush). — I  was  led  to  the 
inquiry  (though,  perhaps,  it  may  be  frivolous  to  take  so  nruch 
thought  of  .what,  no  doubt,  costs  Pisistratus  so  little)by  the  last 
chaptersin  my  nephew's-  story.  I  see  this  poor  boy  Leonard  alone 
witli  his  fallen  hopes  (though  very  irrational  they  were),  and  his 
sense  of  shame.  And  I  read  his  heart,  I  dare  say;  better  than 
Pisistratus  does,  for  I  could  feel  like  .that  boy  if  I  had  been  in 
the  same  position  ;  and  conjecturing  what  he  and  thousands  like 
him  must  go  through,  I  asked  myself,"  What  can  save  him  and 
them?"  I  answered,  as  a  soldier  would  answer,  "Courage!" 
Very  well.  But  pray,  Austin,  what  is  courage? 

MR,  CAXTON  (prudently  backing  out  of  a  reply). — -Paptef 
Brother,  since  you  have;  just  complimented  the  ladies  on  that 
quality,  you  had  better  address  yotor  question  to  them. 

Blanche  here  leant  both  hands  on  my  father's  chair,  and  said, 
looking  down  at  first  bashfully,  but  afterward  warming  with  the 
subject,  "Do  you  not  think,  sir,  that  little  Helen  has  already  sug- 
gested, if  not  what  is  courage,  what  at  least  is  the  real  essence  of 
all  courage  that  endures  and  -conquers,  that  ennobles  and  hallows, 
and  redeems?  Is  it  not  PATIENCE^  father? — and  that  is  why  we 
women  have  a  courage  of  our  own.  Patience  does  not  affect  to  be 
superior  toifear,  but  at  least  it  never  admits  despair." 

PISISTRATUS. — Kiss  me,  my  Blanche,  for  you  have  come  near 
to  the  truth  which  perplexed  the  isoldier  and  puzzled  the  sage. 

MR.  CAXTON  (tartly).— If  you  mean  me  by  the  sage,  I  was  not 
puzzled  at  all.  Heaven  knows  you  d6  right  to  inculcate  patience — 
it  is  la  virtue  very  much*  required  in  your  readers.  Nevertheless 
(added  my  father,  softening  with  the  enjoyment  of  his  joke )-^- 
nevertheless  Blanche  and  i  Helen  are  quite  right.  Patience  is  the 
courage  of.  the  conqueror  ;  it  is  the  virtue,'/#r  excellence,  of  Man 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  393 

against  Destiny — of- the  One  against  the  World,  and  of  the  Soul 
against  Matter.  Therefore  this  is  the  courage  of  the  Gospel ; 
and  its  importance,  in  a  social  view — its  importance  to  races  and 
institutions — cannot  be  too  earnestly  inculcated.  What  is  it  that 
distinguishes  the  Anglo-Saxon  from  all  other  brandies  of  the 
human  family,  peoples  deserts  with  his  children,  and  consigns 
to  them  the  heritage  of  rising  worlds?  What  but  his  faculty  to 
brave,  to  suffer,  to  endure— the  patience  that  resists  firmly,  and 
innovates  slowly.  Compare  him  with  the  Frenchman.  The 
Frenchman  has  plenty  of  valor — that  there  is  no  denying  ;  but 
as  for  fortitude,  he  has  not  enough  to  cover  the  point  of  a-pin. 
He  is  ready  to  rush  out  of  the  world  if  he  is  bitten  by  a  flea. 

CAPTAIN  ROLAND. — There  was  a  case  in  the  papers  the  other 
day,  Austin,  of  a  Frenchman  who  actually  did  destroy  himself 
because  he  was  so  teased  by  the  little  creatures  you  speak  of. 
He  left  a  paper  on  -his  table,  saying  that  "life  was  hot  worth 
having  at  the  price  of  such  torments."* 

MR.  CAXTON  (solemnly). — Sir,  their  whole  political  history, 
since  the  great  meeting  of  the  TiersJStat,  has  been  the  history  of 
men  who  would  rather  go  to  the  devil  than  be  bitten  by  a  flea. 
It  is  the  record  of  human  impatience,  that  seeks  to  force  time, 
and  expects  to  grow  forests  from  the  spawn  of  a  mushroom. 
Wherefore,  running  through  all  extremes  of  constitutional  experi- 
ment, when  they  are  nearest  to  democracy  they  are  next  door  to  a 
despot ;  and  all  they  have  really  done  is  to  destroy  whatever 
constitutes  the  foundation  of  every  tolerable  government.  :A 
constitutional  monarchy  cannot  exist  without  aristocracy,  nor  a 
healthful  republic  endure  with  corruption  of  manners.  The  cry  of 
Equality  is  incompatible  with  Civilization,  which,  of  necessity, 
contrasts  poverty  with  wealth — and,  in  short,  whether  it  be  an 
emperor  or  a- mob  f  that  is  to  rule,  Force  is  the  sole  hope  of 
order,  and  the  government  is  but  an  army. 

"Impress,  O  Pisistratus  !  impress  the  value  of  patience  asre- 
gards.man  and  men.  You  touch  there  on  the  kernel  ofthesocial 
system: — the  secret  that  fortifies  the  individual  and  disciplines 
the  million.  I  care  not,  for  my  part,  if  you  are  tedious,  so  Ion  gas 
you  are  earnest.  Be  minute  and  detailed.  Let  the  real  Human 
Life,init&warwithCircumstance,standout.  Never  mind  if  one  can 
read  you  but  slowly — better  chance  of  being  lessquickly  forgotten. 

*  Fact.  In  a  work  by  M.  GIBERT,  a  celebrated  French  physician  on  diseases  of  the 
skin,  he  states  that  that  minute,  troublesome  kind  of  rash,  known  by  the  name  of  'prurifo, 
though  not  dangerous  in  itself,  has  often  driven  the  individual  afflicted  by  it  to- — suicide, 
I  believe  that  our  more  varying  climate,  and  our  more  heating  drinks  and  aliments,  render 
this  skin  complaint  more  common  in  England:  than  in  France,  yet  I  doubt  if  any  English 
physician  could  state  that  it  had  ever  driven  orie  of  his  English  patients 'to  ;Suicide. 

t  Published  more  than  a  year  before  the  dale  of  the  French  empire  under  Louis  Napoleon. 


394  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

Patience,  patience!  By  the  soul  of  Epictetus,  your  readers  shall  set 
you  an  example ! " 

CHAPTER  II. 

LEONARD  had  written  twice  to  Mrs.  Fairfield,  twice  to  Ric- 
cabocca,  and  once  to  Mr.  Dale  ;  and  the  poor  proud  boy  could 
not  bear  to  betray  his  humiliation.  He  wrote  as  with  cheerful 
spirits — as  if  perfectly  satisfied  with  his  prospects.  He  said  that 
he  was  well  employed,  in  the  midst  of  books,  and  that  he  had 
found  kind  friends.  Then  he  turned  from  himself  to  write  about 
those  whom  he  addressed,  and  the  affairs  and  interests  of  the 
quiet  world  wherein  they  lived.  He  did  not  give  his  own  ad- 
dress, nor  that  of  Mr.  Prickett.  He  dated  his  letters  from  a 
small  coffee-house  near  the  bookseller's,  to  which  he  occasion-* 
ally  went  for  his  simple  meals.  He  had  a  motive  in  this.  He 
did  not  desire  to  be  found  out.  Mr.  Dale  replied  for  himself 
and  for  Mrs.  Fairfield,  to  the  epistles  addressed  to  these  two,  Ric- 
cabocca  wrote  also.  Nothing  could  be  more  kind  than' the  replies 
of  both.  They  came  to  Leonard  in  a  very  dark  period  in  his  life, 
and  they  strengthened  him  in  the  noiseless  battle  with  despair. 

If  there  be  a  good  in  the  world  that  we  do  without  knowing 
it,  without  conjecturing  the  effect  it  may  have  upon  a  human 
soul,  it  is  when  we  show  kindness  to  the  young  in  the  first  bar- 
ren foot-path  up  the  mountain  of  life. 

Leonard's  face  resumed  its  serenity  in  his  intercourse  with  his 
employer  ;  but  he  did  not  recover  his  boyish  ingenuous  frank- 
ness. The  undercurrents  flowed  again  pure  from  the  turbid 
soil  and  the  splintered  fragments  uptorn  from  the  deep  ;  but 
they- were  still  too  strong  and  too  rapid  to  allow  transparency 
to  the  surface.  And  now  he  stood  in  the  sublime  world  of  books, 
still  and  earnest  as  a  seer  who  invokes  the  dead.  And  thus,  face 
to  face  with  knowledge,  hourly  he  discovered  how  little  he  knew. 
Mr.  Prickett  lent  him  such  works  as  he  selected  and  asked  to 
take  home  with  him.  He  spent  whole  nights  in  reading ;  and  no 
longer  desultorily.  He  read  no  -more  poetry,  no  more  Lives  of 
Poets.  He  read  what^poets  must  read  if  they  desire  to  be  great 
— Sapere principium  ctfons — strict  reasonings  on  the  human  mind r 
the  relations  between  motive  and  conduct,  thought  and  action,  the 
grave  and  solemn  truths  of  the  past  world;  antiquities,  history, 
philosophy.  He  was  taken  out  of  himself.  ,  He  was.carried  along 
the  ocean  of  the  universe.  In  that  ocean,  O  seeker,  study  the 
law  of  the  tides  ;  and  seeing  Chance  nowhere — Thought  presid- 
ing over  all,— Fate,that  dread  phantom,  shall  vanish  from  crea- 
tion, and  Providence  alone  be  visible  in  heaven  and  on  earth  ! 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  39$ 

CHAPTER  III. 

THERE  was  to  be  a  considerable  book-sale  at  a  country  house 
one  day's  journey  from  London.  Mr.  Prickett  meant  to  have 
attended  it  on  his  own  behalf,  and  that  of  several  gentlemen  who 
had  given  him  commissions  for  purchase  ;  but,  on  the  morning 
fixed  for  his  departure,  he  was  seized  with  a  severe  return  of  his 
old  foe,  the  rheumatism.  He  requested  Leonard  .to  attend  in- 
stead of  himself.  Leonard  went,  and  was  absent  for  the  three 
days  during  which  the  sale  lasted.  He  returned  late  in  the: even-, 
ing,  and  went  at  once  to  Mr.  Prickett's  house.  The  shop  was 
closed  ;  he  knocked  at  the  private  entrance  ;  a  strange  person 
opened  the  door  to  him,  and  in  reply  to  his  question  if  Mr.  Prick- 
ett was  at  home,  said  with  a  long  and  funereal  face — "  Young  man, 
Mr.  Prickett,  senior,  is  gone  to  his  long  home,  but  Mr.  Richard 
Prickett  will  see  you." 

At  this  moment  a  very  grave-looking  man,  with  lank  hair, 
looked  forth  from  the  side-door  communicating  between  the  shop 
and  the  passage,  and  then  stepped  forward — "Come  in,  sir,,;  ;you 
are  my  late  uncle's  assistant,  Mr.  Fairfield,  I  suppose?" 

"  Your  late  uncle  !  Heavens,  sir,  do  I  understand  aright — cam 
Mr.  Prickett  be  dead  since  I  left  London? " 

"Died,  sir,  suddenly  last  night.  Itwasanaffectioriof  the  heart.* 
The  doctor  thinks  the  rheumatism  attacked  that  organ.  He  had 
small  time  to  provide  for  hi&  departure,  and  his  account-books 
seem  in  sad  disorder  ;  I  am  his  executor."  .-.-,, 

Leonard  had  now  followed  the  nephew  into  the  shop.  There 
still  burned  the  gas-lamp.  The  place  seemed  more  dingy  and 
cavernous  than  before.  Death  always  makes  its  presence  felt 
in  the  house  it  visits. 

Leonard  was  greatly  affected — and  yet  more,  perhaps,  by  the 
utter  want  of  feeling  which  the  nephew  exhibited.  In  fact,  the 
deceased  had  not  been  on  friendly  terms  with  this  person,  his 
nearest  relative  and  heir-at  law,  who  was  also  a  bookseller, 

"You  were  engaged  but  by  the  week,.  I  find,  young  man,  on 
reference  to  my  late  uncle's  papers.  He  gave  you^raweek — a 
monstrous  sum  !  I  shall  not  require  your  services  any  further.  I 
shall  move  these  books- to  my  own  house.  You  will  be  good  enough 
to  send  me  a  list  of  those  you  bought  at  the  sale,  and  your  account 
of  travelling  expenses,  etc.  What  may  be  due  to  you  shall  be 
sent  to  your  address.  Good  evening." 

Leonard  went  home,  shocked  and  saddened  at  the  sudden 
death  of  his  kind  employer.  He  did  not  think  much  of  himself 
that  night!  but,  when  he  rose  the  next  day,  he  suddenly  felt  that 


396  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

the  world  of  London  lay  before  him,  without  a  friend,  without 
a  calling,  without  an  occupation  for  bread. 

This  time  it  was  no  fancied  sorrow,  no  poetic  dream  disap- 
pointed. Before  him,  gaunt  and  palpable,  stood  Famine. 

Escape  f — -yes.  Back  to  the  village  ;  his  mother's  cottage  ;  the 
exile's  garden  ;  the  radishes  and  the  fount.  Why  could  .he  not 
escape?  Ask  why  civilization  cannot  escape  its  ills,  and  fly  back 
to  the  wild  and  the  wigwam. 

Leonard  could  not  have  returned  to  the  cottage,  even  if  the 
Famine  that  faced  had  already  seized  him  with  her  skeleton 
hand.  London  releases  not  so  readily  her  fated  step-sons. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

ONE  day  three  persons  were  standing  before  an  old  book-stall 
in  a  passage  leading  from  Oxford  Street  into  Tottenham  Court 
Road.  Two  were  gentlemen  ;  the  third,  of  the  class  and  appear- 
ance of  those  who  more  habitually  halt  at  old  book-stalls. 

"Look," said  one  of  the  gentlemen  to  the  other,  "I  have  dis- 
covered here  what  I  have  searched  for  in  vain  the  last  ten  years^- 
the  Horace  of  1580,  the  Horace  of  the  Forty  Commentators — a 
perfect  treasury  of  learning,  and  marked  only  fourteen  shillings  !  " 

"  Hush,  Norreys,"  said  the  other, "  and  observe  what  is  yet  more 
worth  your  study  " ;  and  he  pointed  to  the  third  bystander,  whose 
face,  sharp  and  attenuated,  was  bent  with  an  absorbed,  and,  as  it 
were,  with -a  hungering  attention  over  an  old  wormeaten  volume. 

"What1  is  the  book;  my  lord?"  whispered  Mr.  Norreys. 
'--  His  companion  smiled,  and    replied  by  another  question, 
"What  is  the  man  who  reads  the  book?" 

Mr.  Norreys  moved  a  few  paces,  and  looked  over  the  student's 
shoulder.  "  Preston's  translation  of  BOETHIUS.  The  Consolations 
of  Philosophy"  he  said,  coming  back  to  his  friend. 

"He  looks  as  if  he  wanted  all  the  consolations  Philosophy 
can  give  him,  poor  boy." 

At  this  moment  a  fourth  passenger  paused  at  the  book-stall, 
and,  recognizing  the  pale  student,  placed  his  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
and  said,  "Aha,  young  sir,  we  meet  again.  So  poor  Prickett  is 
dead.  But  you  are  still  haunted  by  associations.  Books — books — 
magnets  to  which  all  iron  minds  move  insensibly.  What  is  this  ? 
BOETHIUS!  Ah,  a  book  written  in  prison,  but  a  little  time  before 
the  advent  of  the  only  philosopher  who  solves  to  the  simplest 
understanding  every  mystery  of  life^" 

"And  that  philosopher?" 

"Is  Death  f"  saiid  Mr.  Burl  ey.  "  How  can  you  be  dull  enough 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  597 

to  ask?  Poor  Boethius,  rich,  nobly  born,  a  consul,  his  sons 
consuls— the  world  one  smile  to  the  Last  Philosopher  of  Rome. 
Then  suddenly,  against  this  type  of  the  old  world's  departing 
WISDOM,  stands  frowning  the  new  world's  grim  genius,  FORCE — 
Theodoric  the  Ostrogoth  condemning  Boethius  the  Schoolman  ; 
and  Boethius,  in  his  Pavian  dungeon,  holding  a  dialogue  with  the 
shade  of  Athenian  Philosophy.  It  is  the  finest  picture  upon  which 
lingers  the  glimmering  of  the  Western  golden  day,  before  night 
rushes  over  time." 

"And,"  said  Mr.  Norreys,  abruptly,  "Boethius  comes  back  to 
us  with  the  faint  gleam  of  returning  light,  translated  by  Alfred 
the  Great.  And,  again,  as  the  sun  of  knowledge  bursts  forth  in 
all  its  splendor,  by  Queen  Elizabeth.  Boethius  influences  us  as 
we  stand  in  this  passage  ;  and  that  is  the  best  of  all 'the  consola- 
tions of  Philosophy — eh,  Mr.  Burley?" 

Mr.  Burley  turned  and  bowed. 

The  twomen lookedateachother;  youcouldnotseeagreatercon- 
trast.  Mr.  Burley,  in  his  gay  green  dress  already  shabby  and  soiled, 
with  a  rent  in  theskirts,  and  hisfacespeakingof  habitual  night-cups. 
Mr.  Norreys,  neat  and  somewhat  precise  irt  dress,  with  firm,  lean 
figure,  and  quiet,  collected,  vigorous  energy  in  his  eye  and  aspect. 

"If,"  replied  Mr.  Burley,  "  a  poor  devil  like  me  may  argue  with 
a  gentleman  who  may  command  his  own  price  with  the  book- 
sellers, I  should  say  it  is  no  consolation  at  all,  Mr.  Norreys. 
And  I  should  like  to  see  any  man  of  sense  accept  the  condition 
of  Boethius  in  his  prison,  with  some  strangler  or  headsman  wait- 
ing behind  the  door,  upon  the  promised  proviso  that  he  should 
be  translated,  centuries  afterward,  by  Kings  and  Queens,  and 
help  indirectly  to  influence  the  minds  of  Northern  barbarians, 
babbling  about  him  in  an  alley,  jostled  by  passers-by  who  never 
heard  the  name  of  Boethius,  and  who  don't  care  a  fig  for  phil- 
osophy. Your  servant,  sir — young  man  come,  and  talk." 

Burley  hooked  his  arm  within  Leonard's,  and  led  the  boy 
passively  away. 

"  That  is  a  clever  man,"  said  Harley  L'Estrange.  "But  I  ana 
sorry  to  see  yon  young  student,  with  his  bright,  earnest  eyes,  and 
his  lip  that  has  the  quiver  of  passion  and  enthusiasm,  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  a  guide  who  seems  disenchanted  of  all  that  gives  pur- 
pose to  learning,  and  links  philosophy  with  Use  to  the  world. 
Who  and  what  is  this  clever  man  whom  you  call  Burley  ?" 

"  A  man  who  might  have  been  famous,  if  he  had  condescended 
to  be  respectable  !  The  boy  listening  to  us  both  so  attentively 
interested  me  too— I  should  like  to  have  the  making  of  him.  But 
I  must  buy  this  Horace." 


MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

The  shopman,  lurking  within  his  hole  like  a  spider  for  flies, 
was  now  called  out.  And  when  Mr.  Norreys  had  bought  the 
Horace,  and  given  an  address  where  to  send  it,  Harley  asked  the 
shopman  if  he  knew  the  youngmanwhohadbeenreadingBoethius. 

"Only  by  sight.  He  has  come  here  every  day  the  last  week, 
and  spends  hours  at  the  stall.  When  once  he  fastens  on  a  book, 
he  reads  it  throu.gh." 

"  And  never  buys  ?"  said  Mr.  Norreys. 

"Sir,"  said  the  shopman,  with  a  good-natured  smile,  "they 
\yho  buy  seldom  tead.  The  poor  boy  pays  me  twopence  a  day 
to  read  as  long  as  he  pleases.  I  would  not  take  it,  but  he  is  proud." 
.;/'•!  have  known  rnen  amass  great  learning  in  that  way,"  said 
Mr.-  Norreys.  "  Yes,  I  should  like  to  have  that  boy  in  my  hands. 
And  now,  my  lord,  I  am  at  -your  service,  and  we  will  go  to  the 
studio  of  your  artist." 

The  two  gentleman  walked  on  toward  one  of  the  streets  out 
of  Fitzroy  Square,? f;i  ;;O:H'V 

1ft  a  few  minutes  more  Harley  L'Estrange  was  in  his  element, 
seated  carelessly  on  a  deal  table,  smoking  his  cigar,  and  discuss- 
.ing  art  with  the  gusto  of  a  man  who  honestly  loved,  and  the 
taste  of  a  man  who  thoroughly  understood  it.  The  young  artist, 
in  his  dressingrrobe,  adding  slow  touch  upon  touch,  paused  often 
to  listen  the  better.  :  And  Henry  Norreys,  enjoying  a  brief  res- 
pite, from  a,  life  of  great  labor,  was  gladly  reminded  of  idle  hours 
under  rosy  skies  ;  for  these  three  men  had  formed  their  friend- 
ship in  Italy,  w:here  the  bands  of  friendship  are  woven  by  the  hands 
of  the  Graces, 

•      CHAPTER  V. 

• 

LEONARD  and  Mr.  Burley  walked  on  into  the  suburbs  round 
the  north  road  from  London,  and  Mr.  Burley  offered  to  find 
literary  employment  for  Leonard — an  offer  eagerly  accepted. 

Then  they  went  into  a  public-house  by  the  wayside.  Burley 
demanded  a  private  room,  called  for  pen,  ink,  and  paper ;  and 
placing  these  implements  before  Leonard,  said,  "Write  what 
you  please  in  prose,  five  sheets  of  letter-paper,  twenty-two-lines 
to  a  page — neither  more  nor  less.  * 

"I  cannot  write  so." 

"  Tut,  'tis  for  bread." 

The  boy's  face  crimsoned. 

"  I  must  forget  that,"  said  he. 

"There  is:an  arbor  in  the  garden,  under  a  weeping  ash,"  re- 
turned Burley.  "Go  there,  and  fancy  yourself  in  Arcadia." 

Leonard  was  too  pleased  to  obey.     He  found  out  the  little 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  399 

arbor  at  one  end  of  a  deserted  bowling-green.  All  was  still — 
the 'hedge-trow  shut  out  the  sight  of  the  inn.  ;  The  sun  lay  warm 
on  the  grass;  and  glinted  pleasantly  through  the  leaves  of  the  ash. 
And  Leonard  there  wrote  the  first  essay  from  his  hand  as  Author 
by  profession.  What  was  it  that  he  wrote?  His  dreamy  im- 
pressions of  London?  an  anathema  on  its  streets,  and  its  hearts 
of  stone?  murmurs  against  poverty  ?  dark  elegies  on  fate? 

Oh  no  !  little  knowest  thou  true  genius,  if  thou  askest  such 
questions,  or  thinkest  that  there,  under  the  weeping  ash,  the 
taskwork  for  bread  was. remembered;  or  that  the  sunbeam  glinted 
but  over  the  practical  world,  which,  vulgar  and  sordid,  iay 
around.  Leonard  wrote  a  fairy  tale—one  of  the  loveliest  you 
can  conceive,  with  a  delicate  touch  of  playful  humor — in  a  style 
all  flowered  over  with  happy  fancies.  He  smiled  as  he  wrote,  the 
last  word— he  was  happy.  In  rather  more  than  hour  Mr.  Burley 
came  to  him,  and  found  him  with  that  smile  on  his  lips;  • 

Mr.  Burley  had  a  glass  of  brandy-and-water  in  his  hand ;  it  was 
his  third.  He  too  smiled — he  too  looked  happy.  He  read  the 
paper  aloud,  and  well.  He  was  very  complimentary.  "  You  will 
do  !  "  said  he,  clapping  Leonard  on  the  back.  "  Perhaps  some 
day  you  will  catch  my  one-eyed  perch."  Then  he  folded  up  the 
MS., scribbled  off  a  note,  put  the. whole  in  one  envelope — and 
they  returned  to  London:  ; 

Mr.  Burley  disappeared  within  a  dingy  office  near  Fleet  Street, 
on  which  was  inscribed — "  Office  of  the  Beehive"  and^oon  came 
forth  with  a  golden  sovereign  in  his  hand — Leonard's  first-fruits. 
Leonard  thought  Peru  lay  before  him.  He  accompanied  Mr. 
Burtey  to  that  gentleman's -lodging  in  Maida  Hill.  The  walk 
had  been  very  long;  Leonard  wa's  not  fatigued.  He  listened 
with  a  livelier  attention  than  before  to  Burley's  talk.  And  when 
they  reached  the  apartments  of  the  latter,  and  Mr.  Burley  sent  to 
the  cookshop,  and  their  joint  supper  was  taken  out  of  the  golden 
sovereign,  Leonard  felt  proud,  and  for  the  first  time  for  weeks  he 
laughed  the  heart's  laugh.  The  two  writers  grew  more  and 
more  intimate  and  cordial.  And  there  was  a  vast  deal  in  Burley 
by  which  any  young  man  might  be  made  the  wiser.  There  was 
no  apparent  evidence  of  poverty  in  the  apartments — clean,  new, 
well-furnished;  but  all  things  in  the  most  horrible  litter — all 
speaking  of  the  huge  literary  sloven. 

For  several  days  Leonard  almost  lived  in  those  rooms.  He 
wrote  continuously — save  when  Burley's  conversation  fascinated 
him  into  idleness.  Nay,  it  was  not  idleness — his  knowledge 
grew  larger  as  he  listened;  but  the  cynicism  of  the  talker  began 
slowly  to  work  its  way.  That  cynicism  in  which  there  was  no 


400  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

faith,  no  hope,  no  vivifying  breath  from  Glory — from  Religion. 
The  cynicism  of  the  Epicurean,  more  degraded  in  his  sty  than 
ever  was  Diogenes  in  his  tub;  and  yet  presented  with  such  £ase 
and  such  eloquence, — with  such  art  and  such  mirth, — so  adorned 
with  illustration  and  anecdote, — so  unconscious  of  debasement ! 
Strange  and  dread  philosophy — that  made  it  a  maxim  to 
squander  the  gifts  of  mind  on  the  mere  care  for  matter,  and  fit  the 
soul  to  live  but  as  from  day  to  day,  with  its  scornful  cry,"  A  fig  for 
immortality  and  laurels  !"  An  author  for  bread!  Oh,  miserable 
calling  !  was  there  something  grand  and  holy,  after  all,  even  in 
Chatterton's  despair  ? 

TRAPTFR   VT 
^.rlAr  1  Eiis.    VI. 

THE  villanous  Beehive  !  Bread  was  worked  out  of  it,  certainly; 
but  fame,  but  hope  for  the  future — certainly  not.  Milton's  Pafa- 
dise  Lost  would  have  perished  without  a  sound,  had  it  appeared 
in  the  Beehive. 

Fine  things  were  there  in  a  fragmentary  crude  state,  composed 
by  Burley  himself.  At  the  end  of  a  week  they  were  dead  and  for- 
gotten— never  read  by  one  man  of  education  and  taste;  taken  sim- 
ultaneously and  indifferently  with  shallow  politics  and  wretched 
essaysy  yet  selling,  perhaps,  twentyor  thirty  thousand  copies — an 
immense  sale — and  nothing  gotout  of  them  but  bread  and  brandy! 

"  What  more  would  you  have  ?  "  cried  John  Burley.  "  Did  not 
stern  old  Sam  Johnson  say  he  could  never  write  but  from  want  ?" 

"  He-might  say  it,?>  answered  Leonard;  "but  he  never  meant 
posterity  to  believe  ihim.  And  he  would  have  died  of  want,  I 
suspect,  rather  than  have  written  Rasselas  for  the  Beehive  !  Want 
is  a  grand  thing,"  continued  the  boy,  thoughtfully, — "  a  parent  of 
grand  things.  Necessity  is  strong,  and  should  give  us  its  own 
strength;  but  Want  should  shatter  asunder  with  its  very  writh- 
ings  the  walls  of  our  prison-house,  and  not  sit  contented  with  the 
allowance  the  jail  gives  us  in  exchange  for  our  work." 

"  There  is  no  prison-house  to  a  man  who  calls  upon  Bacchus— 
stay-^-I  will  translate  to  you  Schiller's  Dithyramb  'Then  see  I 
Bacchus — then  up  come  Cflpid  and  Phoebus,  and  all  the  Celes- 
tials are  filling  my  dwelling/.?' ' 

Breaking  into*  impromptu  careless  rhymes,  Burley  threw  off 
a  rude  but  spirited  translation  of  that  divine  lyric. 

"  O  materialist !  "cried  the  boy,  with  his  bright  eyes  suffused. 
"Schiller  calls  on  the  gods  to  take  him  to  their  heaven  with 
them  ;  and  you  would  debase  the  gods  to  a  gin-palace." 

"  Ho,  ho  ! "  cried  Burley,  with  his  giant  laugh.  "  Drink,  and 
you  will  understand  the  Dithyramb." 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  4ot 


I 

CHAPTER  VII. 

SUDDENLY  one  morning,  as  Leonard  sat  with  Burley,  a  fashion- 
able cabriolet,  with  a  very  handsome  horse,  stopped  at  the  door — 
a  loud  knock — a  quick  step  oh  the  stairs,  and  Randal  Leslie 
entered.  Leonard  recognized  him,  and  started.  Randal  glanced 
at  him  in  surprise,  and  then,  with  a  tact  that  showed  he  had 
already  learned  to  profit  by  London  life,  after  shaking  hands 
with  Burley,  approached,  and  said,  with  some  successful  attempt 
at  ease,  "  Unless  I  am  not  mistaken,  sir,  we  have  met  before.  If 
you  remember  me,  I  hope  al!  boyish  quarrels  are  forgotten  ?  " 

Leonard  bowed,  and  his  heart  was  still  good  enough  to  be 
softened. 

"  Where  could  you  two  ever  have  met  ? "  asked  Burley. 

"  In  a  village  green,  and  in  single  combat,"  answered  Randal, 
smiling  :  and  then  told  the  story  of  trr  Battle  of  the  Stocks,  with 
a  well-bred  jest  on  himself.  Burley  laughed  at  the  story.  "But," 
said  Tie,  when  this  laugh  was  over, "  my  young  friend  had  better 
have  remained  guardian  of  the  village  stocks,  than  come  to  Lon- 
don in  search  of  such  fortune  as  lies  at  the  bottom  of  an  ink-horn." 

"  Ah,"  said  Randal,,  with  the  secret  contempt  which  men 
elaborately  cultivated  are  apt  to  feel  for  those  who  seek  to  edu- 
cate themselves — "  ah,  you  make  literature  your  calling,  sir  ?  At 
what  school,  did  you  conceive  a  taste  for  letters — not  very  com- 
mon at  our  great  public  schools." 

"  Iamatschoolnq\vforthefirsttime,"answered  Leonard, drily. 

"  Experience  is  the  best  school-mistress, "said  Burley  ;  "and 
that  was  the  maxim  of  Goethe,  who  had  book-learning  enough 
in  all  conscience." 

Randal  slightly  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and,  without  wasting 
another  thought  on  Leonard,  peasant-born  and  self-taught,  took 
his  seat,  and  began  to  talk  to  Burley  upon  a  political  question, 
which  made  tire  then  war-cry  between  the  two  great  Parlia- 
mentary parties.  It  was  a  subject  in  which  Burley  showed  much 
general  knowledge  :  and  Randal,  seeming  to  differ  from  him, 
drew  forth  alike  his  information  and  his  argumentative  powers. 
The  conversation  lasted  more  than  an  hour. 

"  I  can't  quite  agree  with  you,"  said  Randal,  taking  his  leave  ; 
"but  you  must  allow  me  to  call  again — will  the  same  hour  to- 
rn efrow  suit  you  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Burley. 

Away  went  the  young  man  in  his  cabriolet.  Leonard  watched 
him  from  the  window. 

For  five  days,  consecutively,  did  Randal  call  and  discuss  the 


:402  ....  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

question  in  all  its  bearings  ;  and  Burley,  after  the  second  day, 
got  interested  in  the  matter,  looked  up  his  authorities — refreshed 
his  memory— and  even  spent  an  hour  or  two,  in  the  Library  of 
the  British  Museum. 

By  the  fifth  day,  Burley  had  really  exhausted  all  that  could 
well  be  said  on  his  side  of  the  question. 

Leonard,  during  these  colloquies,  had  sat  apart  seemingly 
absorbed  in  reading,  and  secretly  stung  by  Randal's  disregard 
:of  his  presence.  For  indeed  that  young,  man,  in,  his  superb  self- 
esteem,  and  in  the  absorption  of  his  ambitious  projects,  scarc.e 
felt  even  curiosity  as  to  Leonard's  rise  above  his  earlier  station, 
and  looked  on  him  as  a  mere  journeyman  of  Burley's.  But  the 
self-taught  are  keen  and  quick  observers.  And  Leonard  had  re- 
marked that  Randal  seemed  more  as  one  playing  a  part  for  some 
private  purpose,  than  arguing  in  earnest ;  and  that,  when  he  rose 
and  said, "  Mr.  Burley,  you  have  convinced  me,"  it  was  not  with 
the  modesty  of  a  sincere  reasoner,  but  the  triumph  of  one  who 
has  gained  his  end.  But  so  struck,  meanwhile,  was  our  unheeded 
and  silent  listener  with  Burley'spower  of  generalization,  and  the 
'  wide,  surface  over  which  his  information  extended,  that  when 
Randal  left  the  room  the  boy  looked  at  the  slovenly,  purposeless 
man,  and  said  aloud — "  True  ;  knowledge  is  not  power," 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Burley,  drily — "the  weakest  thing  in 
the  world."  i&:fjy{  TO") 

"  Knowledge  is  power,"  muttered  Randal  Leslie,  as,  with  a 
smile  on  his.  lip,  he  drove  from  the  door. 

Not  many  days  after  this  last  interview  .there  appeared  a  short 
pamphlet;  anonymous,  but  one  which  made  a  great  impression  on 
the  town.  It  was  on  the  subject  discussed  between  Randal  and 
Burley.  It  was  quoted  at  great  length  in  the  newspapers.  And 
$urley  started  to  his  feet  one  morning  and  exclaimed,  "  My  own 
thoughts!— my  very  words!  Who  the  devil  is  thispamphleteer?" 

Leonard  took  the  newspaper  from  Burley's  hand.  The  most 
flattering  encomiums  preceded  the  extracts,  and  the  extracts 
were  as  stereotypes  of  Burley's  talk. 

"  Can  you  doubt  the  author?"  cried  Leonard,  in  deep  disgust 
and  ingenious  scorn.  "  The  young  man  who  came  to  steal  your 
brains  and  turn  your  knowledge — " 

"  Into  power,"  interrupted  Burley,  with  alaugh,  but  it  was  one  of 
pain.  "Well,thiswasverymean;  I  shall  tell  himso when  becomes." 

"He  will  come  no  more,"  said  Leonard.  Nor  did  Randal  come 
again.  But  he  sent  Mr-  Burley  a  copy  of  the  pamphlet  with  a  po- 
lite note,  saying,  with  candid  but  careless  acknowledgment,  that 
"he  had  profited  much  by  Mr.  Burley's  hints  and  remarks." 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  403 

And  now  it  was  in  all  the  papers,  that  the  pamphlet  which  had 
made  so  great  a  noise  was  by  a  very  young  man,  Mr.  Audley 
Egerton's  relation.  .And  high  hopes  were  expressed  respecting 
the  future  career  of  Mr.  Randal  Leslie. 

Burley  slill  attempted  to  laugh,  and  still  his  pain  was  visible. 
Leonard  most  cordially  despised  and  hated  Randal  Leslie,  and 
his  heart  moved  to  Burley  with  noble  but  perilous  compassion. 
In  his  desire  to  soothe  and  comfort  the  man  whom  he  deemed 
cheated  out  of  fame,  he  forgot  the  caution  he  had  hitherto  im- 
posed on  himself,  and  yielded  more  and  more  to  the  charm  of 
that  wasted  intellect.  He  accompanied  Burley  now  to  the  haunts 
to  which  his  friend  went  to  spend  his  evenings;  and  more  and 
more— though  gradually  and  with  many  a,  recoil  and  self-rebuke 
— there  crept  over  him  the  cynic's  contempt  for  glory,  and  miser- 
able philosophy  of  debased  content. 

,  Randal  had  risen  into  grave  repute  upon  the  strength  of  Bur- 
ley's  knowledge.  But,  had  Burley  written  the  pamphlet,  would 
the  same  repute  have  attended  him  1  Certainly  not.  Randal  Les- 
lie brought  to  that  knowledge  qualities  all  his  own — a  style,  sim- 
ple, strong,  and  logical;  a  certain  tone  of  good  society,  and  allu- 
sions to  men  and  to  parties  that  showed  his  connection  with  a  cab- 
inet minister,  and  proved  that  he  had  profited  no  less  by  Eger- 
ton's. talk  than  Burley's. ; 

Had  Burley  written  the  pamphlet,  it  would  have  shown  more 
genius,  it  would  have  had  humor  and  wit,  but  have  been  so  full  of 
whims  and  quips,  sins  against  taste,  and  defects  in  earnestness, 
that  it  would  have  failed  to  create  any  curious  sensation..  Here, 
then,  there  was  something  else  besides  knowledge,  by  which 
knowledge  became  power.  Knowledge  must  not  smell  of  the 
brandy -bottle. 

Randal  Leslie  might  be  mean  in  his  plagiarism,  but  he  turned 
the  useless  into  use.  And  so  far  he  was  original. 

But  one's  admiration,  after  all,  rests  where  Leonard's  rested — 
with  the  poor,  riotous,  lawless,  big,  fallen  man. 

Burley  took  himself  off  to  the  Brent,and.fished  again  forthe  one- 
eyed  perch.  Leonard  accompanied  him.  His  feelings  were  indeed 
different  from  what  they  had  been  when  he  had  reclined  under 
the  old  tree,  and  talked  with  Helen  of  the  future.  But  it  was  al- 
most pathetic  to  see  how  Burley's  nature  seemed  to  alter,  as  he 
strayed  along  the  banks  of  the  rivulet,  and  discoursed  of  his 
own  boyhood.  The  man  then  seemed  restored  to  something  of -the 
innocence  of  the  child,  He  cared,  in  truth,  little  for  the  perch, 
which  continued  intractable,  but  he  enjoyed  the  air  and  the  sky, 
the  rustling  grass  and  the  murmuring  waters.  These  excursions 


404  MY    NOVEL  ;    OK, 

to  the  haunts  of  youth  seemed  to  rebaptize  him,  and  then  his  elo- 
quence took  a  pastoral  character,  and  Isaac  Walton  himself  would 
have  loved  to  hear  him.  But  as  he  got  back  into  the  smoke  of  the 
metropolis,  and  the  gas-lamps  made  him  forget  the  ruddy  sunset 
and  the  soft  evening  star,  the  gross  habits  resumed  their  sway,  and 
on  he  went  with  his  swaggering  recklessstep  to  the  orgies  in  which 
his  abused  intellect  flamed  forth,  and  then  sank  into  the  socket 
quenched  and  rayless. 

^ 
,  CH API  ER  VIII. 

HELEN  was  seized  with  profound  and  anxious  sadness.  Leon- 
ard had  been  three  or  four  times  to  see  her,  and  each  time  she 
saw  a  change:in  him  that  excited  all  her  fears  He  seemed,  it  is 
true,  more  shrewd,  more  worldly-wise,  more  fitted,  it  might  be, 
for  coarse  daily  life;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  the  freshness  and 
glory  of  his  youth  were  waning  slowly.  His  aspirations  dropped 
earthward.  He  had  not  mastered  the  Practical,  and  moulded  its 
uses  with  the  strong  hand  of  the  Spiritual  Architect,  of  the  Idea 
Builder;  the  Practical  was  overpowering  himself.  She  grew  pale 
when  he  talked  of  Burley,  and  shuddered,  poor  little  Helen! 
when  she  found  he  was  daily  and  almost  nightly  in  a  companion- 
ship which,  with  her  native  honest  prudence,  she  saw  so  unsuited 
to  strengthen  him  in  his  struggles,  and  aid  him  against  tempta- 
tion. She  almost  groaned  when,  pressing  him  as  to  his  pecuniary 
means,  she  found  his  old  terror  of  debt  seemed  fading  away, 
and  the  solid  'healthful  principles  he  had  taken  from  his  village 
were  loosening  fast.  Under  all,  it  is  true,  there  was  what  a  wiser 
and  older  person  than  Helen  would  have  hailed  as  the  redeeming 
promise.  But  that  something  w-as^r/V/ — a  sublime  grief  in  his  own 
sense  of  falling — in  his  own  impotence  against  the  Fate  he  hadpro- 
VOke'd  and  coveted.  The  sublimity  of  that  grief  Helen  could  not 
detect;  she  saw  only  that  it  way  grief,  and  she  grieved  with  it,  let- 
ting it  excuse  every  fault — making  her  more  anxious  to  comfort, 
in  order  that  she  might  save.  Even  from  the  first,  when  Leonard 
ha<}  exclaimed,  "Ah,  Helen,  why  did  you  ever  leave  me  ?"  she 
had  revolved  the  idea  of  that  return  to  him  ;  and  when  in  the 
boy's  last  visit  he  told  her  that  Burley,  persecuted  by  duns,  was 
about  to  fly  from  his  present  lodgings,  and  take  his  abode  with 
Leonard  in  the  room  she  had  left  vacant,  all  doubt  was  over.  She 
resolved  to  sacrifice  the  safety  and  shelter  of  the  home  assured 
her.  She  resolved  to  come  back  and  share  Leonard's  penury  and 
struggles,  and  save  the  Old  room,  wherein  she  had  prayed  forhim, 
from  the  tempter's  dangerous  presence.  Should  she  burden  him? 
No ;  she  had  assisted  her  father  by  many  little  female  arts  in 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  405 

needle  and  fancy  work.  She  had  improved  herself  in  these  dur- 
ing her  sojourn  with  Miss  Starke.  She  could  bring  her  share  to 
the  common  stock.  Possessed  with  this  idea,  she  determined  to 
realize  it  before  the  day  on  which  Leonard  had  told  her  Burley 
was  to  move  his  quarters.  Accordingly  she  rose  very  early  one 
morning  ;  she  wrote  a  pretty  and  grateful  note  to  Miss  Starke, 
who  was  fast  asleep,  left  it  on  the  table,  and,  before  any  one  was 
astir,  stole  from  the  house,  her  little  bundle  on  her  arm.  She  lin- 
gered an  instant  at  the  garden-gate,  with  a  remorseful  sentiment 
— a  feeling  that  she  had  ill-repaid  the  cold  and  prim  protection 
that  Miss  Starke  had  shown  her.  But  sisterly  love: carried  all  be- 
fore it.  :  She  closed  the  gate  with  a  sigh,  and  went  on. 

She  arrived  at  the  lodging-house  before  Leonard  was  up,  took 
possession  of  her  old  chamber,  and  presenting  herself  to  Leonard, 
as  he  was  about  to  go  forth,  said  (story-teller  that  she  was), — "  I 
am  sent  away,  brother,  and  I  have. come  to  you  to  take  care  of  me. 
Do  not  let  us  part  again.  But  you  must  be  very  cheerful  and  very 
happy,  or  I  shall  think  that.  I  am  sadly  in  your  way." 

Leonard  at  first  did  look  cheerful,  and  even  happy;  but  thea-he 
thought  of  Burley,  and  then  of  hi&:ow#  means  of  supporting 
Helen,  and  was  embarrassed,  and  began  questioning  her  as  to  the 
possibility  of  reconciliation  with  Miss  Starke.  And  Helen  said 
gravely,  "Impossible — do  "not  ask  it,  and  do  not  go  near  her." 

Then  Leonard  thought  she  hadbeen  humbled  and  insulted,  and 
remembered  that  she  was  a- gentleman's  child,  and  felt  for  her 
wounded  pride — he  was  so  proud  himself.  Yet  still  he  was  em- 
barrassed. 

"Shall  I  keep  the  purse  again,  Leonard?"  said  Helen,  >coax- 
ingly. 

"  Alas  !  "  replied  Leonard,     the  purse -is  empty." 

"  That  is  very  naughty  in  the  purse,"  said  Helen,  "since  you 
put  so  much  into  it." 

"I?" 
Did  not  you  say  that  you  made,  at  least,  a  guinea  a,  week?" 

"  Yes  ;  but  Burley  takes  the  money  ;  and  then,  poor  fellow  !  as 
I  owe  all  to  him,  I  have  not  the  heart  to  prevent  him  spending  it 
as  he  likes." 

"Please,  I  wish  you  could  settle  the  month's  rent,"  said  the 
landlady,  suddenly  showing  herself.  She  said  it  civilly,  but  with 
firmness. 

Leonard  colored.     "It  shall  be  paid  to-day." 

Then  he  pressed  his  hat  on  his  head,  and  putting  Helen  gently 
aside,  went  forth. 

"  Speak  to  me  in  future,  kind  Mrs.  Smedley,"  said  Helen,  with 


406  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

the  air  of  a  housewife.  "  He  is  always  in  study,  and  must  not  be 
disturbed." 

The  landlady — a  good  woman,  though  she  liked  her  rent — 
smiled  benignly.  She  was  fond  of  Helen,  whom  she  had  known 
of  old. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  are  come  back;  and  perhaps  now  the  young 
man  will  not  keep  such  late  hours.  I  meant  to  give  him  warning, 
but—" 

"  But  he  will  be  a  great  man  one  of  these  days,  and  you  must 
bear  with  him  now."  And  Helen  kissed  Mrs.  Smedley,  and 
sent  her  away  half  inclined  to  cry. 

Then  Helen  busied  herself  in  the  rooms.  She  found  her 
father's  box,  which  had  been  duly  forwarded.  She  re-examined 
its  contents,  and  wept,  as  she  touched  each  humble  and  pious 
relic.  But  her  father's  memory  itself  thus  seemed  to  give  this 
home  a  sanction  which  the  former  had  not ;  and  she  rose  quietly, 
and  began  mechanically  to  put  things  in  order,  sighing,  as  she 
saw  all  so  neglected,  till  she  came  to  the  rose-tree,  and  that  alone 
showed  heed  and  care.  "  Dear  Leonard  !  "  she  murmured,  and 
the  smile  resettled  ori  her  lips. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

NOTHING,  perhaps,  could  have  severed  Leonard  from  Burley 
but  Helen's  return  to  his  care.  It  was  impossible  for  him,  even 
had  there  been  another  room  in  the  house  vacant  (which  there 
was  not),  to  install  this  noisy,  riotous  son  of  the  Muse  by  Bac- 
chus, talking  at  random,  and  smelling  of  spirits,  in  the  same 
dwelling  with  an  innocent,  delicate,  timid,  female  child.  And 
Leonard  could  not  leave  her  alone  all  the  twenty-four  hours. 
She'  restored  a  home  to  him,  and  imposed  its  duties.  He  there- 
fore told  Mr.  Burley  that  in  future  he  should  write  and  study  in 
his  own  room,  and  hinted,  with  many  a  blush,  and  as  delicate- 
ly a$  he  could,  that  it  seemed  to  him  that  whatever  he  obtained 
from  his  pen  ought  to  be  halved  with  Burley,  to  whose  interest 
he  owed  the  employment,  and  from  whose  books  or  whose 
knowledge  he  took  what  helped  to  maintain  it ;  but  that  the 
other  half,  if  his,  he  could  no  longer  afford  to  spend  upon  feasts 
or  libations.  He  had  another  life  to  provide  for. 

Burley  pooh-poohed  the  notion  of  taking  half  his  coadjutor's 
earning  with  much  grandeur,  but  spoke  very  fretfully  of  Leon- 
ard's sober  appropriation  of  the  other  half  ;  and,  though  a  good- 
.natured,  warm-hearted  man,  felt  extremely  indignant  at  the  sud- 
den interposition  of  poor  Helen.  However,  Leonard  was  firm  ; 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  407. 

and  then  Burley  grew  sullen,  and  so  they  parted.  But  the  rent 
was  still  to  be  paid.  How  ?  Leonard  for  the  first  time  thought 
of  the  pawnbroker.  He  had  clothes  to  spare,  and  Riccabocca's 
watch.  No;  that  last  he  shrank  from  applying  to  such  base  uses. 

He:  went  home  at  noon,  and  met  Helen  at  the  street-door.  She, 
too,  had  been  out,  and  her  soft  cheek  was  rosy-red  with  unwonted 
exercise  and  the  sense  of  joy.  She  had  still  preserved  the  few- 
gold  pieces  which  Leonard  had  taken  back  to  her  on  his  first  visit 
to  Miss  Starke's.  She  had  now  gone  out  and  bought  wools  and 
implements  for  work  ;  and  meanwhile  she  had  paid  the  rent.  . 

Leonard  did  not  object  to  the  work,  but  he  blushed  deeply 
when  he  knew  about  the  rent,  and  was  very  angry.  He  paid 
back  to  her  that  night  what  she  had  advanced ;  and  Helen 
wept  silently  at  his  pride,  and  wept  more  when  she  saw  the 
next  day  a  woeful  hiatus  in  his  wardrobe. 

But  Leonard  now  worked  at  home,  and  worked  resolutely ; 
and  Helen  sat  by  his  side,  working  too  ;  so  that  next  day,  and 
the  next,  slipped  peacefully  away,  and  in  the  evening  of  the 
sec'ond  he  asked  her  to  walk  out  in  the  fields.  She. sprang  up 
joyously  at  the  invitation,  when  bang  went  the  door,  and  in 
reeled  John  Burley — drunk  ; — and  so  drunk  ! 

• 

TRAPTTn?   v 
CrlAr  1  H,Js  A. 

• 

AND  with  Burley  there  reeled  in'  another  man^— a  friend  of 
his — a  man  who  had  been  a  wealthy  trader  and  once  well  to. 
do, — tout  who,  unluckily,  had"  literary  tastes,  and  was  fond  of 
hearing  Burley  talk.  So,  since  he  had  known  the  wit,  his  busi- 
ness had  fallen  from  him,  and  he  had  passed  through  the  Bank- 
rupt Court.  A  very  shabby-looking  dog  he  was,  indeed,  and 
his  hose  was  redder  than  Burley's. 

John  made  a  drunken  dash  at  poor  Helen.  "So  you  are  the 
Pentheus  in  petticoats  who  defies  Bacchus,"  cried  he ;  and 
therewith  he  roared  out  a  verse  from  Euripides.  Helen  ran 
away,  and  Leonard  interposed. 

"  For  shame,  Burley  !" 

"  He's  drunk,"  said  Mr.  Douce,  the  bankrupt  trader— "very 
drunk— don't  mind — him.  I  say,  sir,  I  hope  we  don't  intrude. 
Sit  Still,  Burley,  sit  still,  and  talk,  do— that's  a  good  man. 
You  should  hear  him — ta — ta— talk,  sir." 

Leonard  meanwhile  had  got  Helen  out  of  the  room,  into  her 
own,  and  begged  her  not  to  be  alarmed,  and  keep  the  door 
locked.  He  then  returned  to  Burley,  who  had  seated  himself 
on  the  bed,  trying  wondrous  hard  to  keep  himself  upright; 


408  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

while  Mr.  Douce  was  striving  to  light  a  short  pipe  that  he  car- 
ried in  his  button-hole — without  having  filled  it — and,  natur- 
ally failing  in  that  attempt,  was-now  beginning  to  weep. 

Leonard  was  deeply  shocked  and  revolted  for  Helen's  sake  ; 
but  it  was  hopeless  to  make  Burley  listen  to  reason.  And  how 
could  the  boy  turn  out  of  his  room  the  man  to  whom  he  was 
under  obligations  ? 

Meanwhile  there  smote  upon  Helen's  shrinking  ears  loud  jar- 
ring talk  and  maudlin  laughter,  and  cracked  attemptsrat  jovial 
songs.  Then  she  heard  Mrs.  Smedley  in  Leonard's  room,  re- 
monstrating ;  and  Burley's  laugh  was  louder  than  before,  and 
Mrs.  Smedley,  who  was  a  weak  woman,  evidently  got  frightened, 
and  was  heard  in  precipitate  retreat.  Long  and  loud  talk  re- 
commenced, Burley's  great  voice  predominant,  Mr.  Douce 
chiming  in  with  hiccupy  broken  treble.  Hour  after  hour  this 
lasted,  for  want  of  the  drink  that  would  have  brought  it  to  a  pre- 
mature close.  And  Burley  gradually  began  to  talk  himself  $ome- 
what  sober.  Then,  Mr.  Douce  was  heard  descending  the  stairs, 
and  silence  followed.  At  dawn,  Leonard:  knocked  at  Helen's 
door.  She  opened  it  at  once,  for  she  had  not  gone  to  bed. 

"  Helen,"  said  he,  very  sadly, "you cannot  continue  here.  I 
must  find  out  some  proper  home  for  you.  This  man  has  served 
me  when  all  London  was  friendless,  and  he  tells  me  that  he  has 
nowhere  else  to  go — that  the  bailiffs  are  after  him.  He  has 
now  fallen  asleep.  I  will  go  and  find  you  some  lodging  close 
at  hand — for  I  cannot  expel  him  who  has  protected  me  ;  and 
yet  you  cannot  be  under  the  same  roof  with  him.  My  own  good 
angel,  I  must  lose  you."  : 

He  did  not  wait  for  her  answer,  but  hurried  down  the  stairs. 

The  morning  looked  through  the  shutterless  panes  in  Leon- 
ard's garret,  and  the  birds  began  to:  chirp  from  the  elm-tree, 
when  Burley  rose  and  shook  himself,  and  stared  round.  He 
could  .not  quite  make  out  where  he  was.  He  got  hold  of  the 
water-jug,  which  he  emptied  at  three  draughts,  and  felt  greatly 
refreshed.  He  then  began  to  reconnoitre  the  chamber — looked 
at  Leonard's  MSS. — peeped  into  the  drawers — wondered  where 
the  devil  Leonard  himself  had  gone  to — and  finally  amused  him- 
self by  throwing  down  the  fire-irons,  ringing  the  bell,  and  making 
all  the  noise  he  could,  in  the  hopes  of  attracting  the  attention  of 
somebody  or  other,  and  procuring  himself  his  morning  dram. 

In  the  midst  of  this  charivari  the  door  opened  softly,  but  as 
if  with  a  resolute  hand,  and  the  small,  quiet  form  of  Helen  stood 
before  the  threshold.  Burley  turned  round,  and  the  two  looked 
at  sach  other  for;  some  moments  with  silent  scrutiny. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  409 

BURLEY  (composing  his  features  into  their  most  friendly  ex- 
pression).— Come  hither,  my  dear.  So  you  arc  the  little  girl  whom 
I  saw  with  Leonard  on  the  banks  of- the  Brent,  and  you  have  come 
back  to  live  with  him — and  I  have  come  to  live  with  him  too. 
You  shall  be  our  little  housekeeper,  and  I  will  tell  you  the  story 
of  Prince  Prettyman,  and  a  great  many  others  not  to  be  found 
in  Mother  Goose.  Meanwhile,  my  dear  little  girl,  here's  six- 
pence— just  run  out  and  change  this  for  its  worth  in  rum. 

HELEN  (coming  slowly  up  to  Mr.  Burley,  and  stiR  gazing 
earnestly  into  his  face) — Ah,  sir,  Leonard  says  you  have  a  kind 
heart,  and  that  you  have  served  him — he  cannot  ask  you  to 
leave  the  house  ;  and  so  I,  who  have  never  served  him,  am  to 
go  hence  and  live  alone. 

BURLEY  (moved). — You  go,  my  little  lady  ? — and  why  ?  Can 
we  not  all  live  together  ? 

HELEN. — No,  sir.  I  left  everything  to  come  to  Leonard,  for 
we  had  met  first  at  my  father's  grave.  But  you  rob  me  of  him, 
and  I  have  no  other  friend  on  earth. 

BURLEY  (discomposed). — Explain  yourself.  Why  must  you 
leave  him  because  I  come  ? 

Helen  looks  at  Mr.  Burley  again,  long  and  wistfully,  but 
makes  no  answer. 

BURLEY  (with  a  gulp).— Is  it  because  he  thinks  I  am  not  fit 
company  for  you  ? 

Helen  bowed  her  head. 

Burley  winced,and  after  a  moment's  pause,  said — "  He  is  right." 

HELEN  (obeying  the  impulse  at  her  heart,  springs  forward  and 
takes  Burley's  hand). — "Ah,  sir,"  she  cried,  "before  he  knew 
you,  he  was  so  different  :  then  he  was  cheerful — then,  even  when 
his  first  disappointment  came,  I  grieved  and  wept  •;  but  I  felt 
he 'would  conquer  still — for  his  heart  was  so  good  and  pure. 
Oh,  sir,  don't  think  I  reproach  you  ;  but  what  is  to  become  of 
him  if — if — No,  it  is  not  for  myself  I  speak.  I  know  that  if  I 
was  here,  that  if  he  had  me  to  care  for,  he  would  come  home 
early — and  work  patiently — and — and — that  I  might  save  him. 
But  now  when  I  am  gone,  and  you  live  with  him — you  to  whom 
he  is  grateful,  you  whom  he  would  follow  against  his  own  con- 
science (you  must  see  that,  sir),  what  is  to  become  of  him  ?  " 

Helen's  voice  died  in  sobs. 

Burley  took  three  or  four  long  strides  through  the  room; — 
he  was  greatly  agitated.  "  I  am  a  demon,"  he  murmured.  "  I 
never  saw  it  before— but  it  is  true— I  should  be  this  boy's  ruin." 
Tears  stood  in  his  eyes,  and  he  paused  abruptly,  made. a  clutch 
at  his  hat,  and  turned  to  the  door. 


410  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

Helen  stopped  the  way,  and  taking  him  gently  by  the  arm, 
said— "Oh,  sir,  forgive  me^-I  have,  pained  you  ;"  and  looked  up 
at  him  with  a  compassionate  expression,  that  indeed  made. the 
child's  sweet  face  as  that  of  an  angel. 

Burley  bent  down  as  if  to  kiss  her,  and  then  drew  back- — per- 
haps with  a  sentiment  that  his  lips  were  not  worthy  to  touch 
that  innocent  brow. 

"  If  I  had  had  asister — a  child  like  you,  little  one,"  he  muttered, 
"  perhaps  Itoo  might  have  been  saved  in  time.  Now — " 

"  Ah,  now  you  may  stay,  sir  ;  I  don't  fear  you  anymore." 

"  No,  no  ;  you  would  fear  me  again  ere  night-time,  and  I  might 
not  be  always,  in  the  right  mood  to  listen  to  a  voice  like  yours, 
child.  Your  Leonard  has  a  noble  heart  and  rare  gifts.  He  should 
rise  yet,  and  he  shall.  I  will  not  drag  him  into  the.  jnire.  Good- 
bye— you  will  see  me  no  more."  He  broke  from  Helen,  cleared 
the  stairs  with  a  bound,  and  was  out  of  the  house. 

When  Leonard  returned,  he  was  surprised  to  hear  his  unwel- 
come guest  was  gone — but  Helen  did  .not  venture  to  tell  him  of 
her  interposition.  She  knew  instinctively  how  such  officious- 
ness  would  mortify  and  offend  the  pride  of  man — but  she  never 
again  spoke  harshly  of  poor  Burley.  .Leonard  supposed  tha,t  he 
should  either  see  or  hear  of  the  humorist  in  the  course  ofthe  day. 
Finding  he  did  not,  he  went  in  search  of  him  at  his  old  haunts  ; 
but  no  trace.  He  inquired  at  the  Beehive  if  they  knew  there  of 
his  new  address,  but  no  tidings  of  Burley  could  be  obtained. 

As  :he  came  home  disappointed  and  anxious,  for  he  felt 
uneasy  as  to  the  disappearance  of  hiswild  friend,  Mrs.  Stnedley 
met  him  at  the  door. 

"  Please,  sir,  suit  yourself  with  another  lodging,"  said  she ;  "  I 
can  have  no  such  singings  and  shoutings  going  on  in  my  house. 
And  that  poor  little  girl, too! — you  should  beashamedof  yourself." 

Leonard  frowned,  and  passed  by. 

. 
CHAPTER  XI. 

MEANWHILE,  on  leaving  Helen,  Burley  strode  on  ;  and,  as  if 
by  some  better  instinct,  for  he. was  unconscious  of  his  owp  steps, 
he  took  the  way  toward  the  still  green  haunts  of  his  youth. 
When  he  paused  at  length,  he  was  already  .before  the  door  of 
a  rural  cottage,  standing  alone  in  the  midst  of  .fields,  with  a  lit- 
tle farm-yard  at  the  back ;  and  far  through  the  trees  in  front 
wasicaught  a  glimpse  of  the  winding  Brent. 

With  this  cottage  Burley  was  familiar  ;  it  was  inhabited, by  a 
good  old  couple  who  had  known,  him  from  a  boy.  There  he  habit- 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  411 

ually  left  his  rods  and  fishing-tackle  ;  there,  for  intervals  in>his 
turbid,  riotous  life,  he  had  sojourned  for  two  or  three  days  to- 
gether— fancyingtlie  first  day  that  the  country  was  a  heaven,  and 
convinced  before. the  third  that  it  was  a. purgatory. 

An  old  woman,  of  neat  and  tidy  exterior,came  forth  to  greet  him. 

"  Ah,  Master  John,"  said  she,  clasping  his  nerveless  hand — 
"  well,  the  fields  be  pleasant  now— I  hope  you  are  come  to  stay 
a  bit  ?  Do  ;  it  will  freshen  you  ;  you  lose  all  the  fine  color  you 
had  once,  in  Lunnon  town." 

"I  will  stay  with  you,  my  kind  friend,"  said  Burley,  with  tin- 
usual  meekness — "I  can  have  the  old  room,  then  ?." 

"  Oh,  yes,  come  and  look  at  it.  I  never  let  it  now  to  anyone 
but  you — never  have  let  it  since  that  dear  beautiful  lady  with 
the  angel's  face  went  away.  Poor  thing,  what  could  have 
become  of  her?" 

Thus  speaking,  while  Burley  listened  not,  the  old  woman  drew 
him  within  the  cottage,  and  led  him  up  the  stairs  into  a  room  that 
might  have  well  become  a  better  house,  for  it  was  furnished  with 
taste,  and  even  elegance.  A  small  cabinet  piano-forte  stood  oppo- 
site the  fire-place,and  the  windowlooked  upon  pleasant  meads  and 
tangled  hedge-rows,  and  the  narrow  winding  of  the  blue  rivulet. 
Burleysat  down  exhausted, and  gazed  wistfully  from  the  casement. 

"  You  have  not  breakfasted?  "  said  the  hostess,  anxiously. 

"  No." 

"  Well,  the  eggs  are  fresh  laid,  and  you  would  like  a  rasher  of 
bacon,  Master  John  ?  And  if  you  will  have  brandy  in  your 
tea,  I  have  some  that  you  left  long  ago  in  your  own:  bottle." 

Burley  shook  his  head.  "  No  brandy,  Mrs.  Goodyer  ;  only 
fresh  milk.  I  will  see  whether  I  can  yet  coax  Nature." 

Mrs.  Goodyer  did  not  know  vyhat  was  meant  by  coaxing 
Nature,  but  she  said,  "Pray  do,  Master  John,"  and.  vanished. 

That  day  Burley  went  out  with  his  rod,  and  he  fished  hard 
for  the  one-eyed  perch  ;  but  in  vain.  Then  he  roved  along  the 
stream  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  whistling.  He  returned 
to  the  cottage  at  sunset,  partook  of  the  fare  provided  for  him, 
abstained  from  the  brandy,  and  felt  dreadfully  low.  He  called 
for  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  and  sought  to  write,  but  could  not 
achieve  two  lines.  He  summoned  Mrs.  Goodyer.  "  Tell  your 
husband  to  come  and  sit  and  talk." 

Up  came  old  Jacob  Goodyer,  and  the.  great  wit  bade  him  tell 
him  all  the  news  of  the  village.  Jacob  obeyed  -willingly,  and 
Burley  at  last  felt  asleep.  The, next  day  it  was  much  the  sarne, 
only  at  dinner  he  had  up  the  brandy-bottle,  and  finished  it  ; 
and  he  did  not  have  up  Jacob,  but  he  contrived  to  write. 


412  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR 

The  third  day  it  rained  incessantly.  "  Have  you  no  books, 
Mrs.  Goodyer  ?"  asked  poor  John  Burley. 

"  Oh,  yes,  some  that  the  dear  lady  left  behind  her  ;  and  per- 
haps you  would  like  to  look  at  some  papers  in  her  own  writing?" 

"Not,  not  the  papers — all  women  scribble,  and  all  scribble 
the  same  things.  Get  me  the  books." 

The  books  were  brought  up — poetry  and  essays — John  knew 
them  by  heart.  He  looked  out  on  the  rain,  and  at  evening  the 
rain  had  ceased.  He  rushed  to  his  hat,  and  fled. 

"  Nature,  Nature  !  "  he  exclaimed,  when  he  was  out  in  the 
air  and  hurrying  by  the  dripping  hedge-rows,  "  you  are  not  to  be 
coaxed  by  me  !  1  have  jilted  you  shamefully,  I  own  it •';  you  are 
a  female,  and  unforgiving.  I  don't  complain.  You  may  be  very 
pretty,  but  you  are  the  stupidest  and  most  tiresohie  companion 
that  ever  I  met  with.  Thank  heaven,  I  am  not  married  to  you  !" 

Thus  John  Burley  made  his  way  into  town,  and  paused  at  the 
first  public-house.  Out  of  that  house  he  came  with  a  jovial  air, 
and  on  he  strode  toward  the  heart  of  London.  Now  he  is  in 
Leicester  Square,  and  he  gazes  on  the  foreigners  who  stalk  that 
region,  and  hums  a  tune  ;  and  now  from  yonder  alley  two  forms 
emerge,  and  dog  his  careless  footsteps;  now  through  the  maze 
of  passages  toward  St.  Martin's  he  threads  his  path,  and  antici- 
pating an  orgy  as  he  nears  his  favorite  haunts,  jingles  the  silver 
in  his  pockets  ;  and  now  the  two  forms  are  at  his  heels. 

"  Hail  to  thee,  O  Freedom  !  "  muttered  John  Burley,  "  thy 
dwelling  is  in  cities,  and  thy  palace  is  the  tavern." 

"  In  the  king's  name,"  quoth  a  gruff  voice  ;  and  John  Bur- 
ley  feels  the  horrid  and  familiar  tap  on  the  shoulder. 

The  two  bailiffs  who  dogged  have  seized  their  prey. 

"  At  whose  suit  ?  "  asked  John  Burley,  falleringly. 

"Mr.  Cox,  the  wineMiierchant." 

"  Cox  !  A  man  to  whom  I  gave  a  cheque  on  my  bankers 
not  three  months  ago  !  '•' 

"  But  it  warn't  cashed." 

"  What  does  that  signify  ?-•- the  intention  was  the  same.  A 
good  heart  takes  the  will  for  the  deed.  Cox  is  a  monster  of 
ing-ratitude,  and  I  withdraw  my  custom." 

"  Sarve  him  right.     Would  your  honor  like  a  jarvey  ?  " 

"  I  would  rather  spend  the  money  on  something  else,"  said 
John  Burley.  "  Give  me  your  arm,  I  am  not  proud.  After 
all,  thank  heaven,  I  shall  not  sleep  in  the  country." 

And  John  Burley  made  a  night  of  it  iiv  the  Fleet 
I 


VARIETIES  IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  413 


YTT 
Ali. 

Miss  STARKE  was  one  of  those  ladies  who  pass  their  lives  in 
the  direst  of  all  civil  strife  —  war  with  their  servants.  She  looked 
upon  the  members  of  that  class  as  the  unrelenting  and  sleep- 
less enemies  of  the  unfortunate  householders  condemned  to 
employ  them.  She  thought  they  ate  and  drank  to  their  villan- 
ous  utmost,  in  order  to  ruin  their  benefactors  —  that  they  lived 
in  one  constant  conspiracy  with  one  another  and  the  trades- 
men, the  object  of  which  was  to  cheat  and  pilfer.  "  Miss  Starke 
was  a  miserable  woman.  As  she  had  no  relations  or  friends  who 
cared  enough  for  her  to  share  her  solitary  struggle  against  her 
domestic  foes  ;  and  her  income,  though  easy,  was  an  annuity 
that  died  with  herself,  thereby  reducing  various'  nephews,  nieces, 
or  cousins,  to  the  strict  bounds  of  a  natural  affection  —  that  did 
not  exist  ;  and  as  she  felt  the  want  of  some  friendly  face  amidst 
this  world  of  distrust  and  hate,  so  she  had  tried  the  resource  of 
venal  companions.  But  the  venal  companions  had  never  stayed 
long  —  'either  they  disliked  Miss  Starke,  or  Miss  Starke  disliked 
them.  Therefore  the  poor  woman  had  resolved  upon  bringing 
up  some  little  girl  whose  heatft,  as  she  said  ta  herself,  would  be 
fresh  and  uncorrupted,  and  from  whom  she  might  expect  grati- 
tude. She  had  been  contented,  on  the  whole,  with  Helen,  and 
had:  meant  to  keep  that  child  in  her  house  as  long  as  she  (Miss 
Starke)  remained  upon  the  earth  —  perhaps  some  thirty  years 
longer  ;  and  then,  having  carefully  secluded  her  from  marriage, 
and  other  friendship,  to  leave  her  nothing  but  the  regret  of-  Wav- 
ing lost  so  kind  a  benefactress.  Conformably  with  this  notion, 
anti  in  order  to  secure  the  affections  of  the  child,  Miss  Starke 
had  relaxed  the  frigid  austerity  natural  to  her  manner  and  mode 
of  thought,  and  been  kind  to  Helen  in  an  iron-way.  She  had 
neither  slapped  n'or  pinched  frer,  neither  had  she  starved.  She 
had  allowed  her  to  see  Leonard,  according  to  the  agreement 
made  with  'Dr.  Morgan,  and  had  laid  out  tenpence  on  cakes, 
besides  contributing  fruit  from  her  garden  for  the  first  inter- 
view —  a  hospitality  she  did  not  think  it  fit  to  renew  on  subse- 
quent occasions.  In  return  for  this,  she  conceived  she  had  pur- 
chased the  right  to  Helen  bodily  and  spiritually,  and  nothing 
could  exceed  her  indignation  when  she  rose  one  morning  and 
found  the  child'  had  gone.  As  it  never  had  occurred  to  her  to 
ask  Leonard's  address,  though  she  suspected  Heleii  had  gone 
to  him,  she  was  at  a  loss  what  to  do,  and  remained  for  twenty- 
four  hours  in  a  state  of  inane  depression.  But  then  she  began 
to  miss  the  child  so  much  that  her  energies  woke,  and  she  per- 


4*14  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

suaded  herself  that  she  was  actuated  by  the  purest  benevolence 
in  trying  to  reclaim  this  poor  creature  from  the  world  into 
which  Helen  had  thus  rashly  plunged. 

Accordingly,  she  put  an  advertisement  into  the  Times,  to  the 
following  effect,  literally  imitated  from  one  by  which,  in  former 
years,  she  had  recovered  a  favorite  Blenheim  :^ 

TWO  GUINEAS  REWARD. 

STRAYED,  from  Ivy  Cottage,  Highgate,  a  Little  Girl— answers  to  the 
name  of  Helen  ;  with  blue  eyes  and  brown   hair  ;  white  muslin  frock, 
and  straw  hat  with  blue  ribbons.      Whoever  will  bring  the  same  to  Ivy  Cot- 
tage, shall  receive  the  above  Reward.      N.B. — Nothing  more  will  be  offered. 

Now,  it  so  happened  that  Mrs.  Smedley  had  put  an  .advertise- 
ment in  the  -TYww-pn.her  own  account,  relating  to  a  niece  of  hers 
who  was  coming  from  thecountry,and  for  whom  she  desired  to  find 
a  situation.  So  contrary  to  her  usual  habit,  she  sent  for  the  news- 
paper, and,  close  by  her  own  advertisement,  she  saw  Miss  Starke's. 

It  was  impossible  that  she  could  mistake  the  description  of 
Helen  ;  and,  as  this  advertisement  caught  her  eye  the  very  day 
after  the  .whole  .house  had  been  disturbed  and  scandalized  by 
Mr.  Burley-'s  noisy  visit,  and  on  which  she  had  resolved  to  get 
rid  of  a  lodger,  who  received  such  visitors, .the  good-hearted 
woman  was  delighted  to  think  that  she  could  restore  Helen  to 
some  safe  home.  While  thus  thinking,  Helen  herself  entered 
the  kitchen  where.  Mrs.  Smedley  sat,  and  the  landlady  had  the 
imprudence  to  point  out  the  advertisement,  and  talk,  as  she 
called  it,  "  seriously  "  to  the  little  girl.  :  . 

Helen  in  vain  and  with  tear$,entreated  her  to  take  no  step  in 
reply  to  the  advertisement.  Mrs.  Smedley  felt  it  was  an  affair 
of  dirty,. :and  was  obdurate,  and  shortly  afterward  put  on 'her 
bonnet  and  left  the  house.  Helen  conjectured  that  she  was  on 
her  way.  to  Miss  Starke's,  and  her  whole  soul  was  ben  ton  flight. 
Leonard  had  gone  to  the  office  of  the  Beehive  with  his  MSS- ; 
but  she  packed  up  all  their  joint  effects,  and  just  as  she  had 
dop.e  so,  he  returned.  She  communicated  the  :ne\vs  of  the 
advertisement,  and  said  she  should  be  so  miserable  if  compelled 
to  go  back  to  Miss  Starke's,  and  implored  him  so  pathetically 
to  save  her  from  such  sorrow,  that  :he  at  once  assented  to  her 
proposal  of  flight.  Luckily,  little  was  owing  to  the  landlady — 
that  little  was  left  with  the  maid-servant ;  and,  profiting  by  Mrs. 
Smedley's.absence,  they-escaped  without  scene  or  conflict.  Their 
effects  were  taken  by  Leonard  to  a  stand  of  hackney  vehicles, 
and  then  left  at  a  coach-office,  while  they  went  in  'search  of 
lodgings.  It  was  wise  to  choose  an  entirely  new  and  remote 
district;  and  before  night  they  were  settled  in  an  attic  in  Lambeth. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  415 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

As  the  reader  will  expect,  no  trace  of  Barley  could  be  found; 
the  humorist  had  ceased  to  communicate  with  the  Beehive.  But 
Leonard  grieved  for  Burley's  sake;  and,  indeed,  he  missed  the 
intercourse  of  the  large  wrong  mind.  But  he  settled  down  by 
degrees  to  the  simple  loving  society  of  his  child-companion,  and 
in  that  presence  grew  more  tranquil.  The  hours  in  the  daytime 
that  he  did  not  pass  at  work,  he  spent  as  before,  picking  up  knowl- 
edge at  book-stalls  ;  and  at  dusk  he  and  Helen  would  stroll  out — 
sometimes  striving  to  escape  from  the  long  suburb  into  fresh 
rural  air,  more  often  wandering  to  and  fro  the  bridge  that  led  to 
glorious  Westminister — London's  classic  land — and  watching 
the  vague  lamps  reflected  on  the  river.  This  haunt  suited  the 
musing  melancholy^  boy.  He  would  stand  long  and  with  wistful 
silence  by  the  balustrade — Seating  Helen  thereof  that  she  too 
might  look  along  the  dark  mournful  waters  which,  dark  though 
they  be,  still  have  their  charm  of  mysterious  repose. 

As  the  river  flowed  between  the  world  of  roofs,  and  the  roar 
of  human  passions  on  either  side,  so  in  those  two  hearts  flowed 
Thought — and  all  they  knew  of  London  was  its  shadow. 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

.  •   i    o 

THERE  appeared  in  the  Beehive  certain  very  truculent  political 
papers-*— papers  very  like  the  tracts  in  the  Tinker's  bag.  Leonard 
did  not  heed  them  much,  but  they  made  far  more  sensation  in 
the  public  that  read  the  Beehive  than  Leonard's  papers^  full  of 
rare  promise  though  the  last  were.  They  greatly  increased  the 
sale  of  the  periodical  in  the  manufacturing  towns,: and  began  to 
awake  the  drowsy  vigilance  of  the  Home  Office.  Suddenly  a 
descent  was  made  upon  the  Beehive,  and  all  its  papers  and  plant. 
The- editor  saw  himself  threatened  with  a  criminal  prosecution, 
and  the  certainty  of  two  ^years'  imprisonment ;  he  did  not. like 
the  prospect,  and  disappeared.  One  evening,  when  Leonard, 
unconscious  of  these  mischances,  arrived  at  the  door  of  the  office, 
he  found  it  closed.  An  agitated  mob  was  before  it,  and  a  voice 
that  was  not  new  to  his  ear  was  haranguing  the  bystanders,iwith 
iinany  imprecations  against  "tyrants."  He  looked,  and  to  his 
amaze,  recognized  in  the  orator  Mr./Sprott  the  Tinker. 

The  police  came  in  numbers  to  disperse  the  crowd,  and  Mr. 
Sprott  prudently  vanished.  Leonard  learned,  then,  whatrhad  be- 
fiallen,  and  again  saw  himself  without  employment  and  the  means 
of  bread. 


416  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Slowly  he  walked  back.  "  0  knowledge,  knowledge  !  power- 
less, indeed  !  "  he  murmured 

As  he  spoke  thus  a  handbill  in  large  capitals  met  his  eyes  on 
a  dead  wall' — "Wanted,  a  few  smart  young  men  for  Irjdia." 

A  crimp  accosted  him — "You  would  make  a  fine  soldier,  my 
man.  You  have  stout  limbs  of  your  own." 

Leonard  moved  on. 

"  It  has  come  back,  then,  to  this.  Brute  physical  force  after 
all !  O  Mind,  despair  !  O  Peasant,  be  a  machine  again  ! " 

He  entered  his  attic  noiselessly,  and  gazed  upon  Helen  as  she 
sate  at  work,  straining  her  eyes  by  the  open  window — with  tender 
and  deep  compassion.  She  had  not  heard  him  enter,  nor  was  she 
aware  of  his  presence.  .  Patient  and  still  she  sat,  and  the  small 
fingers  plied  busily.  He  gazed,  and  saw  that  her  cheek  was  pale 
and  hollow,  and  the  hands  looked  so  thin  !  His  heart  was  deeply 
touched,  and  at  that  moment  he  had  not  one  memory  of  the 
baffled  Poet,  one  that  proclaimed  the  Egotist. 

He  approached  her  gently,  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder — 
"Helen,  put  on  your  shawl  and  bonnet,  and  walk  out— I  have 
much  to  say."  ^k,,.  -i:, 

In  a  few  minutes  she  was  ready,  and  they  took  their  way  to 
their  favorite  haunt  upon  the  bridge.  Pausing  in  one  of  the 
recesses,  or  nooks,  Leonard  then  began — "  Helen,  we  must  part." 

"Part?— Oh,  brother!" 

"Listen,  AH  work  that  depends  on  mind  is  over  for  me — 
nothing  remains  but  the  labor  of  thews  and  sinews.  I  cannot 
go  back  to  my  village  and  say  to  all,  '  My  hopes  were  self-con- 
ceit, and  my  intellect  a  delusion  !•'•  I  cannot.  Neither  in  this 
sordid  city  can 1  tu'rn  rneriial  or  porter.  I  might  be  born  to  that 
drudgery,  but  my  'mind  has,  it;  may  be  unhappily,  raised  me 
above  my  birth.  What,  then,  shall  I  do  ?  I  know  not  yet' — serve  as 
a  soldier,  or  push  my  way  to  some  wilderness  afar,  as  an  emi- 
grant, perhaps.  But  whatever  my  choice,  I  must  henceforth  be 
alone ;  I  have  a  home  no  more.  But  there  is  a  home  for  you, 
Helen,  a  very  humble  one  (for  yoiij  too,  so  well  born),  but  very 
safe — the  roof  of — of— my  peasant  mother.  She  wilt  love  you 
for  my  sake, 'and — and — •" 

Helen  clung  to  him  trembling,  and  sobbed  oat,'  "Anything, 
anything  you  will.  But  I  can  work;  I  can  make^money,  Leonard. 
I  do,  indeed,  make  money—- you  do  not  know  how  much— "but 
enough  for  us  both  till  better  times  -come  to  you.  Do  not  let 
us  part." 

"  And  I—a  man,  and  born  to  labor,  to  be  maintained  by  the 
work  of  an  infant !  No,  Helen,  do  not  so  degrade  me." 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  417 

She  drew  back  as  she  looked  on  his  flushed  brow,  bowed  her 
head  submissively,  and  murmured,  "  Pardon." 

"Ah  !  "  said  Helen,  after  a  pause,  "if  now  we  could  but  find 
my  poor  father's  friend  !     I  never  so  much  cared  for  it  before." 
"  Yes,  he  would  surely  provide  for  you." 
"For  me!"  repeated  Helen,  in  a  tone  of  soft  deep  reproach, 
and  she  turned  away  her  head  to  conceal  her  tears. 

"You  are  sure  you  would  remember  him,  if  we  met  him  by 
chance?" 

"  Oh  yes.  He  was  so  different  from  all  we  see  in  this  terrible  city, 
and  his  eyes  were  like  yonder  stars,  so  clear  and  so  bright;  yet  the 
light  seemed  to  come  from  afar  off,  as  the  light  does  in  yours,  when 
your  thoughts  are  away  from  all  things  round  you.  And  then,  too, 
his  dog,  whom  he  called  Nero — I  could  not  forget  that." 
"  But  his  dog  may  not  be  always  with  him." 
"  But  the  bright  clear  eyes  are !     Ah,  now  you  look  up  to 
heaven,  and  yours  seem  to  dream  like  his." 

Leonard  did  not  answer,  for  his  thoughts  were  indeed  less  on 
earth  than  .struggling  to  pierce  into  that  remote  and  mysterious 
heaven. 

Both  were  silent  long;  the  crowd  passed,  them  by  unheed- 
ingly.  Night  deepened  over  the  river,  but  the  reflection  of  the 
lamp-lights  on  its  waves  was  more  visible  than  that  of  the  stars. 
The  beams  showed  the  darkness  of  the  strong  current,  and  the 
craft  that  lay  eastward  on  the  tide,  with  sail-less  spectral  masts  and 
black  dismal  rhulks,  looked  death-like  in  their  stillness. 

Leonard  looked  down,  and  the  thought  of  Chatterton.'s  grim 
suicide  came  back  to  his  soul ;  and  a  pale  scornful  face,  with 
luminous  haunting  eyes,  seemed  to  look  tip  from  the  stream,  and 
murmur  from  livid  lips — "  Struggle  no  more  against  the  tides 
on  the  surface — all  is  calm  and  rest  within  the  deep."  >  . 

Starting  in  terror  from  the  gloom,  of  his  reverie,  the  boy 
began  to  talk  fast  to  Helen,  and  tried  to  soothe  her  with  de- 
scriptions of  the  lowly  home  which  he  had  offered. 

He  spoke  of  the  light  cares  which  she  would  participate  with  his 
mother  (forby  that  name  he  still  called  the  widow),  and  dwelt, 
with  an  eloquence  that  the  contrast  round  him  imade  sincere  and 
strong,  on  the  happy  rural  life,  the  shadowy  woodlands,  the  rip- 
pling corn-fields,  the  solemn  lone  church-spire  scaring  fronvthe 
tranquil  landscape.  Flatteringly  her  painted  the  flowery  terraces 
of  the  Italian  exile,  and  the  playful  fountain  that,  even  as  he  spoke, 
was  flinging  up  its  spray  to  the  stars,  through  serene  air  un- 
troubled by  the  smoke  of  cities,  and  untainted  by  the  sinful  sighs 
of  men.  He  promised  her  the  love  and  protection  of  natures 


418  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

akin  to  the  happy  scene;  the  simple  affectionate  mother  —  the 
gentle  pastor  —  the  exile  wise  and  kind  —  Violante,  with  dark 
eyes  full,  of  the  mystic  thoughts  that  solitude  calls  from  child- 
hood,— Violante  should  be  her  companion. 

"  And,  oh  !"  cried  Helen,  "  if  life  be  thus  happy  there,  re- 
turn with  me,  return  —  return  !  " 

"  Alas  !  "murmured  the  boy,  "  if  the  hammer  once  strike  the 
spark  from  the  anvil,  the  spark  must  fly  upward;  it  can  not  fall 
back  to  earth  until  light  has  left  it.  Upward  still,  Helen  —  let 
me  go  upward  still  !  " 

^TTAT>Tt7T>    v,r 


THE  next  morning  Helen  was  very  ill  —  so  ill  that,  shortly  after 
rising,  she  was  forced  to  creep  back  to  bed.  Her  frame,  shiv- 
ered —  her  eyes  were  heavy  —  -her  hand  burned  like  fire.  Fever 
had  set  in.  Perhaps  she  might  have  caught  cold  on  the  bridge  — 
perhaps  her  emotions  had  proved  too  much  for  her  frame. 
Leonard,  in  great  alarm,  called  in  the  nearest  apothecary.  The 
apothecary  looked  grave,  and  said  there  was  danger.  And  dan- 
ger soon  declared  itself  —  Helen  became  delirious.  For  several 
days  .she  lay  in  this  state,  between  life  and  death.  Leonard 
then  felt  that  all  the  sorrows  of  earth  are  light,  compared  with 
the  fear  of  losing  what  we  love.  How  valueless  the  envied 
laurel  seemed  beside  the  dying  rosev.b  :*((} 

Thanks,  perhaps,  more  to  his  heed  and  tending  than  to  medical 
skill,  she  recovered  sense  at  last—  immediate  peril  was  over. 
But  she  was  very  weak  and  reduced—  her  ultimate  recovery 
doubtful  —  convalescence,  at  best,  likely  to  be  very  slow. 

But  when  she  learned  how  long  she  had  been  thus  ill,  she 
looked  anxiously  at  Leonard's  face  as  he  bent  over  her,  and  fal- 
tered forth,  —  "  Give  nie  my  work  :  I  am  strong  enough  for  that 
now—  it  would  amuse  me." 

Leonard  burst  into  tears. 

Alas!  he  had  no  work'  himself  ;  all  their  joint  money  had 
melted  away.  The  apothecary  was  not  like  good  Dr.  Morgan  ; 
the  medicines  were  to  be  paid  for  —  and  the  rent.  Two  days 
before,  Leonard  had  pawned  Riccabocca's  watch  ;  and  when  the 
last  shilling  thus  raised  was  gone,  how  should  he  support  Helen  ? 
Nevertheless  he  conquered  his  tears,  and  assured  her  that  he  had 
employment  ;  and  that  so  earnestly,  that  she  believed  him,  and 
sank  into  soft  sleep.  He  listened  to  her  breathing,  kissed  her 
forehead,  and  left  the  room.  He  turned  into  his  own  neighboring 
garret,  and,  leaninghis  face  on  his  hands,collected  all  his  thoughts. 

He  must'  be  a  beggar  at  last.     He  must  write  to  Mr.  Dale  for 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  419 

money — Mr.  Dale,  too,  who  knew  the  secret  of  his  birth.  He 
would  rather  have  begged  of  a  stranger — it  seemed  to  add  a  new 
dishonor  to  his  mother's  memory  for  the  child  to  beg  of  one  who 
was  acquainted  with  her  shame.  •  Had  hehimself  been  the  only 
one  to  want  and  to  starve, 'he  would  have  sunk  inch  by  inch  into 
the  grave  of  famine,  before  he  would  have  so  subdued  his  pride. 
But  Helen,  there  on  tliat  bed — Helen  needing,  for  weeks  per- 
haps,'all  support,  and  illness  ma'king  luxuries  themselves  like 
necessaries  !  .Beg  he  must.  And  when  he  so  resolved,  had  you. 
but  seen  the  proud  bitter  soul  he  conquered,  you  would  have 
said — "  This;  which  he  thinks  is  degradation — this  is  heroism." 
Oh  strange  human  heart !  no  epic  ever  written  achieves  the 
Sublime  and  the  Beautiful  which  are  graven,  unread  by  human 
eye,  in  thy  secret  leaves.  Of  whom  else  should  he  beg?  His 
mother  had  nothing,  Riccabocca  was  poor,  and  the  stately  Vio- 
lante,  who  had  exclaimed,  "Would  that  I  were  a  man  !  "—he 
could  not  endure  the  thought  that  she  should  pity  him,  and  de- 
spise. The  Avenels  !  No — thrice  no.  He  drew  toward -him 
hastily  ink  and  paper,  and  wroite  rapid  lines,  that  were  wrung 
from  him  as  from  the  bleeding  strings  of  life. 

But  .the  'hour  for  the  post  had  passed — the  letter  must  wait 
till  the  next  day  ;  and  three  days  at  least  would  elapse  before  he 
could  receive  an  answer.  He  left  the  letter  on  the  table,  and, 
stifling  as  for  air,  went  forth.  He  crossed  the  bridge — he  passed 
on  mechanically — and  was  borne  along  by  a  crowd  pressing  to- 
ward the  doors  of  Parliament.  A  debate  that  excited  popular 
interest  was  fixed  for  that  evening,  and  many  bystanders  col- 
lected in  the  street  to  see  the  members  pass  to  and  fro,  or  hear 
what  speakers  had  yet  risen  to  take  part  in  the  debate,  or  try  to 
get  orders  for  the  gallery. 

He  halted  amidst  these  loiterers,  with  no  interest,  indeed,  in 
common  with  them,  but  looking  over  their  heads  abstractedly 
toward  the  tall  Funeral  Abbey— imperial  Golgotha  of  Poets, 
and  Chiefs,  and  Kings; 

Suddenly  his  attention  was  diverted  to  those  around  by  the 
sound  of  a  name-^displeasingly  known  to  him.  "  How  are 
you,  Randal  Leslie  ?— coming  to  hear  the  debate  ?"  said  a  mem- 
ber, who;  was  passing  through  the  street. 

"Yes;  Mr.  Egerton  promised  to  get  me  under  the  gallery.  He  is 
to  speak  himself  to-night,  and  I  have  never  heard  him.  Asyouare 
going  into  the  House,  will  you  remind  him  of  his  promise  to  me?" 

"  I  cah't'now,  for  he  is  speaking  already — and  well  too.  I 
hurried  from  the  Athenaeum,  where  I  was  dining,  on  purpose  to 
be  in  time,  as  I  heard  that  his  speech 'was  making  a  great  effect." 


420  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

4<  This  is  very  unlucky,"  said  Randal.  "  I  had  no  idea  he 
Irould  speak  so  early." 

"  C —  brought  him  up  by  a  direct  personal  attack.  But  fol- 
low me  ;  perhaps  I  can  get  you  into  the  House  ;  and  a  man  like 
you,  Leslie,  from  whom  we  expect  great  things  some  day,  lean 
tell  you,  should  not  miss  any  such  opportunity  of  knowing  what 
this  House  of  ours  is  on  a  field  night.  Come  on  !  " 

The  member  hurried  toward  the  door;  and  as  Randal  fol- 
Jowed  him,  a  bystander  cried — "  That  is  the  young  man  who 
wrote  the  famous  pamphlet — Egerton's  relation." 

"  Oh,  indeed  ! ''  said  another.  "  Clever  man,  Egerton— I  am 
waiting  for  him." 

"  So  am  L" 

"  Why,  you  are  not  a  constituent  ;as  I  am." 

"  No  ;  but  he  has  been  very  kind  to  my  nephew,  and  I  must 
thank  him.  You  are  a'constituent — heis  an  honor  to  your  town." 

"  So  he  is  ;  enlightened  man  !  " 

"And  so  generous  !  " 

"Brings  forward  really  good  measures,"  quoth  the  politician. 

"  And  clever  young  men,"  said  the  uncle. 

Therewith  one  or  two  others  joined  in  the  praise  of,  Audley 
Egerton,  and  many  anecdotes  of  his  liberality  were  told. 

Leonard  listened  at  first  listlessly,  at  last  with  thoughtful 
attention.  He  had  heard  Burley,  too,  speak  highly  of  this 
generous  statesman,  who,  without  pretending  to  genius  himself, 
appreciated  it  in:  others.  He  suddenly  remembered,  too,  that 
Egerton  was  half-brothqr  to  the  Squire.  Vague  notions  of  some 
appeal  to  this  eminent  person,  not  for  charity,  but  employment 
to  his  mind,  gleamed  across  him- — inexperienced  boy  that  he  yet 
was  !  And  while  thus  meditating,  the  door  of  the  House  opened, 
and  out  came  Audley  Egerton  himself.  A  partial  cheering,  fol- 
low.ed  by  a  general  murmur,  apprised  Leonard  of  the  presence  of 
the  popular  'Statesman.  Egerton  was  caught  hold  of  by  some 
five  or  six  persons  in  succession  ;  a  shake  of  the  hand,  a  nod,  a 
brief  whispered  word  or  two,  sufficed  the  practised  member  for 
graceful  escape  ;  and  soon,  freed  from  the  crowd,  his  tall,  erect 
figure  passed  on,  and  turned  toward  the  bridge.  He  pau.sed  at 
the  angle  and  took  out. his  watch,  looking  at  it  by  the  lamplight. 

"  Harley  will  be  here  soon,';'  he  muttered — "  he  is  always 
punctual ;  and  now  that  I  have1  spoken,  I  can  give  him  an  hour 
or  so.  That  is  well." 

As. he  replaced  the  watch  in  his  pocket  and  rebwttoned  his 
v coat  over  his  firm,  broad  chest,  he  lifted  his  eyes,  and  saw  a 
young  man  standing  before  him.. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  421 

"  Do  you  want  me  ? "  asked  the  statesman  with  the  direct 
brevity  of  his  practical  character. 

"  Mr.  Egerton,"  said  the  young  man,  with  a  voice  that  slightly 
trembled,  and  y'et  was  manly  amidst  emotion,  "  you  have  a  great 
name,  and  great  power— I  stand  here  in  these  streets  of  Lon- 
don without  a  friend,  arid  without  employment.  I  believe  that  I 
have  it  in  me  to  do  some  nobler  work  than  that  of  bodily  labor, 
had  I  but  one  friend — one  opening  for  my  thoughts.  And  now 
I  have  said  thrs,  I  scarcely  know  how,  or  why,  but  from  despair, 
and  the  sudden  impulse  which  that  despair  took  from  the  praise 
that  follows  your  success — I  have  nothing  more  to  add." 

Audley  Egerton'was  silent  for  a  moment,  struck  by  the  tone 
and  address  of  the  stranger;  but  the  consummate  and  wary 
man  df  the  world,  accustomed  to  all  manner  of  strange  appli- 
cations, and  all  varieties  of  imposture,  quickly  recovered  from 
a  passing  and  slight  effect. 

"Are  you  a  native  of ?"  (naming  the  town  which  the 

statesman  represented.) 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Well,  young  man,  I  am  very  sorry  for  you  ;  but  the  good 
sense  which  you  must  possess  (for  I  judge  of  that  by  the  educa- 
tion you  have  evidently  received)  must  tell  you  that  a  public  man, 
whatever  be  his  patronage,  has  it  to6  fully  absorbed  by  claimants1 
who  have  a  right  to  demand  it,  to  be  able  to  listen  to  strangers." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and,  as  Leonard  stood  silent,  added, 
with  more  kindness  than  most  public  men  so  accosted  would 
have  shown — 

"  You  say  you  are  friendless ; — poor  fellow.  In  early  life 
that  happens  to  many  of  us,  who  find  friends  enough  before 
the  close.  Be  honest,  and  well-conducted  ;  lean  on  yourself, 
not  on  strangers;  work  with  the  body  if  you  can't  with  the 
mind  ;  and,  believe  me,  that  advice  is  all  I  can  give  you,  unless 
this  tri'fte," — and  the  minister  held  out  a  crown  piece. 

Leonard  bo\ved,  shook  his  head  sadly,  and  walked  away. 
Egerton  looked  after  him  with  a  slight  pang. 

"  Pooh  !"  said  he  to  himself,  "there  must  be  thousands  in 
the  same  state  in  these  streets  of  London.  I  cannot  redress 
the  necessities  of  civilization.  Well  educated  !  It  is  not  from 
ignorance  henceforth  that  society  will  suffer — it  is  from  over- 
educating  the  hungry  thousands  who,  thus  unfitted  for  manual 
toil,  and  with  no  career  for  mental,  will  some  day  or  other  stand 
like  that  boy  in  our  streets,  and  puzzle  wiser  ministers  than  I  am." 

As  Egerton  thus  mused,  and  passed  on  to  the  bridge,  a  bugle- 
horn  rang  merrily  from  the  box  of  a  gay  four-in-hand.  A  drag- 


422  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

coach  with  superb  blood-horses  rattled  over  the  causeway,  and  in 
the  driver  Egerton  recognized  his  nephew — Frank  Hazeldean. 

The  young  Guardsman  was  returning,  with  a  lively  party  of 
men,  from  dining  at  Greenwich  ;  and  the  careless  laughter  of 
these  children  of  pleasure  floated  far  over  the  still  water;  it  vexed 
the  ear  of  the  careworn  statesman — sad,  perhaps,  with  all  his 
greatness,  lonely  amidst  all  his  crowd  of  friends.  It  reminded 
him,  perhaps,  of  his  own-  youth,  when  such  parties  and  compan- 
ionships were  familiar  to  him,  though  thrqugh  them  all  .he  had 
borne  an  ambitious,  aspiring  soul — "  Lejeu,  vaut-il  la  chandelle  ? ' ' 
said  he,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 

-The  coach  rolled  rapidly  past  Leonard,  as  he  stood  leaning 
against  the  corner  of  the  bridge,  and  the  mire  of  the  kennel 
splashed  over  him  from  the  hoofs  of  the  fiery  horses.  The  laughter 
smote  on  his  ear  more  discordantly  than  on  the  minister's,  but 
it  begot  no  envy. 

"  Life  is  a  dark  riddle,"  said  her  smiting  his  breast. 

And  he  walked  slowly  on,  gained  the  recess  where  he  had  stood 
several  nights  before  with  Helen,  and,  dizzy  with  want  of  food, 
and.  worn  out  for  want  of  sleep,  he  sank  down  into  the  dark 
corner;  while  the  river  that  rolled  under  the  arch  of  stone  mut- 
tered dirge-like  in  his  ear — asunder  the  social  key-stone  wails  and 
rolls  on  for  ever  the  mystery  of  Human  Discontent.  Take  com- 
fort, O  Thinker  by  the  stream  !  'Tis  the  river  that  founded  and 
gave  pomp  to  the  city;  and  without  the  discontent,  where  were 
progress — =what  were  Man  ?  Take  comfort^  0  THINKER!  where- 
ever  the  stream  over  which  thou  bendest,  or  beside  which  thou 
sinkest,  weary  and  desolate,  frets  the  arch  that  supports  thee; — 
never  dream  that,  by  destroying  the  bridge,  thou  canst  silence 
the  moan  of  the  wave  ! 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

BEFORE  a  table,  in  the  apartments  appropriated  to  hirn  in  his 
father's  house  at  Knightsbridge,  sat  Lord  L'Estrange,  sorting  or 
destroying  letters  and  papers — an  ordinary  symptom  of  change 
of  residence.  There  are  certain  trifles  by  which  a  shrewd  ob- 
server may  judge  of  a  man's  disposition.  Thus,  ranged  on  the 
table,  with  some  elegance,  but  with  soldierlike  precision,  were 
sundry  little  relics  of  former  days,  hallowed  by  some  sentiment 
of  memory,  or  perhaps  endeared  solely  by  custom ;  which^whether 
he  was  in  Egypt,  Italy,  or  England,  always  made  part  of  the  furni- 
ture of  Harley's  room.  Even  the  small,  old-fashioned,  and  some- 
what inconvenient  inkstand  into  which  he  dipped  the  pen  as  he 
labelled  th«  letters  he  ;put  aside,  belonging  to  the  writing-desk 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  423 

which  had  been  his  pride  as  a  schoolboy.  Even  the  books  that 
lay  scattered  round  were  not  new  works,  not  those  to  which  we 
turn  to  satisfy  the  curiosity  of  an  hour,  or  to  distract  our  graver 
thoughts  ;  they  were  chiefly  either  Latin  or  Italian  poetSj  with 
many  a  pencil-mark  on  the  margin  ;  or  books  which,  making 
severe  demand  on  thought,  require  slow  and  frequent  perusal, 
and  become  companions.  Somehow  or  other,  in  remarking  that 
even  in  dumb,  inanimate  things  the  man  was  averse  to  change, 
and  had  the  habit  of  attaching  himself  to  whatever  was  connected 
with  old  associations,  you  might  guess  that  he  clung  with  perti- 
nacity to  affections  more  important,  and  you  could  better  com- 
prehend the  freshness  of  his  friendship  for  one  so  dissimilar  in 
pursuits  and  character  as  Audley  Egerton.  An  affection  once 
admitted  into  the  heart  of  Harley  L'Estrange,  seemed  never  to 
be  questioned  or  reasoned  with ;  it  became  tacitly  fixed,  as  it 
were,  into  his  own  nature;  and  little  less  than  a  revolution  of  his 
whole  system  could  dislodge  or  disturb  it. 

Lord  L'Estrange's  hand  rested  now  upon  a  letter  in  a  stiff, 
legible  Italian  character;  and  instead  of  disposing  of  it  at  once 
as  he  had  done  with  the  rest,  he  spread  it  before  him,  and  re-read 
the  contents.  It  was  a  letter  from  Riccabocca,  received  a  few 
weeks  since,  and  ran  thus: — 

Letter  from  Signor  Riccabocca  to  Lord  L'Estrange. 

"  I  thank  you,  my  noble  friend,  for  judging  of  me  with  faith 
in  my  honor,  and  respect  for  my  reverses. 

"No,  and  thrice  no,  to  all  concessions,  all  overtures,  all  treaty 
with  Giulio  Franzini.  I  write  the  name,  and  my  emotions  choke 
me.  I  must  pause,  and  cool  back  into  disdain.  It  is  over.  Pass 
from  that  subject.  But  you  have  alarmed  me.  This  sister!  I 
have  not  seen  her  since  her  childhood;  but  she  was  brought  up 
under  his  influence — she  can  but  work  as  his  agent.  She  wish 
to  learn  my  residence!  It  can  be  but.  for  some  hostile  and  malig- 
nant purpose.  I  may  trust  in  you — I  know  that.  You  say  I  may 
trust  equally  in  the  discretion  of  your  friend.  Pardon  me — my 
confidence  is  not  so  elastic.  A  word  may  give  the  clue  to  my 
retreat.  But,  if  discovered,  what  harm  can  ensue?  An  English 
roof  protects  me  from  Austrian  despotism, true;  but  not  the  brazen 
tower  of  Danae  could  protect  me  from  Italian  craft.  And,  were 
there  nothing  worse,  it  would  be  intolerable  to  me  to  live  under 
the  eyes  of  a  relentless  spy.  Truly  saith  our  proverb,  *  He  sleeps 
ill  whom  the  enemy  wakes.'  Look  you,  my  friend,  I  have  done 
with  my  old  life — I  wish  to  cast  it  from  me  as  a  snake  its  skin. 
I  have  denied  myself  all  that  exiles  deem  consolation.  No  pity 
for  misfortune,  no  message  from  sympathizing  friendship,  no 


424  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

news  from  a  lost  aud  bereaved  country,  follow  me  to  my  hearth 
under  the  skies  of  the  stranger.  From  all  these  I  have  volun- 
tarily cut  myself  off.  I  am  as  dead  to  the  life  I  once  lived  as  if 
the  Styx  rolled  between  it  and  me.  With  that  sternness  which 
is  admissible  only  to  the  afflicted,  I  have  denied  myself  even  the 
consolation  of  your  visits.  I  have  told  you- fairly  and  simply 
that  your  presence  would  unsettle  all  my  enforced  and  infirm 
philosophy,  and  remind  me  only  of  the  past,  which  I  seek  to.blot 
from  remembrance.  You  have  complied  on  the  one  condition, 
that  whenever  I  really  want  your  aid  I  will  ask  it;  and,  meanwhile, 
you  have  generously  sought  to  obtain  me  justice  from  the  cabi- 
nets of  ministers  and  in  the  courts  of  kings.  I  did  not  refuse 
your  heart  this  luxury;  for  I  have  a  child — (Ah!  I  have  taught 
that  child  already  to  revere  your  name,  and  in  her  prayers  it  is 
not  forgotten).  But  now  that  you  are  convinced  that  even  your 
zeal  is  unavailing,  I  a.sk  you  to 'discontinue  attempts  which  may 
but  bring  the  spy  upon  my  track,  and  involve  me  in  new  misfor- 
tunes. Believe  me,  O  brilliant  Englishman,  that  I  am  satisfied 
and  contented  with  my  lot.  I  am  sure  it  would  not  be  for  my 
happiness  to  change  it.  '  Chi  non  haprovato  il  malenonconosce 
il  bene."  (One  does  not  know  when  one  is  well  off  till  one  has 
known  misfortune.)  You  ask  me  how  I  live— I  answer  allagior- 
nata  (to  the  day),-^not  for  the  morrow,  as  I  did, once.  I  have 
accustomed  myself  to  the  calm  existence  of  a  village.  I  take 
interest  in  its  details.  There  is  my  wife,  good  creature,  sitting 
opposite  to  me,  never  asking  what  I  write,  Or  to  whom,  but  ready 
to  throw,  aside  her  work  and  talk  the  moment  the  pen  is  out 
of  my  hand.  Talk — and  what  about?  Heaven  knows!  Bull 
would  rather  hear  that  talk,  though  on  the  affairs  of  a  hamlet, 
than  babble  again  with  recreant  nobles  and  blundering  professors 
a,bout  commonwealths  and  constitutions.  When  I  want  to  see 
how  little  those  last  influence  the  happiness  of  wise  men,  have  I 
not  Machiavelli  and  Thucydides  ?  Then,  by  and  by,  the  Parson 
will  drop  in,  and  we  argue.  He  never  knows  when  he  is  beaten, 
so  the  argument  is  everlasting.  On  fine  days  I  ramble  out  by  a 
winding  rill  with  my  Violante,  or  stroll  to  my  friend  the  Squire's 
and  see  how  healthful  a  thing  is  true  pleasure;  and  on  wet  days 
I  shut  myself  up  and  mope,  perhaps,  till,  hark!  a  gentle  tap  at 
the  door,  and  in  comes  Violante,  with  her  dark  eyes,  that  shine 
out  through  reproachful  tears — reproachful  that  I  should  mourn 
alone,  while  she  is  under  my  roof-i—so  she  puts  her  arms  around 
me,  and  in  five  minutes  all  is  sunshine  within.  What  care  we 
for  your  English  gray  clouds  without  ? 

"  Leave,  me,  my  dear  Lord — leave  me  to  this  quiet  happy  pas 


VARIETIES  IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  4*5 

sage  toward  oldage,serener  than  theyouth  that  I  wasted  sowildly; 
and  guard 'well  the:secret  on  which  my  happiness  depends. 

"  Now  to  yourself,  before  I  close.  Of  that  same  yourself  you 
speak  too  little,  as  of  me  too  much.  But  I  so  wellcomprehend'the 
profound  melancholy  that  lies  beneath  the  wild  and  fanciful 
humor  with  which  you  but  suggest,  as  in  sport,  what  you  feel  so  in 
earnest.  The  laborious  solitude  of  cities  weighs  on  you.  You  are 
flying  back  to  the  dolce  far  niente — to  friends  few, but  intimate; 
to  life  monotonous,  but  unrestrained;  and  even  there  the  sense 
of  loneliness  will  again  seize  upon  you;  and  you  do  not  seek,  as 
I  do,  the  annihilation  of  memory;  your  dead  past  ions  are  turned 
to  ghosts  that  haunt  you,  and  unfit  you  for  the  living  world.  I 
see  it  all — I  see  it  still,  in  your  hurried,  fantastic  lines,  as  I  saw 
it  when  we  two  sat  amidst  the  pines  and  beheld  the  .blue  lake 
stretched  below; — I  troubled  by  the  shadow  of  the  Future,  you 
disturbed  by  that  of  the  Past. 

"Well,  but  you  say,  half  seriously,  half  in  jest,  '  I  will  escape 
from  this  prison-house  of  memory;  I  will  form  new  ties,  like  other 
men,  and  before  it  be  too  late;  I  will  marry — Ay,  but  I  must 
love — there  is  the  difficulty'— difficulty — yes,  and  Heaven  be 
thanked  for  it !  Recall  all  the  unhappy  marriages  that  have  come 
to  your  knowledge — pray  have  not  eighteen  out  of  twenty  been 
marriages  for  love  ?  It  always  has  been  so,  and  it  always  will. 
Because,  whenever  we  love  deeply,  we  exact  so  much  and  forgive 
so  little.  Be  content  to  find  some  one  with  whom  your  hearth 
and  your  honor  are  safe.  You  will  grow  to  love  what  never 
wounds  'your  heart — you  will  soon  grow  out  of.  love  with  what 
must  always  disappoint  your  imagination.  Cospetto !  I  -wish 
my  Jemima  had  a  younger  sister  for  you.  Yet  it  was  with  a 
deep  groan  that  I  settled  myself  to  a — Jemima. 

"  Now,  I  have  written  you  a  long  letter,  to  prove  how  little  I 
need  of  your  compassion  or  your  zeal.  Once  more  let  there  be 
long  silence  between  us.  It  is  not  easy  for  me  to  correspond  with 
a  man  of  your  rank,  and  not  incur  the  curious  gossip  of  my  still 
little  pool  of  a  world  which  the  splash  of  a  pebble  can  break  into 
circles.  I  must  take  this  over  to  a  post-town  some  ten  miles  off, 
and  drop  it  into  the  box  by  stealth. 

"  Adieu,  dear  and  noble  friend,  gentlest  heart  and  subtlest  fancy 
that  I  have  met  in  my  walkthrough  life.  Adieu.  Write  me  word 
when  you  have  abandoned  a  day-dream  and  found  a  Jemima. 

"  ALtHONSO. 

"  P.S. — For  heaven's  sake,  caution  and  recaption  your  friend 
the  minister  not  to  drop  a  word  to  this  woman  that  may  betray 
my  hiding-place." 


420  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

"Is  he  really  happy?"  murmured  Harley,  as  he  closed  the 
letter ;  and  he  sank  for  a  few  moments  into  a  reverie. 

"This  life  in  a  village — this  wife  in  a  lady  who  puts  down  her 
work  to  talk  about  villagers — what  a  contrast  to  Audley's  full 
existence  !  And  I  cannot  envy  nor  comprehend  either — yet  my 
own  existence — what  is  it  ? " 

He  rose,  and  moved  toward  the  window,  from  which  a  rustic 
stair  descended  to  a  green  lawn — studded  with  larger  trees  than 
are  often  found  in  the  grounds  of  a  suburban  residence.  There 
were  calm  and  coolness  in  the  sight,  and  one  could  scarcely  have 
supposed  that  London  lay  so  near. 

The  door  opened  softly,  and  a  lady  past  middle  age  entered  ; 
and  approaching  Harley,  as  he  still  stood  musing  by  the  window, 
laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  What  character  there  is  in  a  hand  ! 
Hers  was  a  hand  that  Titian  would  have  painted  with  elaborate 
care  !  Thin,  white,  and  delicate^with  the  blue  veins  raised 
from  the  surface.  Yet  there  was  something  more  than  mere 
patrician  elegance  in  the  form  and  texture.  A  true  physiologist 
would  have  said  at  once,  "There  are  intellect  and  pride  in  that 
hand,  which  seems  to  fix  a  hold  where  it  rests;  and  lying  so 
lightly,  yet  will  not  be  as  lightly  shaken  off." 

"Harley,"  said  the  lady — and  Harley  turned — "you -do  not 
deceive  me  by  that  smile,"  she  continued,  sadly  ;  "  you  were 
not  smiling  when  I  entered." 

"  It  is  rarely  that  we  smile  to  ourselves,'' my  dear  mother ;  and  I 
havedonenothinglately  so  foolish  as  tocause  me  tosiuilert/myself." 

"My  son, "said  Lady  Lansmere,  somewhat  abruptly, but  with 
great  earnestness,  "you  come  from  a  line  of  illustrious  ances- 
tors ;  and  methinks  they  ask  from  their  tombs  why  the  last  of 
their  race  has  no  aim  and  no  object — no  interest—no  home  in  the 
land  which  they  served, and  which  rewarded  them  with  its  honors." 

"  Mother,"  said  the  soldier,  simply,  "  when  the  land  was  in 
danger,  I  served  it  as  my  forefathers  served — and  my  answer 
would  be  the  scars  on  my  breast." 

"Is  it  only  in  danger  that  a  country  is  served — only  in  war  that 
duty  is  fulfilled  ?  Do  you  think  that  your  father,  in  his  plain 
manly  life  of  country  gentleman,  does  not  fulfil;  though  perhaps 
too  obscurely,  the  objects  for  which  aristocracy  is  created,  and 
wealth-is  bestowed?" 

"  Doubtless  he  does,  ma'am— and  better  than  his  vagrant  son 
ever  can." 

"Yet  his  vagrant  son  has  received  such  gifts  from  nature — 
his  youth  was  so  rich  in  promise — his  boyhood  so  glowed  at  the 
dream  of  glory  !— " 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  427 

"Ay,"  said  Harley,  very  softly,  "it  is  possible — and  all  to  be 
buried  in  a  single  grave  ! " 

The  Countess  started,  and  withdrew  her  hand  from  Harley's 
shoulder. 

Lady  Lansmere's  countenance  was  not  one  that  much  varied 
in  expression.  She  had  in  this,  as  in  her  cast  of  features,  little 
resemblance  to  her  son. 

Her  features  were  slightly  aquiline — the  eyebrows  of  that  arch 
which  gives  a  certain  majesty  to  the  aspect ;  the  lines  round  the 
mouth  were  habitually  rigid  and  compressed.  Her  face  was  that 
of  one  who  had  gone  through  great  emotion  and  subdued  it. 
There  was  something  formal,  and  even  ascetic,  in  the  character 
of  her  beauty,  which  was  still  considerable — in  her  air  and  in 
her  dress.  She  might  have  suggested  to  you  the  idea  of  some 
Gothic  baroness  of  old,  half  chatelaine,  half  abbess;  you  would 
see  at  a  glance  that  she  did  not  live  ;ri  the  light  world  around 
her,  and  disdained  its  fashion  and  its  mode  of  thought ;  yet  with 
all  this  rigidity  it  was  still  the  face  of  the  woman  who  has  known 
human  ties  and  human  affections.'  And  now, as  she  gazed  long 
on  Harley's  quiet,  :saddened  brow,  it  was  the  face  of  a  mother. 

"A  single  grave,"  she  said,  after  a  long  pause.  "And  you  were 
then  but  a  boy,  Harley  !  Can  such  a  memory  influence  you  even 
to  this  day!  It  is  scarcely  possible  ;  it  does  not  seem  torhe-within 
the  realities  of -man's  life — though  it  might  be  of  woman's." 

"I  believe,"  said  Harley,  half  -soliloquizing,  "that  I  have  a 
great  deal  of  the  woman  in  me.  Perhaps  men  who  live  much 
alone,  and  care  not. for  men's  objects,  do  grow  tenacious  of  im- 
pressions, as  your  sex  does.  But  oh,"  he  cried,  aloud;  and  with  a 
sudden  change  of  countenance,  "oh,  the  hardest  and  the  coldest 
man  would  have  felt  as  I  do,  had  he  known  her — had  he  loved 
her.  She  was  like  no  other  woman  I  have  ever  met.  Bright  and 
glorious  creature  of  another  sphere.  She  descended  on  this  earth, 
and  darkened  it  when  she  passed  away.  It  is  no  use  striving. 
Mother,  I  have  as  much  courage  as  our  steel-clad  fathers  ever  had. 
I  have  dared  in  battle  and  in  deserts — against  man  and  the  wild 
beast — against  the  storm  and  the  ocean — against  the  rude  powers 
of  Nature — dangers  as  dread  as  ever  pilgrim  or  Crusader  rejoiced 
to  brave.  But  courage  against  thatone  memory?  no,  Ihavenone!" 

"  Harley,  Harley,  you  break  my  heart !"  cried  the  Countess, 
clasping  her  hands.  • 

"Itis  astonishing,"  continued  her  son,  so  wrapped  inhisown 
thoughts  that  he  did  not,  perhaps,  hear  her  outcry.  "Yea,  verily, 
it  is  astonishing  that,  considering  the  thousands  of  women  I  have 
seen  and  spoken  with,  I  never  see  a  face  like  hers — never  hear  a 


428  MY    NOVEL  j    OR, 

voice  so  sweet.  And  all  this  universe  of  life  cannot  afford  me  one 
look  and  one  tone  that  can  restore  me  to  .man's  privilege — love. 
Well,  well,  well,  life  has  other  things  yet — Poetry  and  Art  live 
still — still  smiles  the  heaven,  and  still  wave  the  trees.  Leave 
me  to  happiness  in  my  own  way." 

The  Countess  was  about  to  reply,  when  the  door  was  thrown 
hastily  open,  and  Lord  Lansmere  walked  in. 

The  Earl  was  some  years  older  than  the  Countess,  but  his 
placid  face  showed  less  wear  and  tear — a  benevolent,  kindly  face, 
without  any  evidence  of  commanding  intellect,  but  with  no  lack 
of  sense  in  its  pleasant  lines.  His  form  not  tall,  but  upright;  and 
withan  air  of  consequence — a  little  pompous,  butgood-humoredly 
so.  The  pomposity  of  the  grand  seigneur >  who  has  lived  much  in 
provinces — whose  will  has  been  rarely  disputed,  and  whose  im- 
portance has  been  so  felt  and  acknowledged  as  to  react  insensibly 
on  himself  ;— -an  excellent  man  ;  but  when  you  glanced  toward 
the  high  brow  and  dark  eye  of  the  Countess,  you  marvelled  a 
little  how  the  two  had  come  together,  and,  according  to  common 
report,  lived  so  happily  in  the  union. 

"Hp,  ho!  my  dear  Harley,"  cried  Lord  Lansmere,  rubbing 
his  hands  with  an  appearance  of  much  satisfaction,  "I  have 
just  been  paying  a  visit  tP  the  Duchess." 

"  What  duchess,  my  dear  father  ? " 

"Why,  your  mother's  first-cousin,  to  be  sure— the  Duchess  of 
Knaresborough,  whom,  to  oblige  me,  you  condescended  to  call 
upon  ;  and  delighted  I  am  to  hear  that  you  admire  Lady  Mary — " 

"She  is  very  .  high-bred,  and  rather- — high-nosed/'  answered 
Harley.— Then,  observing  that  his  mother  looked  pained,  and 
his  father  disconcerted,  he  added  seriously,  "  But  handsome, 
certainly." 

"Well,  Harley,"  said  the  Earl,  recovering  himself,"  the  Duchess, 
taking  advantage  of  our  connection  to  speak  freely,  has  intimated 
to  me  that  Lady  Mary  has  been  no  less  struck  with  yourself ; 
and,  to  come  to  the  point,  since  you  allow  that  it  is  time  you 
should  think  of  marrying,  I  do  not  know  a  more  desirable 
alliance. — Wha;t  do  you  say,  Catherine  ? " 

"The  Duke  is  of  a  family  that  ranks  in  history  before  the  Wars 
of  the  Roses,"  said  Lady  Lansmere,  with  an  air  of  deference  to 
her  husband  ;  "  and  there  has  never  been  one  scandal  in  its  annals, 
nor  one  blot  in  its  scutcheon.  But  I  am  sure  my  dear  lord  must 
think  that  the  Duchess  should  not  have  made  the  first  overture — 
even  to  a  friend  and  a  kinsman?" 

"Why,  we  are  old-fashioned  people,"  said  the  Earl,  rather 
embarrassed,  "and  the  Duchess  is  a  woman  pf  the  world." 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  429 

"Let  us  hope,"  said  the  Countess,  mildly,  "that  her  daughter 
is  not." 

"I  would  not  marry  Lady  Mary,  if  all  the  rest  of  the  female 
sex  were  turned  into  apes,"  said  Lord  L'Estrange,  with  delib- 
erate fervor. 

''Good  heavens  !"  cried  the  Earl,  "  what  extraordinary  lan- 
guage is:  this?  And  pray  why,  sir?" 

HARLEY. — I  can't  say — there  is  no  why  in  these  cases.  But, 
my  dear  father,  you  are  not  keeping  faith  with  me. 

LORD  LANSMERE. — How  ? 

HARLEY. — You  and  my  lady  here  entreat  me  to  marry  ;  I 
promise  to  do  my  best  to  obey  you  ;  but  on  one  condition— that 
I  choose  for  myself,  and  take  my  time  about  it.  Agreed  on  both 
sides.  Whereon,  off  goes  youtf  lordship — actually  before  noon, 
at  an  hour  when  no  lady,  without  a  shudder,  could  think  of  cold 
bjonde  and  damp  orange-flowers — off  goesyour  Lordship,  I  say, 
and  commits  poor  Lady  Mary  and  your  unworthy  son  to  a  mu- 
tual admiration-1 — which  neither  of  us  ever  felt.  Pardon  me,  my 
father,  but  this  is  grave.  Again  :let  me  claim  your  promise — 
full  choice  for  myself,  and  no  reference  to  the  Wars  of  the 
Roses.  What  war  of  the  roses  like  that  between  Modesty  and 
Love  upon  the  cheek  of  the  Virgin  ! 

LADY  LANSMERE. — Full  choice  for  yourself,  Harley— so  be  it. 
But  we,  too,  named  a  condition — did  we  not,  Lansmere  ? 

The  EARL  (puzzled).— Eh — did  we  ?  Certainly  we  did. 

HARLEY.— What  was  it  ? 

LADY  LANSMEKE. — The  son  of  Lord  Lansmere  can  only 
marry  the  daughter  of  a  gentleman. 

The  EARL.^Of  course— of  course. 

The  blood  rushed  over  Harley's  fair  face,  and  then  as  sud- 
denly left  it  pale. 

He  walked  away  to  the  window  ;  his  mother  followed  him, 
and  again  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  You  were  cruel,"  said  he  gently,  and  in  a  whisper,  as  he 
winced  under  the  touch  of  the  hand.  Then  turning  to  the  Earl, 
who  was  gazing  at  him  in  blank  surprise— (it  never  •occurred  to 
Lord  Lansmere  that  there  could  be  a  doubt  of  his  son's  marry- 
ing beneath  the  rank  modestly  stated  by  the  Cou~ntess)-^-Harley 
stretched  forth  his  hand,  and  said  in  his  soft  winning  tone,  "You 
have  ever  been  most  gracious  to  me,  and  most  forbearing ;  it  is 
but  just  that  I  should  sacrifice  the  habits  of  an  egotist,  to  gratify 
a  wish  which  you  so  warmly  entertain.  I  agree  with  you,  too, 
that  our  race  should  not  close  in  me-^Noble$se  oblige.  But  you 
know  I  was  ever  romantic  ;  and  I  must  love  where  I  marry — 


.       MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

.or,  if  not  love,  I  must  feel  that  my  wife  is  worthy  of  all  the  love 
I  could  once  have  bestowed.  Now,  as  to  the  vague  word  "  gen- 
tleman," that  my  mother  employs — a  word  that  means  so  differ- 
ently on  different  lips, — I  confess  that  I  have  a  prejudice 
against  young  ladies  brought  up  in  the  "excellent  foppery  of  the 
world,"  as  the  daughters  of  gentlemen  of  our  rank  mostly  are  ; 
I  crave,  therefore,  the  most  liberal  interpretation  of  this  word 
V  gentleman."  And  so  long  as  there  be  nothing  mean  or  sordid 
'in  the  birth,  habits,. and  education  of  the  father  of  this  bride  to 
be,  I  trust  you  will  both  agree  to  demand  nothing  more1 — neither 
titles  nor  pedigree." 

"  Titles— no,  assuredly,"  said  Lady  Lansmere ;  "theydonot 
make  gentlemen."  . 

"Certainly  not,"  said  the  Earl  ;  "many  of  our  best  families 
are  untitled." 

"Titles — no,"  repeated  Lady  Lansmere ;  "but  ancestors — yes," 

"  Ah,  my  mother,"  said  Harley,  with  his  most  sad  and  quiet 
smile,  "it  is  fated  that  we  shall  never  agree.  The  first  of  our 
race  is  ever  the  one  we  are  roost  proud  of  ;  and,  pray,  what  an- 
cestors had  he?  Beauty,  virtue,  modesty,  intellect- — if  these  are 
not  nobility, enough  for  a  man,  he  is  a  slave  to  the  dead." 

With  these  words,  Harley  took  up  his  hat,  and  made  toward 
the  door. 

"  You  said  yourself,  ' Noblesse -oblige,1  "  said  the  Countess,  fol- 
lowing hjm  to  the  threshold  ;  :"we  have  nothing  more  to  add." 

Harley  slightly  shrugged  his  shoulders,  kissed  his  mother's 
hand,  \yhistled,  to  Nero,  who  started  up  froma  doze  by  the  win- 
dow, and  went  his  way. 

"  Does  he  really  go  abroad  next  week  ? "  said  -the. Earl. 

"  So  he  says." 

"  I  am  afraid  there  is  no  chance  for  Lady.  Mary,"  resumed 
Lord  Lansmere,  with  a  plight  but  melancholy  smile. 

"She  has  not  intellect  enough  to  charm  him.  She  is  not 
worthy  of  Harley,'-'  said  the  proud  mother.. 

"  Between  you  and  me,"  rejoined  the  Earl,  rather  timidly,  "  I 
don't  see  what  good  his  intellect  does  him.  He  could  not  be 
more  unsettled, and  useless  if  he  were  the  merest  dunce  in  the 
three  kingdoms.  And  so  ambitious  as  he  was  when  a  boy  ! 
Katherine,  I  sometimes  fancy  that  you  know  what  changed  him." 

"  1  !  Nay,  my  dear  lord,  it  is  a  common  change  enough  with 
the  young,  when  of  such  fortunes  ;  who  find,  when  they  enter 
life,  that  there  is  really  little  left  for  them  to  strive  for.  Had 
Harley  been  a  poor  man's  son,  it  might  have  been  different." 

"  I  was  born  to  the  same  fortunes  as  Harley,"  said  ih* 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  43* 

shrewdly  ;  "  and  yet  I  flatter  myself  I  am  of  some  use  to  Old 
England." 

The  Countess  seized  upon  the  occasion,  complimented  herlord, 
and  turned  the  subject.  • 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

HARLEY  spent  his  day  in  his  usual  desultory,  lounging  man- 
ner— dined  in  his  quiet  corner  at  his  favorite  club — Nero,  not 
admitted  into  the  club,  patiently  waited  for  him  outside  the  door. 
The  dinner-over,  dog  and  man,  equally  indifferent  to  the  cro\vd, 
sauntered  down  that  thoroughfare  which,  to  the  few  who  can 
comprehend  the  Poetry  of  London,  has  associations  of  glory  and 
of  woe  sublime  as  any  that  the  ruins  of  the  dead  elder  world  can 
furnish — thoroughfare  that  traverses  what  was  once  the  court- 
yard of  Whitehall,  having  to  its  left  the  site  of  the  palace  that 
lodged  the  royalty  of  Scotland — gains,  through  a  narrow  strait, 
that  old  isle  of  Thorney,  in  which  Edward  the  Confessor  re- 
ceived the  ominous  visit  of  the  Conqueror— and  widening  once 
more  by  the  Abbey  and  the  Hall  of  Westminster,  then  loses  it- 
self, like  all  memories' of  earthly  grandeur,  amidst  humble  pas- 
sages and  mean  defiles. 

Thus  thought  Harley  L'Estrange — -eVerless  amidst  the  actual 
world  around  him,  than  the  images  invoked  by  his  own  solitary 
soul — as  he  gained  the  bridge,  and  saw  the  dull,  lifeless  craft 
sleeping  on  the  "  Silent  Way,"  once  loud  and  glittering  with  the 
gilded  barks  of  the  antique  Seignorie  of  England. 

It  was  on  that  bridge  that  Audley  Egerton  had  appointed  to 
meet  L'Estrange,  at  an  hour  when  he  calculated  he  Could  best 
steal  a  respite  from  debate.  For  Harley,  with  his  fastidious  dis- 
like to  all  the  resorts  of  his  equals,  had  declined  to  seek  his 
friend  in  the  crowded  regions  of  Bellamy's. 

Harley's  eye,  as  he  passed  along  the  bridge,  was  attracted  by 
a  still  form,  seated  on  the  stones  in  one  of  the  nooks,  with  its 
face  covered  by  its  hands.  "If  I  were  a  sculptor,"  said  he  to 
himself,  "  I  should  remember  that  image  whenever  I  wished  to 
convey  the  idea  of  Despondency  !  "  He  lifted  his  looks  and  saw, 
a  little  before  him,  in  the  midst  of  the  causeway,  the  firm  erect 
figure  of  Audley  Egerton.  The  moonlight  was  full  on  the 
bronzed  countenance  of 'the  strong  public  man — with  its  lines 
of  thought  and  care,  and  its  vigorous  but  cold  expression  of  in- 
tense self-control. 

"  And  looking  yonder,"  continued  Harley's  soliloquy,  "  I 
should  remember  that  form,  when  I  wished  tohewout  from  the 
granite  the  idea  of  Endurance" 


432  .MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  So  you  are  come,  arid  punctually,"  said  Egerton,  linking  M 
arm  in  Harley's. 

HARLEY. — Punctually,  of  course,  for  I  respect  your  time,  and 
I  will  not  detain  you  long.  I  presume  you  will  speak  to-night  ? 

EGERTON. — I  have  spoken. 

HARLEY  (with  interest). — And  well,  I  hope  ? 

EGERTON.— With  effect,  I  suppose,  for  I  have  been  loudly 
cheered,,  which  does  not  always  happen  to  me. 

HARLEY. — And  that  gave  you  pleasure  ? 

EGE,RTON  (after  a  moment's  thought), — No,  not  the  least. 

IjARLEY.-^-What,  then,  attaches  you;  so  much  to  this  life — 
constant  drudgery,  constant  warfare — the  more  pleasurable  fac- 
ulties dormant,  all  the  harsher  ones  aroused,  if  even  its  rewards 
(and  I  take  the  best  of  those  to  be  applause)  do  not  please  you? 

EGERTON. — What?    Custom. 

HARLEY.— Martyr  ! 

EGERTON. — You  say  it.  But  turn  to  yourself ;  you  have  de- 
cided, then,  to  leave  England  next  week  ? 

HARLEY  (moodily), — Yes.  This  life  in  a  capital,  where  all 
are  so  active,  myself  so  objectlessj  preys  on  me  like  a  low  fever. 
Nothing  here  amuses  me,  nothing  interests,  nothing  comforts 
and  consoles.  But  I  am  resolved,  before  it  be  too  late,  to  make 
one  great  struggle  out  of  the  Past,  and  iftto  the  natural  world  of 
men.  In  a  word,  I  have  resolved' to  marry. 

EGERTON. — Whom  ? ; 

HARLEY  (seriously)-: — Upon  my  life,  my  dear  fellow,  you  are  a 
great  philosopher.  You  have  hit  the  exact  question.  You  see 
I  cannot  marry  a  dream  ;  and  where,  out  of  tdrearns,  shall  I  find 
this  "  whom  "  ? 

EGERTON. — You  did  not  search  for  her. 

HARLEY. — Do  we  ever  search  for  love?  Does  it  not  flash  upon 
us  when  we-least  expect  it  ?  Is  it  not  like  the  inspiration  to  the 
muse  ?  What  poet  sits  down  and  says,  "  I  will  write  a  poem  ?" 
What  man  looks  outandsays»  <<flwill  fall  in  love?"  No!  Hap- 
piness, as  the  great  German  tells  us,  "  falls  suddenly  from  the 
bosom  of  the  gods  "  ;  so  does  love.  • 

EGERTON.-— You  remember  the  old  line  in  Horace  :  "  The  tide 
flows  away  while  the  boor  sits  on  the'margin  and  waits  for  the  ford." 

HARLEY. — An  idea  which  incidentally  dropped  from  you  some 
weeks.ago,andwhich  I  had  before  half-meditated, has  since  haunt- 
ed me.  If  I  could  but  find  some  child  with  sweet.dispositions  and 
fair  inteUectnot  yet  formed, and  train  herup,accordingtomyideal. 
I  am  still  young  enough  to  wait  a  few  years.  And  meanwhile  I  shall 
have  gained  what  I  so  sadly  want — an  object  in  life. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  433 

EGERTON.— You  are  ever  the  child  of  romance.    But  what — 

Here  the  Minister  was  interrupted  by  a  messenger  from  the 
House  of.  Commons;  whom  Audley  had  instructed  to  seek  him  on 
the  bridge  should  his  presence  be  required — "Sir,  the  Opposition 
are  taking  advantage  of  the  thinness  of  the  House  to  call  for  a  divi- 
sion. Mr.- —  is  put  up  to  speak  for  time,  but  they  won't  hear  him." 

Egerton  turned  nastily  to  Lord  L'Estrange — "  You  see,  you 
must  excuse  me  now.  To-morrow  I  must  go  to  Windsor  for 
two  days ;  but  we  shall  meet  on  my  return." 

"  It  does  not  matter,"  answered  Harley  ;  "I  stand  out  of  the 
pale  of  your  advice,  O  practical  man  of  sense.  And  if,"  added 
Harley,  with  affectionate  and  mournful  sweetness — "if  I  weary 
you  with  complaints  .which  you  cannot  understand,  it  is  only 
because  of  old  schoolboy  habits.  I  can  have  no  trouble1  that  I 
do  not  confide  to  you." 

Egerton's  hand  trembled  asitpressed  his  friend's;  and  without 
a  word,  he  hurried  aw-ay  abruptly.  Harley  remained  motion- 
less for  some  seconds,  in  deep  and  quiet  reverie  ;  then  he  called 
to  his  dog,  and  turned  back-  toward  Westminster. 

He  passed  the  nook  in  which  had  sate  the  still  figure  of  Des- 
pondency. But  the  figure  had  now  risen,  and  was  leaning  against 
the  balustrade.  The  dog,  who  preceded  his,  master, -passed  by 
the  solitary  form,  and  sniffed  it  suspiciously. 

"  Nero,  sir,  come  here,"  said  Harley. 

"  Nero,"  that  was  the  name  by  which  Helen  had  said  that  her 
father's  friend  had  called  his  dog.  And  the  sound  startled  Leon- 
ard as  he  leant,  sick  at  heart,  against  the  stone.  He  lifted  his 
head  and  looked  wistfully,  eagerly  into  Harley's  face.  Those 
eyes,  bright,  clear,  yet  so  strangely  deep  and  absent,  which  Helen 
had  described,  met  his  own,  and  chained  them.  For  L'Estrange 
halted  also  ;  the  boy's  countenance  was  not  unfamiliar  ,to  him. 
He  returned  the  inquiring  look  fixed  on  his  own,  and  recog- 
nized the  student  by  the  book-stall. 

"The  dog  is  quite  harmless,  sir,"  said  L'Estrange,  with  a  smile. 

"And  you  call  him,  '  Nero  ?'"  said  Leonard,  still  gazing  on 
the  stranger. 

Harley  mistook  the  drift  of  the  question. 

"Nero,  sir  ;  but  he  is  free  from  the  sanguinary  propensities 
of  his  Roman  namesake."  Harley  was  about  to  pass  on,  when 
Leonard  said,  falteringly, — 

"Pardon  me,  but  can  it  be  possible  that  you  are  one  wh»m  I 
have  sought  in  vain,  on  behalf  of  the  child  of  Captain- Digbiy  ?  " 

Harley  stopped  short.  "  Digby !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  where  is  he  ? 
He  should  have  found  me  easily.  I  gave  him  an  address." 


434  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

"  Ah,  Heaven  be  thanked  ! "  cried  Leonard.  "  Helen  is  saved 
— she  will  not  die/'  and  he  burst  into  tears. 

A  very  few  moments,  and  a  very  few  words  sufficed  to  explain 
to  Harley  the  state  of  his  old  fellow-soldier's  orphan.  And  Harley 
himself  soon  stood  in  the  young  sufferer's  room,  supporting  her 
burning  temples  on  his  breast,:and  whispering  into  ears  that  heard 
him  as. in- a  happy  dream,  "Comfort;  comfort ;  your  father  yet 
lives  in  me." 

And  then  Helen,  raising  her  eyes,  said,  ''But  Leonard  is  my 
brother- — more  than  brother — and  he  needs  a  father's  care 
more  than  I  do." 

"Hush,  hush,  Helen.  I  need  no  one-t-nothing  now !  "  cried 
Leonardj  and  his  tears  gushed  over  the  little  hand  that  clasped 
his  own.  >  .  • 

CHAPTER.  XVII. 

HARLEY^L'ESTRANGE  was  a  man  whom  all  things  that  belong 
to  the  romintic  and  poetic  side  of  our  human  life  deeply  im- 
pressed. When  he  came  to  learn  the  ties  between  these  two 
Chilldren  of  Nature,  standing  side  by  side,  alone  amidst  the 
storms  of  fate,  his  heart  was  more  deeply  moved  than  it  had  been 
for  many  years.  In  those  dreary  attics,  overshadowed  by  the 
smoke  and  reek  of  the  humble  suburb — the  workday  world  in  its 
harshest  and  tritest  forms  below  and  around  them — he  recog- 
nized that  divine  poem  which  comes  out  from  all  union  between 
the  mind  and  the  heart.  Here,  on  the  rough  deal  table  (the  ink 
scarcely  dry)-,  lay  the  writings  of  the  young  wrestler  for  fame 
and  bread  ;  there,  On:  the  other  side  the  partition,  on  that  mean 
pallet,  lay  the  boy's  sole  comforter — the  all  that  warmed  his 
heart  with  living  mortal  affection.  On  one  side  the  wall,  the 
world  of  imagination  ;  on  the  other,  this  world  of  grief  and  of 
love.  And  in  both,  a  spirit  equally  sublime — unselfish  Devo- 
tion— "the  something  afar  from  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow." 

He  lookod  round  the  room  into  which  he  had  followed  Leon- 
ard, on  quitting  Helen's  bedside."  He  noted  the  MSS.  on1  the 
table,  and,  pointing  to  them,  said  gently,  "  And  these  are  the 
labors  by  which  you  supported  the  soldier's  dfphan  ? — soldier 
yourself  in  a  hard  battle  !  " 

"  The  battle  was  lost — I  could  not  support  her,"  replied  Leon- 
ard, mournfully. 

"But  you  did  not  desert  her.  When  Pandora's  box  was 
opened,  they  say  Hope  lingered  last — " 

"  False,  false,"  said  Leonard  :  "  a  heathen's  notion.  There  are 
deities  that  linger  behind  Hope— Gratitude,  Love,  and  Duty." 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  435 

"Yours  is  no  common  nature,"  exclaimed  Harley,  admiringly, 
"  but  I  must  sound  it  more  deeply  hereafter  ;  at  present  I  hasten 
for  the  physician  ;  I  shall  return  with  him.  We  must  move  that 
poor  child  from  this  low,  close  air  as  soon  as  possible.  Mean- 
while, let  me  qualify  your  rejection  of  the  old  fable.  Wherever 
Gratitude,  Love,  and  Duty  remain  t6  man,  believe  me  that 
Hope  is  there  too,  though  she  may  be  often  invisible,  hidden 
behind  the  sheltering  wings  of  the  nobler  deities." 

Harley  said  this  with  that  wondrous  smile  of  his,  which  cast 
a  brightness  over  the  whole  room — and  went  away. 

Leonard  stole  softly  toward  the  grimy  window  ;  and  looking 
up  toward  the  stars  that  shone  pale  over  the  roof-tops,  he  mur- 
mured, "  O  thou,  the  All-seeing  and  All-merciful ! — how  it  com- 
forts me  now  to  think  that,  though  my  dreams  of  knowledge  may 
have  sometimes  obscured  the  Heavens,  I  never  doubted  that 
Thou  wert  there  !-^-as  luminous  and  everlasting,  though  behind 
the  cloud  !  "  So,  for  a  few  minutes,  he  prayed  silently — then 
passed  into  Helen's  room,  and  sat  beside  her  motionless,  for  she 
slept.  She  woke  just  as  Harley  returned  with  a  physician  ; '  and 
then  Leonard,  returning  to  his  own  room,  saw  amongst  his  papers 
the  letter  he  had  written  to  Mr.  Dale;  and  muttering,  "I need  not 
disgrace  ray  calling — I  need  not  be  the  mendicant  now  " — held 
the  letter  to  the  flame  of  the  candle.  And  while  he  said  this,  and 
as  the  burning  tinder  dropped  on  the  floor,  the  sharp  hunger, 
nnfelt  during  his  late  anxious  emotions,  gnawed  at  his  entrails. 
Still,  even  hunger  could  not  reach  that  noble  pride  which  had 
yielded  to  a  sentiment  nobler  than  itself — and  he  smiled,  as  he 
repeated,  "  No  mendicant ! — the  life  that  I  was  sworn  to  guard 
is  saved.  I  can  raise  against  Fate  the  front  of  Man  once  more." 

CHAPTER   XIX. 

A  FEW  days  afterward,  and  Helen,  removed  to -a  pure  air,  and 
tinder  the  advice  of  the  first  physicians,  was  out  of  all  danger. 

It  was  a  pretty  detached  cottage,  with  its  windows  lookingover 
the  wild  heaths  of  Norwood,  to  which  Harley  rode  daily  to  watch 
the  convalescence  of  his  young  charge  ;  an  object  in  life  was 
already  found.  As  she  grew  better  and  stronger,  he  coaxed  her 
easily  into  talking,  and  listened  to  her  with  pleased  surprise.  The 
heart  so  infantine,  and  the  sense  so  womanly,  struck  him  much 
by  its  rare  contrast  and  combination.  Leonard,  whom  he  had 
insisted  on  placing  also  in  the  cottage,  had  stayed  there  willingly 
till  Helen's  recovery  was  beyond  question.  Then  he  came  to 
Lord  L'Estrange,  as  the  latter  was  about  one  day  to  leave  the 


43«  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

cottage,  and  said,  quietly,  "Now,  my  lord,  that  Helen  is  safe, 
and  now  that  she  will  need  me  no  more,  I  can  no  longer  be  a 
pensioner  on  your  bounty.  I  return  to  London." 

"You  are  my  visitor,  not  my  pensioner,  foolish  boy,"  said 
Harley,  who  had  already  noticed  the  pride  which  spoke  in  that 
farewell  ;  "  come  into  the  garden  and  let  us  talk." 

Harley  seated  himself  on  a  bench  on  the  little  lawn  ;  Nero 
crouched  at  his  feet ;  Leonard  stood  beside  him. 

"  So,"  said  Lord  L'Estrange,  "  you  would  return  to  London  ? 
What  to  do  ?  " 

"Fulfil  my  fate." 

"  And  that  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  guess.  Fate  is  the  Isis  whose  veil  no  mortal  can 
ever  raise."  ;•  i 

"  You  should  be  born  for  great  things,"  said  Harley,  abruptly. 
"  I  am  sure  that  you  write  well.  I  have  seen  that  you  study  with 
passion.  Better  than  writing  and  better  than  study,  you  have 
a  noble  heart,  and  the  proud  desire  of  independence.  Let  me 
see  your  MSS.,  or  any  copies  of  what  you  have  already  printed. 
Do  not  hesitate — I  ask  but  to  be  a  reader.  I  don't  pretend  to 
be  a  patron  ;  it  is  a  word  I  hate." 

.:  Leonard's  eyes  sparkled  through  their  sudden  moisture.  He 
brought  out  his  portfolio,  placed  it  on  the  bench  beside  Harley, 
And  then  went  softly  to:  the  further  part  of  the  garden.  Nero 
looked  after ;him,  and  then  rose  and  followed  him  slowly.  The 
boy  seated  himself  on  the  turf  and  Nero  rested  his  dull  head  on 
the  loud  heart  of  the  poet. 

Harley  took  up  the  various  papers  before  him,  and  read  them 
through  leisurely.  Certainly  he  was  no  critic.  He  was  net 
accustomed  to  analyze  what  pleased  or  displeased  him  ;  but  his 
perceptions  were  quick,  and  his  taste  exquisite.  As  he  read,  his 
countenance,  always  so  genuinely  expressive,  exhibited  now 
doubt  and  now  admiration.  He  was  soon  struck  by  the  con- 
trast, ,in  the  boy's  writings,  between  the  pieces  that  sported  with 
fancy,  and  those  that  grappled  with  thought.  In  the  first,  the 
young  poet  seemed  so  unconscious  of  his  own  individuality. 
His  imagination,  afar  and  aloft  from,  the  scenes;  of  his  suffering!, 
ran  riot  amidst  a  paradise  of  happy  golden  creations.  But  in 
the  last,  the  THINKER  stood  out  alone  and  mournful,  questioning, 
in  troubled  sorrow,  the  hard  world  on  which  he  gazed.  All  i«i 
the  thought  was  unsettled,  tumultuous  ;  all  in  the  fancy  serene 
and  peaceful.  The  genius  seemed  divided  into  twain  shapes  ;  the 
one  bathing;  its  wings  amidst  the  starry  dews  of  heaven  ;  the 
other  wandering  "  melancholy,  slow,"  amidst  desolateand  bound- 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  437 

less  sands.  Harley  gently  laid  down  the  paper,  and  mused  a  little 
while.  Then  he  rose  and  walked  to  Leonard,  gazing  on  his  coun- 
tenance as  he  neared  the  boy,  with  a  new  and  a  deeper  interest. 

"  I  have  read  your  papers,"  he  said,  "and  recognize  in  them, 
two  men,  belonging  to  two  worlds,  essentially  distinct." 

Leonard  started,  and  murmured,  "  True,  true  !  " 

"I  apprehend,"  resumed  Harley,  "that  one  Of  these  inen.must 
either  destroy  the  other,  or  that  the  two  must  become  fused  and 
harmonized  into  a  single  existence.  Get  your  hat,  mount  my. 
groom's  horse,  and  come  with  me  to  London  ;  we  will  converse 
by  the  way.  Look  you,  I  believe  you  and  I  agree  in  this,  that  the 
first  object  of  every  nobler  spirit  is  independence.  It  is  toward 
this  independence  that  I  alone  presume  to  assist  you  ;  and  this  is 
a  service  which  the  proudest  man  can  receive  without  a  blush." 

Leonard  lifted  his  eyes  toward  Harley 's,  and  those  eyes  s.wam 
with  grateful  tears  ;•  but  this  heart  was  too  full  to  answer. 

"I  am  not  one  of  those,"  said  Harley,  when  they. were  on  the 
road,  "  who  think  that  because  a  young  man  writes  poetry  he  is 
fit  for  nothing  else,  and  that  he  must  be  a  poet  or  a  pauper.  I 
have  said  that  in  you  there  seem  to  me  to  be  two  men,  the  man 
of  the  Actual  world,  the  man  of  the  Ideal.  To  each  of  these 
men  I  can  offer  a  separate  icareer.  The  first  is  perhaps  more 
tempting.  It  is  the  interest  of  the  state  to  draw  into  its  service 
all  the  talent  and  industry  it  can  obtain ;  and  under  his  native 
state  every  citizen  of  a  free  country  should  be  proud  to  take  ser- 
vice. I  have  a  friend  w-ho  is  a  minister,  and  who  is  known  to 
encourage  talent — Audley  Egerton.  I  have  but  to  say  to  him, 
'  There  is  a -young. man  who  will  well  repay  to  the  government 
whatever  the  government  bestows  on  him  ' ;  and  you  will  rise  to- 
morrow independent  in  means,  and  with  fair  occasions  to  attain 
to  fortune  and  distinction.  This  is  one  offer — what  say  you  to  it  ? " 

Leonard  thought  bitterly  of  his  interview  with  Audley  Eger- 
ton, and  the  minister's  ;proffered  crown-piece.  He  shook  his 
head,  and  replied — 

!  "  Oh,  my  lord,  how  have  I  deserved  such  kindness  ?  Do  with 
me  what  you  will ;  but  if  I  have  the  option,  I  would  rather  follow 
my  own. calling.  This  is  not  the  ambition  which  inflames  me." 

"  Hear,  then,  the  other  offer.  I  have  a  friend  with  whom  I 
am  less  intimate  than  Egerton,  and  who  has  nothing  in  his  gift 
to  bestow.  I  speak  of  a  man  of  letters— Henry  Norreys — of 
whom  you  have  doubtless: heard,  who,  I  should  say,  conceived 
an  interest  in  you  when  he  observed  you  reading  in  the  book- 
stall. I  have  often  heard  him  say,  '  that  literature  as  a  profes- 
sion is  misunderstood,  and  that  rightly  followed,  with  the  same 


MY    NOVEL  ;    OR,  : 

pains  and  the  same  prudence  which  are  brought  to  bear  on  other 
professions,  a  competence  at  least  can  be  always  ultimately  ob- 
tained.' But  the  way  may  be  long  and  tedious — and  it  leads  to 
no -power  but  over  thought;  it  rarely  attains  to  wealth  ;  and, 
though  reputationvhzy  be  certain,  fame,  such  as  poets  dream  of, 
is  the  lot  of  few.  What  say  you  to  this  course  ?  " 

"My  lord,  I  decide,"  said  Leonard,  firmly;  and  then,  his 
young  face  lighting  up  with  enthusiasm,  he'exclaimed,  "  Yes,  if, 
as  you  say,  there  be  two  men  within  me,  I  feel  that  were  I  con- 
demned wholly  to  the  mechanical  and  practical  world,  one 
would  indeed  destroy  the  other.  And  the  conqueror  would  be 
the  ruder  and  the  coarser.  Let  me  pursue  those  ideas  that, 
though  they  have  but  flitted  across  me,  vague  and  formless — 
have  ever  soared  toward  the  sunlight.  No  matter  whether  or  not 
they  lead  to  fortune  or  to  fame,  at  least  they  will  lead  me  upward! 
Knowledge  for  itself  I  desire — what  care  I  if  it  be  not  power  !  " 

"Enough,"  said  Harley,  with  a  pleased  smile  at  his  young 
companion's  outburst.  "  As  you  decide  so  shall  it  be  settled. 
And  now  permit  me,  if  not  impertinent,  to  ask  you  a  few  ques- 
tions. Your  name  is  Leonard  Fairfield  ?  " 

The  boy  blushed  deeply,  and  bowed  his  head  as  if  in  assent. 

"Helen  says  you  are  self-taught  ;  for  the  rest  she  refers  me 
to  you  ;  thinking,  perhaps,  that  I  should  esteem  you  less — rather 
than  yet  more  highly- — if  she  said  you  were,  as  I  presume  to  con- 
jecture, of  humble  birth." 

"  My  birth,"  said  Leonard,  slowly,  "  is  very-^very — humble." 

"The  name  of  Fairfield  is  not  unknown  to  me.  There  was 
one  of  that  name  who  married  into  a  family  in  Lansmere — 
married  an  Avenel,"  continued  Harley,  and  his  voice  quivered. 
"You  change  countenance.  Oh,  could  your  mother's  name 
have  been  Avenel  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Leonard,  between  his  set  teeth.  ;  Harley  laid  his 
hand  on  the  boy's  shoulder.  "Then,  indeed,  I  have  a  right  to 
serve  any  of  that  family." 

Leonard  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

— "  For,"  continued  Harley,  recovering  himself,  "  they  always 
served  my  family  ;  and  my  recollections  of  Lansmere,  though 
boyish,  are  indelible."  He  spurred  on  his  horse  as  the  words 
closed — and  again  there  was  a  long  pause  ;  but  from  that  time 
Harley  always  spoke  to  Leonard  in  a  soft  voice,  and  often 
gazed  on  him  with  earnest  and  kindly  eyes. 

They  reached  a  house  in  a  central  though  not  fashionable 
street.  A  man-servant  of  a  singularly  grave  and  awful  aspect 
opened  the  door — a  man  who  had  lived  all  his  life  with  authors. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  439 

Poor  fellow,  he  was  indeed  prematurely  old  !     the  care  on  his 
lip  and  the  pomp  on  his  brow- — no  mortal's  pen  can  describe  ! 

"  Is  Mr.  Norreys  at  home  ?  "  asked  Harley. 

"  He  is  at  home — to  his  friends,  my  lord,"  answered  the  man, 
majestically  ;  and  he  stalked  across  the  hall  with  the  step  of  a 
Dangeau  ushering  some  Montmorenci  into  the  presence  of  Louis 
le  Grand. 

"Stay — show  this  gentleman  into  another  room.  I  will  go 
first  into  the  library;  wait  for  me,  Leonard."  The  man  nodded, 
and  conducted  Leonard  into  the  dining-room.  Then  pausing 
before  the  door  of  the  library,  and  listening  an  instant,  as  if 
fearful  to  disturb  some  mood  of  inspiration, ; opened  it  very  softly. 
To  his  ineffable  disgust,  Harley  pushed  before,  and  entered  ab- 
ruptly. It  was  a  large  room,  lined  with  books  from  the  floor  to 
the  ceiling.  Books  were  on  all  the  tables — books  were  on  all 
the  chairs.  Harley  seated  himself  on  a  folio  of  Raleigh's  His- 
tory of  the  World,  and  cried — 

"  I  have  brought  you  a  treasure  !  "" 

"What  is  it?"  said  Norreys,  good-humoredly,  looking  up 
from  his  desk. 

"  A  mind  !  " 

"  A  mind  !  "  echoed  Norreys,  vaguely,     "  Your  own  ? " 

"  Pooh !  I  have  none — I  have  only  a  heart  and  a  fancy.  Listen. 
You  remember  the  boy  we  saw  reading  at  the  book-stall.  I  have 
caught  him  for  you,  and  you  shall  train  him  into  a  man.  I  have  the 
warmest  interest  in  his  future — for  I  know  some  of  his  family — 
and  one  of  that  family  was  very  dear  to  me.  As  for  money,  he  has 
not  a  shilling,  and  not  a  shilling  would  he  accept  gratis  from  you 
or  me  either.  !  But  he  comes  with  bold  heart  to  work — and  work 
you  must  find  him.*'  Harley  then  rapidly  told  his  friend  of  the 
two  offers  he  had  made  to  Leonard — and  Leonard's  choice. 

"  This  promises  very  well ;  for  letters  a  man  must  have  a  strong 
vocation  as  he  should  have  for  law^-I  will  do  all  that  you  wish." 

Harley  rose  with  alertness — shook  Norreys  cordially  by  the 
hand— hurried  out  of  the  room,  and  returned  with  Leonard.. 

Mr.  Norreys  eyed  the  young  man  with  attention.  He  was 
naturally  rather  severe  than  cordial  in  his  manner  to  strangers — - 
contrasting  in  this,  as  in  most  things,  the  poor  vagabond  Bur- 
ley.  But  he  was  a  good  judge  of  the  human  countenance,  and 
he  liked  Leonard's.  After  a  pause  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "  Lord  L'Estrange  tells  me  that  you  wish  to 
enter  literature  as  a  calling,  and  no  doubt  to  study  it  as  an  art. 
I  may  help  you  in  this,  and  you  meanwhile  can  help  me, ;  I  want 
an  amanuensis — I  offer  you  that  place.  The  salary  will  be  pro- 


440  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

portioned  to  the  services  you  will  render  me.  I  have  a  room  in 
my -house  at  your  disposal.  When  I  first  came  up  to  London,  I 
made  the  same  choice  that  I  hear  you  have  done.  I  have  no 
cause,  even  in  a  worldly  point  of  view,  to  repent  my  choice.  It 
gave  me  an  income  larger  than  my  .wants.  I  trace  my  success  to 
these  maxims,which  are: applicable  to  all  professions — ist,  Never 
to  trust  to  genius  for  what  can  be  obtained  by  labor;  zdly,  Never 
to  profess  to  teach  what  we  have  not. studied  to  understand;  3dly, 
Never  to  engage  our  word  to  what  we  do  not  our  best  to  execute. 

"  With  these  rules,  literature — provided  a  man  does  not  mis- 
take his  vocation  for  it,  and  will,  under  good  advice,  go  through 
preliminary  discipline  of  natural  powers,  which  all  vocations 
require — -is  as  good  a  calling  as  any  other.  Without  them,  a 
shoeblack's  is  infinitely  better." 

"  Possibly  enough,"  muttered  Harley;  "but  there  have  been 
great  writers  who  observed  none  of  your  maxims." 

"Great  writers,  probably,  but  very  unenviable  men.  My 
lord,  my  lord,  don't  corrupt  the  pupil  you  bring  to  me." 
Harley  smiled  and  took  his  departure,,  and  left  Genius  at  school 
with  Common  Sense  and  Experience. 

CHAPTER   XX. 

WHILE  Leonard  Fail-field  had  been  obscurely  wrestling  against 
poverty,  neglect,  hunger,  and  dread  temptation,  bright  had  been 
the  opening  day,  and  smooth  the  upward  path,  of  Randal  Leslie. 
Certainly  no  young  man,  able  and  ambitious,  could  enter  life 
under  fairer  auspices;  the  connection  and  avowed  favorite  of  a 
popular  and  energetic  statesman,  the  brilliant  writer  of  apoliti- 
cal work,  that  had  lifted  him  at  once  into  a  station  of  his  own — 
received  and  courted  in  those  highest  circles,  to  which  neither 
rank  nor  fortune  alone,  suffices  for  a  familiar  passport — the  cir- 
cles above  fashion  itself — the  circles  of  POWER — with  every 
facility  of  augmenting  information,  and  learning  the  world  be- 
times through  the  talk  of  its  acknowledged  masters, — Randal 
had  but  to  move  straight  onward,  and  success  was  sure.  But 
his  tortuous  spirit  delighted  in  scheme  and  intrigue  for  their 
own  sake.  In  scheme  and  intrigue  he  saw  shorter  paths  to  for- 
tune, if  not  to  fame.  His  besetting  sin  was  also  his  besetting 
weakness.  He  did  :not  aspire — he  coveted.  Though  in  a  far 
higher  social  position  than  Frank  Ha^eldean,  despite  the  worldly 
prospects  of  his  old  school-fellow,  he  coveted  the  very  things 
that  kept  Frank  Hazeldean  below  him — coveted  his  idle  gaieties, 
his  careless  pleasures,  his  very  .waste  of  youth.  Thus,  also, 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  44! 

Randal  less  aspired  to  Audley  Egerton's  repute  than  he  coveted 
Audley  Egerton's  wealth  and  pomp,  his  princely  expenditure, 
and  his  Castle  >Rackrent  in  Grosvenor  Square,  It  was  the  mis- 
fortune of  his  birth  to  be  so  near  to  both  these  fortunes — near 
to  that  of  Leslie,  as  the  future  head  of  that  fallen  house,: — near 
even  to  that  of  Hazeldean,  since,  as  we  have  seen  before,  if  the 
Squire  had  no  son,  Randal's  descent  from  the  Hazeldeans  sug- 
gested himself  as  the  one  on  whom  these  broad  lands  should 
devolve.  Most  young  men,  brought  into  intimate  contact  with 
Audley  Egerton,  would  have  felt  for  that  personage  a  certain 
loyal  and  admiring,  if  not  very  affectionate  respect.  For  there 
was  something  grand  in  Egerton — something  that  commands 
and  fascinates  the  young.  His  determined  courage,,  his  ener- 
getic will,  his  almost  regal  liberality,  contrasting  a  simplicity  in 
personal  tastes  and  habits  that  was  almost  austere — his  rare  and 
seemingly  unconscious  power  of  charming  even  the  women 
most  wearied  of  homage,  and  persuading  even  the  men  most 
obdurate  to  counsel — all  served  to  invest  the  practical  man 
with  those  spells  which  are  usually  confined  to  the  ideal  one. 
But,  indeed,  Audley  Egerton  was  an  ideal — the  ideal  of  the 
Practical.  Not  the  mere  vulgar,  plodding,  red-tape  machine  of 
petty  business,  but  the  man  of  strong  sense,  inspired  by  inflex- 
ible energy,  and  guided  to  definite  earthly  objects.  In  a  disso- 
lute and  corrupt  form  of  government,  under  a  decrepit  monar- 
chy, or  a  vitiated  republic,  Audley  Egerton  might  have  been  a 
most  dangerous  citizen  ;  for  his  ambition  was  so  resolute,  and 
his  sight  to  its  ends  was  so  clear.  But  there  is  something  in 
public  life  in  England  which  compels  the  really  ambitious  man 
to  honor,  unless  his  eyes  are  jaundiced  and  oblique,  like  Randal 
Leslie's.  It  is  so  necessary  in  England  to  be  a  gentleman. 
And  thus  Egerton  was  emphatically  considered  a  gentleman.* 
Without  the  least  pride  in  other  matters,  with  little  apparent 
sensitiveness,  touch  him  on  the  point  of  gentleman,  and  no  one 
so  sensitive  and  so  proud.  As  Randal  saw. more  of  him,  and 
watched  his  moods  with  the  lynx-eyes  of  the  household  spy,  he 
could  perceive  that  this  hard,  mechanical  man  was  subject  to 
fits  of  melancholy,  even  of  gloom;  and  though  they  did  not  last 
long,  there  was  even  in  his  habitual  coldness  an  evidence  of 
something  compressed,  latent,  painful,  lying  deep  within  his 
memory.  This  would  have  interested  the  kindly  feelings  of  a 
grateful  heart.  But  Randal  detected  and  watched  it  only  as  a 
clue  to  some  secret  it  might  profit  him  to  gain.  For  Randal 
Leslie  hated  Egerton;  and  hated  him  the  more  because,  with  all 
his  book-knowledge  and  his  conceit  in  his  own  talents,  he  could 


442  MY   NOVEL  ;    OR, 

not  despise  his  patron — because  he  had  not  yet-succeeded  in 
making  his  patron  the  mere  tool  or  stepping-stone — because  he 
thought  that  Egerton's  keen  eye  saw  through  his  -wily  heart,  even 
while,  as  if  in  profound  disdain,  the  minister  helped  the//tf/<4V. 
But  this  last  suspicion  was  unsound.  Egerton  had  not  detected 
Leslie's  corrupt  and  treacherous  nature.  He  might  have  other 
reasons  for  keeping  him  at  a  certain  distance,  but  he  inquired 
too  little  into  Randal's  feelings  toward  himself  to  question  the 
attachment,  or  doubt  the  sincerity,  of  one  who  owed  to  him  so 
much.  But  that  which  more  than  all  embittered  Randal's  feel- 
ings toward  Egerton,  was  'the  careful  and  deliberate  frankness 
with  which  the  latter  had,  more  than  once,  repeated  and  en- 
forced the  odious  announcement,  that  Randal  had  nothing  to 
expect  from  the  minister's — WILL;-— nothing  to  expect  from  that 
wealth  which  glared  in  the  hungry  eyes  of  the  pauper  heir  to 
the  Leslies  of  Rood.  To  whom,  then,  could  Egerton  mean  to 
devise  his  fortune?  To  whom  but  Frank  Hazeldean  ?  Yet 
Audley  took  so  little  notice  of  his  nephew — seemed  so  indiffer- 
ent to  him,  that  that  supposition,  however  natural,  was  exposed 
to  doubt.  The  astuteness  of  Randal  was  perplexed.  Mean- 
while, however,  the  less  he  himself  could  rely  upon  "Egerton  for 
fortune,  the  more  he  revolved  the  possible  chances  of  ousting 
Frank  from  the  inheritance  of  Hazeldean — in  part,  at  least,  if 
not  wholly.  To  one  less  scheming,  crafty,  and  remorseless  than 
Randal  Leslie,  such  a  project  would  have  seemed  the  wildest 
delusion.  But  there  was  something  fearful  in  the  manner  in 
which  this  young  man  sought  to  turn  knowledge  into  power,  and 
make  the  study  of  all  weakness  in  others  subservient  to  his  own 
ends.  He  wormed  himself  thoroughly  into  Frank's  confidence. 
He  learned,  through  Frank,  all  the  Squire's  peculiarities  of 
thought  and  temper,  and  pondered  over  each  word  in  the  father's 
letters,  which  the  son  gradually  got  into  the  habit  of  showing  to 
the  perfidious  eyes  of  his  friend.  Randal  saw  that  the  Squire 
had  two  characteristics,  which  are  very  common  among  pro- 
prietors, and  which  might  be  invoked  as  antagonists  to  his  warm 
fatherly  love.  First,  the  Squire  was  as  fond  of  his  estate  as  if  it 
were  a  living  thing, and  part  of  his  own  flesh  and  blood;  and  in 
his  lecture  to  Frank  upon  the  sin  of  extravagance,  the  Squire 
always  let  out  this  foible: — "  What  was  to  become  of  the  estate 
if  it  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  spendthrift  ?  No  man  should  make 
ducks  and  drakes  of  Hazeldean;  let  Frank  beware  of  that"  etc. 
Secondly,;  the  Squire  was  not  only  fond  of  his  lands,  but  he  was 
jealous  of  them — that  jealousy  which  even  the  tenderest  fathers 
sometimes  entertain  toward  their  natural  heirs.  He  could  not 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  443 

bear  the  notion  that  Frank  should  count  on  his  death  ;  and  he 
seldom  closed  an  admonitory  letter  without  repeating  the  infor- 
mation that  Hazeldean  was  not  entailed  ;  that  it  was  his  to  do 
with  as  he  pleased  through  life  and  in  death.  Indirect  menace 
of  this  nature  rather  wounded  and  galled  than  intimidated  Frank; 
for  the  young  man  was  extremely  generous  and  high-spirited  by 
nature,  and  was  always  more  disposed  to  some  indiscretion  after 
such  warnings  to  his  self-interest,  as  if  to  show  that  those  were 
the  last  kinds  of  appeal  likely  to  influence  him.  By  the  helpof 
such  insights  into  the  characterof  father  and  son,  Randal  thought 
he  saw  gleams  of  daylight  illuminating  his  own  chance  to  the 
lands  of  Hazeldean.  Meanwhile  it  appeared  to  him  obvious 
that,  come  what  might  of  it,  his  own  interests  could  not  lose,  and 
might  most  probably  gain,  by  whatever  could  alienate  the  Squire 
from  his  natural  heir.  Accordingly,  though  with  consummate 
tact,  he  instigated  Frank  toward  the  very  excesses  most  calcu- 
lated to  irritate  the  Squire,  all  the  while  appearing  rather  to 
give  the  counter  advice,  and  never  sharing  in  any  of  the  follies 
to  which  he  conducted  his  thoughtless  friend.  In  this  he  worked 
chiefly  through 'others,  introducing  Frank  to  every  acquaint- 
ance most  dangerous  to  youth,  either  from  the  wit  that  laughs  at 
prudence,  or  the  spurious  magnificence  that  subsists  so  hand- 
somely upon  bills  endorsed  by  friends  of  "  great  expectations." 

The  minister  and  his/ra^/were  seated  at  breakfast,  the  first 
reading  the  newspaper,  the  last  glancing  over  his  letters ;  for 
Randal  had  arrived  at  the  dignity  of  receiving  many  letters — 
ay,  and  notes  too,  three-cornered,  and  fantastically  embossed. 
Egerton  uttered  an  exclamation,  and  laid  down  the  newspaper. 
Randal  looked  up  from  his  correspondence.  The  minister  had 
sunk  into  one  of  his  absent  reveries. 

After  a  long  silence,  observing  that  Egerton  did  not  return 
to  the  newspaper,  Randal  said,  "  Ehem— sir,  I  have  a  note  from 
Frank  Hazeldean,  who  wants  much  to  see  me ;  his  father  has 
arrived  in  town  unexpectedly." 

"What  brings  him  here?"  asked  Egerton,  still  abstractedly. 

"  Why,  it  seems  that  he  has  heard  some  vague  reports  of  poor 
Frank's  extravagance,  and  Frank  is  rather  afraid,  or  ashamed,  to 
meet  him." 

"  Ay — a  very  great  fault  extravagance  in  the  young  ! — destroys 
independence  ;  ruins  or  enslaves  the  future.  Great  fault — very  ! 
And  what  does  youth  want  that  it  should  be  extravagant  ?  Has 
it  not  everything  in  itself  merely  because  it  is?  Youth  is  youth 
— what  needs  it  more  ? " 

Egerton  rose  as  he  said'this,  and  retired  to  his  writing-table,  and 


444  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

in  his  turn  opened  his  correspondence.  Randal  look  up  the  news- 
paper, and  endeavored,lbut  in  vain, to  conjecture  what  had  excited 
the  minister's  exclamation,  and  the  reverie  that  succeeded  it. 

Egerton  suddenly  and  sharply  turned  round  in  his  chair — "  If 
you  have  done  with  the  Times,  have  the  goodness  to  place  it  here." 

Randal  had  just  obeyed,  when  a  knock  at  the  street-door  was 
heard,  and  presently  Lord  L'Estrange  came  into  the  room,  with 
somewhat  a  quicker  step,  and  somewhat  a  gayer  mien  than  usual. 

Audley's  hand,  as  if  mechanically,  fell  upon  the  newspaper — 
fell  upon  that  part  of  the  columns  devoted  to  births,  deaths 
and  marriages.  Randal  stood  by,  and  noted  ;  then,  bowing  to 
L '.Estrange,  left  the  room. 

"  Audley,"said  L'Estrange,  "I  have  had  an  adventure  since  I 
saw  you— an  adventure  that  re-iopened  the  past,  and  may  influ- 
ence my  future." 

"How?" 

"  In  the  first  place  I  have  met  with  a  relation  of— of— the 
Avenels." 

"  Indeed  !     Whom— Richard  Avenel  ! " 

"Richard — Richard — who  is  he?  Oh, I  remember;  thewild  lad 
who  went  off  to  America;  but  that  was  when  I  was  a  mere  child." 

"That  Richard  Avenel  is  now  a  rich,  thrivingtrader,and  his  mar- 
riageis  in  this  newspaper — married  toanHonorableMrs.M'Catch- 
ley.  Well — in  thiscouritry — who  should  plume  himselfon  birth  ?" 

"  You  did  not  say  so  always,  Egerton,"  replied  Harley,  with 
a  tone  of  mournful  reproach. 

"  And  I  say  so  now,  pertinently  to  a  Mrs.  M'Catchley,  not  to  the 
heir  of  the  L'Estranges.  But  no  more  of  these — the  Avenels." 

"  Yes,  more  of  Them.  I  tell  you  I  have  met  a  relation  of 
theirs — a  nephew  of — of — " 

"Richard  Avenel's  ?"  interrupted  Egerton;  and  then  added, 
in  the  slow,  deliberate,  argumentative  tone  in  which  he  was 
wqnt  to  speak  in  public,  "  Richard  Avenel,  the  trader !  I  saw 
him  once — a  presuming  and  intolerable  man." 

"  The  nephew  has  not  those  sins.  He  is  full  of  promise,  of 
modesty,  yet  of  pride.  And  his  countenance — oh,  Egerton,  he 
has  her  eyes." 

Egerton  made  no  answer,  and  Harley  resumed — 

"I  had  thought  of  placing  him  under  your  care.  I  knew  you 
would  provide  for  him." 

"I  will..  Bring  him  hither,"  cried  Egerton,  eagerly.  "All 
that  I  can  do  to  prove  my— regard  for  a  wish  of  yours/' 

Harley  pressed  his  friend's  hand  warmly. 

,'"1  thank  you  from  my  heart:  the  Audley  of  my  boyhood 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  445 

speaks  now.  But  the  young  man  has  decided  otherwise  ;  and  I 
do  not  blame  him.  Nay,  I  rejoice  that  he  chooses  a  career  in 
which,  if  he  find  hardship,  he  may  escape  dependence." 

"  And  that  career  is — " 

"  Letters." 

"  Letters — literature  !  "  exclaimed  the  statesman.  "  Beggary  ! 
No,  no,  Harley,  this  is  your  absurd  romance." 

"  It  will  not  be  beggary,  and  it  is  not  my  romance  ;  it  is  the 
boy's.  Leave  him  alone  ;  he  is  my  care  and  my  charge  hence- 
forth. He  is  of  her  blood,  and  I  said  that  he  had  her  eyes." 

"  But  you  are  going  abroad  ;  let  me  know  where  he  is  ;  I  will 
watch  over  him." 

"And  unsettle  a  right  ambition  for  a  wrong  one?  No^-you 
shall  know  nothing  of  him  till  he  can  proclaim  himself.  I  think 
that  day  will  come." 

Audley  mused  a  moment,  and  then  said,  "Well,  perhaps  you  are 
right.  After  all,  as  you  say,  independence  is  a  great  blessing,  and 
my  ambition  has  not  rendered  myself  the  better  or  the  happier." 

"Yet,  my  poor  Audley,  you  ask  me  to  be  ambitious." 

"I  only  wish  you  to  be  consoled, "cried  Egerton,  with  passion. 

"  I  will  try  to  be  so ;  and  by  the  help  of  a  milder  remedy 
than  yours.  I  said  that  my  adventure  might  influence  ray  fu- 
ture ;  it  brought  me  acquainted  not  only  with  the  young  man  I 
;speak  of,  but  the  most  winning,  affectionate  child — a  girl." 

"  Is  this  child  an  Avenel  too  ? " 

"No,  she  is  of  gentle  blood — a  soldier's  daughter  ;  the  daughter 
O.f  that  Captain  Digby  on  whose  behalf  I  was  a  petitioner  to 
your  patronage.  He  is  dead,  and  in  dying  my  name  was  on  his 
lips.  He  meant  me,  doubtless,  to  be  the  guardian  to  his  orphan. 
I  shall  be  so.  I  have  at  last  an  object  in  life." 
"  But  can  you  seriously  mean  to  take  this  child  with  you  abroad  ?" 

"Seriously,  I  do." 

"And  lodge  her  in  your  own  house  ? " 

"For  a  year  or  so,  while  she  is  yet  a  child.  Then,  as  she 
approaches  youth,  I  shall  place  her  elsewhere." 

"You  may  grow  to  love  her.  It  is  clear  that  she  will  love  you?- — 
not  mistake  gratitudeforlove?  It  is  averyhazardousexperiment." 

"So  was.  William  the  Norman's— -still  he  was  William  the 
Conqueror.  Thou  biddest  me  move  on  from  the  Past,  and  be 
consoled,  yet  thou  wouldat  make  me  as  inapt  to  progress,  as  the 
mule  in  Slawkenbergius's  tale,  with  thy  cursed  interlocutions, 
'Stumbling,  by  St.  Nicholas,  every  step.  Why,,  atrthis  ra.te,  we 
•shall  be  all  night  in  getting  into — '  Happiness !  Listen,"  con- 
tinued Harley,  setting  off,  full  pelt,  into,  one  of  his  wild, 


446  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

sical  humors.  "  One  of  the  sons  of  the  prophet  in  Israel, felling 
wood  near  the  River  Jordan, his  hatchet  forsook  the  helve,  and  fell 
to  the  bottom  of  the  river;  so  he  prayed  to  have  it  again  (it  was  but 
asmall  request,mark  you);  and  having  a  stfongfaith,  he  did  not 
throw  the  hatchet  after  the  helve,  but  the  helve  after  the  hatchet. 
Presently,  two  great  miracles  were  seen.  Up  springs  the  hatchet 
from  the  bottom  of  the  water,  and  fixes  itself  to  its  old  acquaint- 
ance, the  helve.  Now,  had  he  wished  to  coach  it  up  to  heaven 
in  a  fiery  chariot,  like  Elias,  be  as  rich  as  Job,  strong  as  Samson, 
and  beautiful  as- Absalom,  would  he  have  obtained  the  wish,  do 
you  think  ?  In  truth,  my  friend,  I  question  it  very  much." 

"  I  can't  comprehend  what  you  mean.  Sad  stuff  you  are  talking." 

"  I  can  not  help  that  ;  Rabelais  is  to  be  blamed  for  it.  I  am 
quoting  him,  and  it  is  to  be  found  in  his  Prologue  to  the  Chapters 
on  the  Moderation  of  Wishes.  And  ci  propos  of  '  moderate 
wishes  in  point  of  hatchet,'  I  want  you  to  understand  that  I 
ask  but  little  from  Heaven;  I  fling  but  the  helve  /after  the 
hatchet  that  has  sunk  into  the  silent  stream.  I  want  the  other 
half  of  the  weapon  that  is  buried  fathom 'deep,  and  for  want  of 
which  the  thick  woods  darken  round  me  by  the  S'acred  River, 
and  I  can  catch  not  a  glimpse  of  the  stars." 

"In  plain  English,"  said  Audley  Egerton,  "you  want — "  he 
stopped  short,  puzzled. 

"Twant  my  purpose  and  my  will,  and  my  old  character,  and 
the  nature  God  gave  me.  I  want  the  half  of  my  soul  which  has 
fallen  from  me.  I  want  such  love  as  may  replace  me  to  the  van- 
ished affections.  Reason  not— I  throw  the  helve  after  the  hatchet. " 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

RANDAL  LESLIE,  on  leaving  Audley,  repaired  to  Frank's  lodg- 
ings, and  after  being  closeted  with  the  young  Guardsman  an 
hour  or  so,  took  his  way  to  Limner's  hotel,  and  asked  for  Mr. 
Hazeldean.  He  was  shown  into  the  coffee-room,while  the  waiter 
went  upstairs  with  his  card,  to  see  if  the  Squire  was  within,  and 
disengaged.  The  Times  newspaper  lay  sprawling  on  one  of  the 
tables,  and  Randal,  leaning  over  it,  looked  with  attention  into 
the  'column  containing  births,  deaths,  and  marriages.-  But  in 
that  long  and  miscellaneous  list,  he  could  not.  conjecture  the 
name  which  had  so  excited  Mr.  EgeFton's  interest.  :- 

"  Vexatious  !  "  he  muttered  ;  ":there  is  no  knowledge  which 
has  power  more  useful  than  that  of  the  secrets  of  men." 

He  turned  as  the  waiter  entered  and  said  that  Mr.  Hazeldean 
would  be  glad  to  see  him. 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  447 

As  Randal  entered  the  drawing-room,  the  Squire,  shaking 
hands  with  him,  looked  toward  the  door  as  if  expecting  some 
one  else,  and  his  honest  face  assumed  a  blank  expression  of 
disappointment  when  the  door  closed,  and  he  found  that  Ran- 
dal was  unaccompanied. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  bluntly,  "  I  thought  your  old  school-fellow, 
Frank,;  might  have  been  with  you." 

"  Have  not  you  seen  him  yet,  sir  ?  " 

"  No,  I  came  to  town  this  morning  ;  travelled  outside  the 
mail  ;  sent  to  his  barracks,  but  the  young  gentleman  does  not 
sleep  there — has  an  apartment  of  his  own  ;  he  never  told  me 
that.  We  are  a  plain  family,  the  Hazeldeans — young,  sir  ;  and 
I  hate  beinig  kept  in  the  dark,  by  my  own  son,  too." 

Randal  made  no  answer,  but  looked  sorrowful.  •  The  Squire, 
who  had  never  before  seen  his  kinsman,  had  a  vague  idea  that 
it  was  not  polite  to  entertain  a  stranger,  though  a  connection  to 
himself,with  his  family  troubles,and  so  resumed  good-naturedly — 

"I  am  very  glad  to  make  your  acquaintance  at  last,  Mr.  Les- 
lie. You  know,  I  hope,  that  you  have  good  Hazeldean  blood 
in  your  veins?" 

RANDAL  (smiling). — I  am  not  likely  to  forget  that;  it  is  the 
boast  of  our  pedigree. 

SQUIRE  (heartily).— Shake  hands  again  on  it,  my  boy.  You 
don't  want  a  friend,  since  my  grandee  of  a  half -brother  has  taken 
you  up  ;  but  if  ever  you  should,  Hazeldean  is  not  very  far  from 
Rood.  Can't  get  on  with  your  father  at  all,  my  lad — more's  the 
pity,  for  I  think  I  could  have  given  him  a  hint  or  two  as  to  the 
improvement  of  his  property.  If  he  would  plant  those  ugly  com- 
mons— ^larch  and  fir  soon  come  into  profit,  sir;  and  there  are  some 
lowlands  about  Rood  that  would  take  mighty  kindly  to  draining. 

RANDAL. — My  poor  father  lives  a  life  so  retired,  and  you  can 
not  wonder  at  it.  Fallen  trees  lie  still,  and  so  do  fallen  families. 

SQUIRE.— ^-Fallen  families  can  get  up  again,  which  fallen  trees 
can't. 

RANDAL. — Ah,  sir,  it  often  takes  the  energy  of  generations  to 
repair  the  thriftlessness  and  extravagance  of  a  single  owner. 

SQUIRE  (his  brow  lowering).— That's  very  true.  Frank  ts 
d — d  extravagant  ;  treats  me  very  coolly,  too—not  coming  ; 
near  three  o'clock.  By  the  bye,  I  suppose  he  told  you  where 
I  was,  otherwise  how  did  you  find  me  out  ? 

RANDAL  (reluctantly). — Sir,  he  did;  and  to  speak  frankly, 
I  am  not  surprised  that  he  has  not  yet  appeared. 

SQUIRE. — Eh  ! 

RANDAL. — We  have  grown  very  ultimate. 


448  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

SQUIRE. — So  he  writes  me  word — and  I  am  glad  of  it.  Our 
member,  Sir  John,  tells  me  you  are  a  very  clever  fellow,,  and  a 
very  steady  one.  And  Frank  say  stha.t  he  wishes  he  had  your  pru- 
dence, if  he  can't  have  your  talents.  He  has  a  good  heart,  Frank 
[added  the  father,  reluctantly].  But  zounds,  sir,  you  say  you 
are  not  surprised  he  has  not  come  to  welcome  his  own  father ! 

"  My  dear  sir,"  said  Randal,  "  you  wrote  word  to  Frank  that 
you  had  heard  from  Sir  John  and  others  of  his- goings-on,  and 
that  you  were  not  satisfied  with  his  replies  to  your  letters." 
•    "Well." 

"And  then  you  suddenly  come  up  to  town." 

"Well." 

"Well.  And  Frank  is  ashamed  to  meet  you.  For,  as  you 
say,  he  has  been  extravagant,  and  he  has  exceeded  his  allow- 
ance ;  and  knowing  my  respect  for  you,  and  my  great  affection 
for  himself,  Jie  has  asked  we  to  prepare  you  to  receive  his  con- 
fession and  forgive  him.  I  know  I  am  taking  a  great  liberty. 
I  have  no  right  to  interfere  between  father  and  son  ;  but  pray — 
pray  think  I  mean  for  the  best."  ,.,,'lj  ^ 

"Humph!"  said  the  Squire,recovering  himself  very  slowly,and 
showing  evident  pain,  "  I  knew  already  that  Frank  had  spent 
more  than  he  ought  ;  but  I  think  he  should  not  have  employed  a 
third  person  to  prepare  me  to  forgive  him.  (Excuse  me — no  of- 
fence. )  And  if  he  wan  ted  a  third,  person, washot  there  his  own  moth- 
er ?  What  the  devil  !  [firing  upj,  am  I  a  tyrantr-a  .bashaw— that 
my  own  son  is  afraid  to  speak  to.ine  ?  Gad,  I'll  give  it  to  him  !  " 

"Pardon  me,  sir,"  said  Randal,  assuming  at  once  that. air  of 
authority  which  superior  intellect  so  well  carries  off  and  ex- 
cuses, "  but  I  strongly  advise  you  not  to.  express  any  anger  at 
Frank's  confidence  in  me.  At  present  I  have  influence  over  him. 
Whatever  you  may  think  of  his  extravagance,  I  have  saved  him 
from  many  an  indiscretion,  and  many  a  debt — a  young  man  will 
listen. to  one  of. his  own  age  so  much  more, readily  than  even  to 
the  kindest  friend  of  graver  years.  Indeed,  sir,  1  speak  for  your 
sake  as  well  as  for  Frank's.  Let  me  keep  thi$/  influence  over 
him  ;  and  don't  reproach  him  for  the  confidence  he  placed  in 
me.  !  Nay,  let  him  rather  thuvk  that  I  have  softened  any  dis- 
pleasure you  might  otherwise  have  felt." 

There  se&med  so  much  good  sense  in  vrhat  Randal  said,  and 
the  kindness  of  it  seemed  so  disinterested,  that  the  Squire's 
native  .shrewdness  was  deceived. 

"You  are  a  fine  young  fellow,  "said  fee,  "  and  I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  you.  Well,  I  suppose  there  is  no  putting  old  heads 
upon  you^g  shoulders  ;:  and  I  promise  you  I'll  not  say  an  angry 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  449 

word  to  Frank.  I  dare  say,  poor  boy,  he  is  very  much  afflicted, 
and  I  long  to  shake  hands  with  him.  So,  set  his  mind  at  ease." 

"Ah,  sir,"  said  Randal,  with  much  apparent  emotion,  "  your 
son  may  well  love  you  ;  and  it  seems  to  be  a  hard  matter  for  so 
kind  a  heart  as  yours  to  preserve  the  proper  firmness  with  him." 

"Oh,  I  can  be  firm  enough,"  quoth  the  Squire — "especially 
when  I  don't  see  him — handsome  dog  that  he  is,  very  like  his 
mother — don't  you  think  so  ? " 

"  I  never  saw  his  mother,  sir." 

"Gad!  Not  seen  my  Harry?  No  more  you  have;  you  must  come 
and  pay  us  a  visit.  I  suppose  my  half-brother  will  let  you  come  ?  " 

"To  be  sure,sir.  Will  you  not  call  on  him  while  you  are  in  town?" 

"  Not  I.  He  would  think  I  expected  to  get  something  from 
the  Government.  Tell  him  the  ministers  must  go  on  a  little 
better,  if  they  want  my  vote  for  their  member.  But  go.  I  see 
you  are  impatient  to  tell  Frank  that  all's  forgot  and  forgiven. 
Come  and  dine  with  him  here  at  six,  and  let  him  bring  his  bills 
in  his  pocket.  Oh,  I  shan't  scold  him." 

"Why,  as  to  that,"  said  Randal,  smiling,  "  I  think  (forgive  me 
still)  that  you  should  not  take  it  too  easily  ;  just  as  I  think  that 
you  had  better  not  blame  him  for  his  very  natural  and  praise- 
worthy shame  in  approaching  you,  so  I  think,  also,  that  you  should 
do  nothing  that  would  tend  to  diminish  that  shame — it  is  such  a 
check  on  him.  And  therefore,  if  you  can  contrive  to  affect  to 
be  angry  with  him  for  his  extravagance,  it  will  do  good." 

"You  speak  like  a  book,  and  I'll  try  my  best." 

"If  you  threaten,  for  instance,  to  take  him  out  of  the  army, 
and  settle  him  in  the  country.it  would  have  a  very  good  effect." 

"  What  !  would  he  think  it  so  great  a  punishment  to  come 
home  and  live  with  his  parents  ?  " 

"  I  don't  say  that  ;  but  he  is  naturally  so  fond  of  London. 
At  his  age,  with  his  large  inheritance,  that  is  natural." 

"  Inheritance  !  "  said  the  Squire,  moodily — "  inheritance  !  he 
is  not  thinking  of  that,  I  trust.  Zounds,  sir,  I  have  as. good  a 
life  as  his  own.  Inheritance  ! — to  be  sure  the  Casino  property 
is  entailed  on  him  ;  but  as  for  the  rest,  sir,  I  am  no  tenant  for 
life.  I  could  leave  the  Hazeldean  lands  to  my  ploughman,  if 
I  chose  it.  Inheritance,  indeed  !  " 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  did  not  mean  to  imply  that  Frank  would  en- 
tertain the  unnatural  and  monstrous  idea  of  calculating  on  your 
death  ;  and  all  we  have  to  do  is  to  get  him  to  sow  his  wild  oats 
as  soon  as  possible — marry,  and  settle  down  into  the  country. 
For  it  would  be  a  thousand  pities  if  his  own  habits  and  tastes  grew 
permanent — a  bad  thing  for  the  Hazeldean  property,  that!  And," 


450  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

added  Randal,  laughing, "  1  feel  an  interest  in  the  old  place,  since 
my  grandmother  comes  of  the  stock.  So  just  force  yourself  to 
seem  angry,  and  grumble  a  little  when  you  pay  the  bills." 

"  Ah,  ah,  trust  me,"  said  the  Squire,  doggedly,  and  with  a  very 
altered  air.  "  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  these  hints,  my 
young  kinsman."  And  his  stout  hand  trembled  a  little  as  he 
extended  it  to  Randal. 

Leaving  Limner's,  Randal  hastened  to  Frank's  rooms  in  St. 
James's  Street.  "  My  dear  fellow,"  said  he,  when  he  entered, "  it 
is  very  fortunate  that  I  persuaded  you  to  let  me  break  matters  to 
your  father.  You  might  well  say  he  is  rather  passionate  ;  but  I 
have  contrived  to  soothe  him.  You  need  not  fear  that  he  will  not 
pay  your  debts." 

"'I  never  feared  that,"said  Frank,  changing  color,  "I  only  feared 
his  anger.  But,  indeed,  I  fear  his  kindness  still  more.  What  a 
reckless  hound  I  have  been  !  However,  it  shall  be  a  lesson  to  me! 
And  my  debts  once  paid,  I  will  turn  as  economical  as  yourself." 

"  Quite  right,  Frank.  And,  indeed,  I  am  a  little  afraid  that, 
when  your  father  knows  the  total,  he  may  execute  a  threat  that 
would  be  very  unpleasant  to  you." 

"What's  that?" 

"  Make  you  sell  out,  and  give  up  London." 

"The  devil !  "exclaimed  Frank,with  fervent  emphasis;  "that 
would  be  treating  me  like  a  child." 

"Why,  it  would  make  you  seem  rather  ridiculous  to  your  set, 
which  is  not  a  very  rural  one.  And  you,  who  like  London  so  much, 
and  are  so  much  the  fashion." 

"  Don't  talk  of  it,"  cried  Frank,  walking  to  and  fro  the  room 
in  great  disorder. 

"  Perhaps,  on  the  whole,  it  might  be  well  not  to  say  all  you  owe, 
at  once.  If  you  named  half  the  sum,  your  father  would  let  you  off 
with  a  lecture  ;  and  really  I  tremble  at  the  effect  of  the  total." 

"But  how  shall  I  pay  the  other  half?" 

"Oh,  you  must  save  from  your  allowance;  it  is  a  very  liberal 
one ;  and  the  tradesmen  are  not  pressing." 

"No — but  the  cursed  bill-brokers — " 

"Always  renew  to  a  young  man  of  your  expectations.  And  if 
I  get  into  an  office,  I  can  help  you,  my  dear  Frank." 

"Ah,  Randal,  I  am  not  so  bad  as  to  take  advantage  of  your 
friendship,"  said  Frank  warmly.  "  But  it  seems  to  me  mean,  after 
all,  and  a  sort  of  a  lie,  indeed,  disguising  the  real  state  of  my  af- 
fairs. I  should  not  have  listened  to  the  idea  from  any  one  else. 
But  you  are  such  a  sensible,  kind,  honorable  fellow." 

"After epithets  so  flattering,  I  shrink  from  the  responsibility 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  451 

of  advice.  But  apart  from  your  own  interests,  I  should  be  glad  to 
save  your  father  the  pain  he  would  feel  at  knowing  the  whole  ex- 
tent of  the  scrape  you  have  got  into.  And  if  it  entailed  on  you 
the  necessity  to  lay  by — and  give  up  Hazard,  and  not  be  secur- 
ity for  other  men — why,  it  would  be  the  best  thing  that  could  hap- 
pen. Really,  too,  it  seems  hard  upon  Mr.  Hazeldean,  that  he 
should  be  the  only  sufferer,  and  quite  just  that  you  should  bear 
half  your  own  burdens." 

"  So  it  is,  Randal ;  that  did  not  strike  me  before.  I  will  take 
your  counsel ;  and  now  I  will  go  at  once  to  Limner's.  My  dear 
father !  I  hope  he  is  looking  well  ?" 

"  Oh,  very.  Such  a  contrast  to  the  sallow  Londoners !  But 
I  think  you  had  better  not  go  till  dinner.  He  has  asked  me  to 
meet  you  at  six.  I  will  call  for  you  a  little  before,  and  we  can  go 
together.  This  will  prevent  a  great  deal  of  gene  and  constraint. 
Good-bye  till  then.  Ha !  by  the  way,  I  think  if  I  were  yon,  I 
would  not  take  the  matter  too  seriously  and  penitentially.  You 
see,  the  best  of  fathers  like  to  keep  their  sons  under  their  thumb, 
as  the  saying  is.  And  if  you  want  at  your  age  to  preserve  your 
independence,  and  not  be  hurried  off  and  buried  in  the  country, 
like  a  school-boy  in  disgrace,  a  little  manliness  of  bearing  would 
not  be  amiss.  You  can  think  over  it." 

The  dinner  at  Limner's  went  off  very  differently  from  what  it 
ought  to  have  done.  Randal's  words  had  sunk  deep,  and 
rankled  sorely  in  the  Squire's  mind ;  and  that  impression  im- 
parted a  certain  coldness  to  his  manner  which  belied  the  hearty, 
forgiving,  generous  impulse  with  which  he  had  come  up  to  Lon- 
don, which  even  Randal  had  not  yet  altogether  whispered  away. 
On  the  other  hand,  Frank,  embarrassed  both  by  the  sense  of  dis- 
ingenuousness,  and  a  desire  "  not  to  take  the  thing  too  seriously," 
seemed  to  the  Squire  ungracious  and  thankless. 

After  dinner  the  Squire  began  to  hum  and  haw,  and  Frank  to 
color  up  and  shrink.  Both  felt  discomposed  by  the  presence  of 
a  third  person  ;  till,  with  an  art  and  address  worthy  of  a  better 
cause,  Randal  himself  broke  the  ice,  and  so  contrived  to  remove 
the  restraint  he  had  before  imposed,  that  at  length  each  was 
heartily  glad  to  have  matters  made  clear  and  brief  by  his  dex- 
terity and  tact. 

Frank's  debts  were  not,  in  reality,  large  ;  and  when  he  named 
the  half  of  them — looking  down  in  shame — the  Squire,  agreea- 
bly surprised,  was  about  to  express  himself  with  a  liberal  heart- 
iness that  would  have  opened  his  son's  excellent  heart  at  once  to 
him.  But  a  warning  look  from  Randal  checked  the  impulse;  and 
the  Squire  thought  it  right,  as  he  had  promised,  to  affect  an  an- 


452  MY    Is'OVEL  ;    OR, 

ger  he  did  not  feel,  and  let  fall  the  unlucky  threat,  "  that  it  was 
all  very  well  once  in  a  way  to  exceed  his  allowance;  but  if  Frank 
did  not  in  future,  show  more  sense  than  to  be  led  away  by  a  set 
of  London  sharks  and  coxcombs,  he  must  cut  the  army,  come 
home  and  take  to  farming." 

Frank  imprudently  exclaimed,  "Oh,  sir,  I  have  no  taste  for 
farming.  And  after  London,  at  my  age,  the  country  would  be  so 
horribly  dull." 

"  Aha ! "  said  the  squire,  very  grimly — and  he  thrust  back  into 
his  pocket-book  some  extra  bank-notes  which  his  fingers  had 
itched  to  add  to  those  he  had  already  counted  out.  "  The  coun- 
try is  terribly  dull,  is  it  ?  Money  goes  there  not  upon  follies  and 
vices,  but  upon  employing  honest  laborers,  and  increasing  the 
wealth  of  the  nation.  It  does  not  please  you  to  spend  money  in 
that  way:  it  is  a  pity  you  should  ever  be  plagued  with  such  duties." 

"  My  dear  father — " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  you  puppy.  Oh,  I  dare  say,  if  you  were  in 
my  shoes,  you  would  cut  down  the  oaks,  and  mortgage  the  prop- 
erty— sell  it,  for  what  I  know — all  go  on  a  cast  of  the  dice!  Aha, 
sir — very  well,  very  well — the  country  is  horribly  dull,  is  it? 
Pray  stay  in  town." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Hazeldean,"  said  Randal,  blandly,  and  as  if 
with  the  wish  to  turn  off  into  a  joke  what  threatened  to  be  serious, 
"you  must  not  interpret  a  hasty  expression  so  literally.  Why 

would  you  make  Frank  as  bad  as  Lord  A ,  who  wrote  word  to 

his  steward  to  cut  down  more  timber;  and  when  the  steward  re- 
plied. '  There  are  only  three  sign-posts  left  on  the  whole  estate,' 
wrote  back,  '  They've  done  growing  at  all  events — down  with 
them  ! '  You  ought  to  know  Lord  A — —— ,  sir  ;  so  witty  ;  and — 
Frank's  particular  friend." 

"Your  particular  friend,  Master  Frank  ?  Pretty  friends  !  " — 
and  the  Squire  buttoned  up  the  pocket  to  which  he  had  trans- 
ferred his  note-book,  with  a  determined  airi 

"But  I'm  his  friend,  too,"  said  Randal  kindly  ;  "and  I  preach 
to  him  properly,  I  can  tell  you."  Then,  as  if  delicately  anxious 
to  change  the  subject,  he  began  to  ask  questions  upon  crops,  and 
the  experiment  of  bone  manure.  He  spoke  earnestly  and  with 
gusto,  yet  with  the  deference  of  one  listening  to  a  great  practical 
authority.  Randal  had  spent  the  afternoon  in  cramming  the 'sub- 
ject from  agricultural  journals  and  Parliamentary  reports  ;  and 
like  all  practical  readers,  had  really  learned  in  a  few  hours  more 
than  many  a  man,  unaccustomed  to  study,  could  gain  from  books 
in  a  year.  The  Squire  was  surprised  and  pleased  at  the  young 
scholar's  information  and  taste  for  such  subjects. 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  453 

"  But,  to  be  sure,"  quoth  he,  with  an  angry  look  at  poor  Frank, 
"you  have  good  Hazeldean  blood  in  you,  and  know  a  bean  from 
a  turnip." 

"Why,  sir,"  said  Randal  ingenuously,  "I  am  training  myself 
for  public  life;  and  what  is  a  public  man  worth  if  he  do  not  study 
the  agriculture  of  his  country  ?  " 

"  Right — what  is  he  worth  ?  Put  that  question,  with  my  com- 
pliments, to  my  half-brother.  What  stuff  he  did  talk,  the  other 
night,  on  the  malt  tax,  to  be  sure  !  " 

"  Mr.  Egerton  has  had  so  many  other  things  to  think  of,  that 
we  must  excuse  his  want  of  information  upon  one  topic,  however 
important.  With  his  strong  sense  he  must  acquire  that  informa- 
tion, sooner  or  later  ;  for  he  is  fond  of  power  ;  and,  sir,  knowl- 
edge is  power ! " 

"  Very  true  ;  very  fine  saying,"  quoth  the  poor  Squire,  unsus- 
piciously, as  Randal's  eye  rested  on  Mr.  Hazeldean's  open  face, 
and  then  glanced  toward  Frank,  who  looked  sad  and  bored. 

"  Yes,"  repeated  Randal, "  knowledge  is  power  ";  and  he  shook 
his  head  wisely,  as  he  passed  the  bottle  to  his  host. 

Still,  when  the  Squire  who  meant  to  return  to  the  Hall  next 
morning,  took  leave  of  Frank,  his  heart  warmed  to  his  son  ;  and 
still  more  for  Frank's  dejected  looks.  It  was  not  Randal's  policy 
to  push  estrangement  too  far  at  first,  and  in  his  own  presence. 

"Speak  to  poor  Frank — kindly  now,  sir — do";  whispered  he, 
observing  the  Squire's  watery  eyes,  as  he  moved  to  the  window. 

The  Squire,  rejoiced  to  obey,  thrust  out  his  hand  to  his  son— 
"  My  dear  boy,"  said  he,  "  there,  don't  fret — pshaw  !— it  was  but 
a  trifle  after  all.  Think  no  more  of  it." 

Frank  took  the  hand,  and  suddenly  threw  his  arm  round  his 
father's  broad  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  sir,  you  are  too  good — too  good."  His  voice  trembled  so 
that  Randal  tookalarm, passed  byhim,andtouched  himmeaningly. 

The  Squire  pressed  his  son  to  his  heart — heart  so  large,  that 
it  seemed  to  fill  the  whole  width  under  his  broadcloth. 

"  My  dear  Frank, "said  he,  half  blubbering,  "  it  is  not  the  mon- 
ey ;  but,  you  -see,  it  so  vexes  your  poor  mother;  you  must  be  care- 
ful in  the  future;  and,  zounds,boy,it  will  be  all  yours  one  day;  only 
don't  caculate  on  it ;  I  could  not  bear  that — I  could  not  indeed." 

"  Calculate  !  "  cried  Frank.     "  Oh,  sir,  can  you  think  it  ? " 

"I  am  so  delighted  that  I  had  some  slight  hand  in  your  com- 
plete reconciliation  with  Mr.  Hazeldean,"  said  Randal,,  as  the 
young  men  walked  from  the  hotel.  "  I  saw  that  you  were  dis- 
heartened, and  I  told  him  to  speak  to  you  kindly." 

"  Did  you  !     Ah  ! — I  am  sorry  he  needed  telling." 


454  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

"  I  know  his  character  so  well  already,"  said  Randal,  "  that  I 
flatter  myself  lean  always  keep  things  between  you  as  they 
ought  to  be.  What  an  excellent  man  ! " 

"  The  best  man  in  the  world,"  cried  Frank,  heartily  ;  and 
then,  as  his  accents  dropped,  "  yet  I  have  deceived  him.  I  have 
a  great  mind  to  go  back — " 

"And  tell  him  to  give  you  twice  as  much  money  as  you  had 
asked  for.  He  would  think  you  had  only  seemed  so  affectionate 
in  order  to  take  him  in.  No,  no,  Frank — save — lay  by — econo- 
mize ;  and  then  tell  him  that  you  have  paid  half  your  own  debts. 
Something  high-minded  in  that." 

"So  there  is.  Your  heart  is  as  good  as  your  head.  Good-night." 

"Are  you  going  home  so  early?  Have  you  no  engagements?" 

"  None  that  I  shall  keep." 

"  Good-night,  then." 

They  parted,  and  Randal  walked  into  one  of  the  fashionable 
clubs.  He  neared  a  table,  where  three  or  four  young  men 
(younger  sons,  who  lived  in  the  most  splendid  style,  heaven 
knew  how)  were  still  over  their  wine. 

Leslie  had  little  in  common  with  these  gentlemen,  but  he 
forced  his  nature  to  be  agreeable  to  them,  in  consequence  of  a 
very  excellent  piece  of  worldly  advice  given  to  him  by  Audley 
Egerton.  "Never  let  the  dandies  call  you  a  prig,"  said  the 
statesman.  "  Many  a  .clever  fellow  fails  through  life  because  the 
silly  fellows,  whom  half  a  word  well  spoken  could  make  his 
claqueurs,  turn  him  into  ridicule.  Whatever  you  are,  avoid  the 
fault  of  most  reading  men;  in  a  word,  don't  be  a  prig  !  " 

"  I  have  just  left  Hazeldean,"  said  Randal ;  "what  a  good 
fellow  he  is ! " 

"Capital!"  said  the'HonorableGeorgeBorrowell.  "Where  is  he?" 

"  Why,  he  is  gone  to  his  rooms.  He  has  had  a  little  scene  with 
his  father,  a  thorough,  rough,  country  squire.  It  would  be  an  act 
of  charity  if  you  would  go  and  keep  him  company,  or  to  take  him 
with  you  to  some  place  a  little  more  lively  than  his  own  lodgings." 

"  What !  the  old  gentleman  has  been  teasing  him  ! — a  horrid 
shame  I — Why,  Frank  is  not  extravagant,  and  he  will  be  very 
rich — eh  ? " 

"An  immense  property,"  said  Randal,  "and  not  a  mortgage 
on  it ;  an  only  son,"  he  added,  turning  away. 

Ampng  these  young  gentlemen  there  was  a  kindly  and  most 
benevolent  whisper,  and  presently  they  all  rose,  and  walked  away 
toward  Frank's  lodgings. 

"The  wedge  is  in  the  tree,"  said  Randal  to  himself,  "and  there 
is  a  gap  already  between  the  bark  and  the  wood." 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  45$ 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

HARLEY  L'ESTRANGE  is  seated  beside  Helen  at  the  lattice- 
window  in  the  cottage  at  Norwood.  The  bloom  of  reviving 
health  is  on  the  child's  face,  and  she  is  listening  with  a  smile, 
for  Harley  is  speaking  of  Leonard  with  praise,  and  of  Leonard's 
future  with  hope.  "  And  thus,"  he  continued, "  secure  from  his 
former  trials,  happy  in  his  occupation,  and  pursuing  the  career  he 
has  chosen,  we  must  be  content,  my  dear  child,  to  leave  him." 

"  Leave  him  !  "  exclaimed  Helen,  and  the  rose  on  her  cheek 
faded. 

Harley  was  not  displeased  to  see  her  emotion.  He  would 
have  been  disappointed  in  her  heart  if  it  had  been  less  sus- 
ceptible to  affection. 

"  It  is  hard  on  you,  Helen,"  said  he, "  to  be  separated  from  one 
who  has  been  to  you  as  a  brother.  Do  not  hate  me  for  doing 
so.  But  I  consider  myself  your  guardian,  and  your  home  as  yet 
must  be  mine.  We  are  going  from  this  land  of  cloud  and  mist, 
going  as  into  the  world  of  summer.  Well,  that  does  not  content 
you.  You  weep,  my  child ;  you  mourn  your  own  f  riend,.but  do  not 
forget  your  father's.  I  am  alone,  and  of  ten  sad,  Helen;  will  you 
not  comfort  me  ?  You  press  my  hand,  but  you  must  learn  to  smile 
on  me  also.  You  are  born  to  be  the  Comforter.  Comforters  are 
not  egotists ;  they  are  always  cheerful  when  they  console." 

The  voice  of  Harley  was  so  sweet,  and  his  words  went  so  home 
to  the  child's  heart,  that  she  looked  up  and  smiled  in  his  face  as  he 
kissed  her  ingenuous  brow.  But  then  she  thought  of  Leonard, 
and  felt  so  solitary — so  bereft — that  tears  burst  forth  again. 
Before  these  were  dried,  Leonard  himself  entered,  and,  obeying 
an  irresistible  impulse,  she  sprang  to  his  arms,  and  leaning  her 
head  on  his  shoulder,  sobbed  out,  "I  am  going  from  you, 
brother — -do  not  grieve — do  not  miss  me." 

Harley  was  much  moved  ;  he  folded  his  arms,  and  contem- 
plated them  both  silently — and  his  own  eyes  were  moist. 
"  This  heart,"  thought  he,  "  will  be  worth  the  winning  !  " 

He  drew  aside  Leonard,  and  whispered,  "  Soothe,  but  encour- 
age and  support  her.  I  leave  you  together  ;  come  to  me  in 
the  garden  later." 

It  was  nearly  an  hour  before  Leonard  joined  Harley. 

"  She  was  not  weeping  when  you  left  her  ? "  asked  L'Estrange. 

"  No  ;  she  has  more  fortitude  than  we  might  suppose.  Hea- 
ven knows  how  that  fortitude  has  supported  mine.  I  have 
promised  to  write  to  her  often." 


450  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Harley  took  two  strides  across  the  lawn,  and  then,  coming 
back  to  Leonard,  said,  "  Keep  your  promise,  and  write  often  for 
the  first  year.  I  would  then  ask  you  to  let  the  correspondence 
drop  gradually." 

"  Drop  !— Ah  !  my  lord  ! " 

"  Look  you,  my  young  friend,  I  wish  to  lead  this  fair  mind 
wholly  from  the  sorrows  of  the  Past.  I  wish  Helen  to  enter,  not 
abruptly,  but  step  by  step,  into  a  new  life.  You  love  each  other 
now  as  do  two  children — as  brother  and  sister.  But  later,  if 
encouraged,  would  the  love  be  the  same  ?  And  is  it  not  better 
for  both  of  you,  that  youth  should  open  upon  the  world  with 
youth's  natural  affections  free  and  unforestalled  ?" 

"  True  !    And  she  is  so  above  me,"  said  Leonard,  mournfully. 

"  No  one  is  above  him  who  succeeds  in  your  ambition,  Leon- 
ard. It  is  not  that,  believe  me." 

Leonard  shook  hishead* 

"Perhaps,"  said  Harley,  with  a  smile,  "  I  rather  feel  that  you 
are  above  me.  For  what  vantage-ground  is  so  high  as  youth  ? 
Perhaps  I  may  become  jealous  of  you.  It  is  well  that  she  should 
learn  to  like  one  who  is  to  be  henceforth  her  guardian  and  pro- 
tector. Yet,  how  can  she  like  me  as  she  ought,  if  her  heart  is 
to  be  full  of  you  ? " 

The  boy  bowed  his  head  ;  and  Harley  hastened  to  change  the 
subject, and  speak  of  letters  and  of  glory.  His  words  were  elo- 
quent and  his  voice  kindling:  for  he  had  been  an  enthusiast  for 
fame  in  his  boyhood  ;  and  in  Leonard's,  his  own  seemed  to  revive. 
But  the  poet's  heart  gave  back  no  echo — suddenly  it  seemed  void 
and  desolate.  Yet  when  Leonard  walked  back  by  the  moonlight, 
he  muttered  to  himself,"Strange — strange — somerea  child; — this 
cannot  be  love!  Still  what  else  to  love  is  there  left  to  me  ? " 

And  so  he  paused  upon  the  bridge  where  he  had  so  often 
stood  with  Helen,  and  on  which  he  had  found  the  protector  that 
had  given  her  a  home — to  himself  a  career.  And  life  seemed 
very  long,  and  fame  but  a  dreary  {phantom.  Courage,  still, 
Leonard  !  These  are  the  sorrows  of  the  heart  that  teach  thee 
more  than  all  the  precepts  of  sage  or  critic. 

Another  day  and  Helen  had  left  the  shores  of  England,  with 
her  fanciful  and  dreaming  guardian.  Years  will  pass  before  our 
tale  reopens.  Life  in  all  the  forms  we  have  seen  it  travels  on. 
And  the  Squire  farms  and  hunts;  and  the  Parson  preaches  and 
chides  and  soothes.  And  Riccabocca  reads  his  Machiavelli,  and 
sighs  and  smiles  as  he  moralizes  on  Men  and  States.  And  Vio- 
lante's  dark  eyes  grow  deeper  and  more  spiritual  in  their  lustre ; 
and  her  beauty  takes  thought  from  solitary  dreams.  And  M 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  457 

Richard  Avenel  has  his  house  in  London,  and  the  Honorable 
Mrs.  Avenel  her  opera-box  ;  and  hard  and  dire  is  their  struggle 
into  fashion, and  hotlydoes  the  new  man,  scorningthearistocracy, 
pant  to  become  aristocrat.  And  Audley  Egerton  goes  from  the 
office  to  the  Parliament,  and  drudges,  and  debates,  and  helps  to 
govern  the  empire  on  which  the  sun  never  sets.  Poor  Sun,  how 
tired  he  must  be — but  not  more  tired  than  the  Government  ! 
And  Randal  Leslie  has  an  excellent  place  in  the  bureau  of  a, 
minister,  and  is  looking  to  the  time  when  he  shall  resign  it  to 
come  into  Parliament,  and  on  that  large  arena  turn  knowledge 
into  power.  And  meanwhile,  he  is  much  where  he  was  with  Aud- 
ley Egerton  ;  but  he  has  established  intimacy  with  the  Squire, 
and  visited  Hazeldean  twice,  and  examined  the  house  and  the 
map  of  the  property,  and  very  nearly  fallen  a  second  time  into  the 
Ha-ha,  and  the  Squire  believes  that  Randal  Leslie  alone  can  keep 
Frank  out  of  mischief,  and  has  spoken  rough  words  to  his  Harry 
about  Frank's  continued  extravagance:  and  Frank  does  continue 
to  pursue  pleasure,  and  is  very  miserable,  .and  horribly  in  debt. 
And  Madame  di  Negra  has  gone  from  London  to  Paris,  and  taken 
a  tour  into  Switzerland,  and  come  back  to  London  again,  and  has 
grown  very  intimate  with  Randal  Leslie ;  and  Randal  has  intro- 
duced Frank  to  her;  and- Frank  thinks  her  the  loveliest  woman 
in  the  world,  and  grossly  slandered  by  certain  evil  tongues.  And 
the  brother  of  Madame  di  Negra  is  expected  in  England  at  last ; 
and  what  with  his  repute  for  beauty  and  for  wealth,  people 
anticipate  a  sensation.  And  Leonard,  and  Harley,  and  Helen? 
Patience — they  will  all  reappear. 

: 

BOOK  EIGHTH.— INITIAL  CHAPTER. 

THE    ABUSE   OF    INTELLECT. 

THERE  is  at  present  so  vehement  a  flourish  of  trumpets,  and 
so  prodigious  a  roll  of  the  drum,  whenever  we  are  called  upon 
to  throw  up  our  hats,  and  cry  "Huzza.  "  to  the  "March  of  En- 
lightenment," that,  out  of  that  very  spirit  of  contradiction  nat- 
ural to  all  rational  animals,  one  is  tempted  to  stop  one's  ears, 
and  say,  "  Gently,  gently  ;  LIGHT  is  noiseless  ;,'  how  comes  '  En- 
lightenment'  to  make  such  a  clatter?  Meanwhile,  if  it  be  not 
impertinent,  pray,  where  is  Enlightenment  marching  to  ?,"  Ask 
that  question  of  any  six  of  the  loudest  bawlers  in  the  procession, 
and  I'll  wager  tenpence  to  California  that  you  get  six  very 
unsatisfactory  answers.  One  respectable  gentleman,  who,  to  our 
great  astonishment,  insists  upon  calling  himself  "a  slave,"  but. 


458  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

has  a  remarkably  free  way  of  expressing  his  opinions,  will  reply— 
"  Enlightenment  is  marching  toward  the  seven  points  of  the 
Charter."  Another,  with  his  hair  d  lajeune  France,  who  has 
taken  a  fancy  to  his  friend's  wife,  and  is  rather  embarrassed 
with  his  own,  asserts  that  Enlightenment  is  proceeding  toward 
the  Rights  of  Women,  the  reign  of  Social  Love,  and  the  anni- 
hilation of  Tyrannical  Prejudice.  A  third,  who  has  the  air  of  a 
man  well  to  do  in  the  middle  class,  more  modest  in  his  hopes, 
because  he  neither  wishes  to  have  his  head  broken  by  his  errand- 
boy,  nor  his  wife  carried  off  to  an. Agapemone  by  his  apprentice, 
does  not  take  Enlightenment  a  step  farther  than  a  siege  on  De- 
brett,  and  a  cannonade  on  the  Budget.  Illiberal  man!  the  march 
that  he  swells  will  soon  trample  him  under  foot.  No  one  fares 
so  ill  in  a  crowd  as  the  man  who  is  wedged  in  the  middle.  A 
fourth,  looking  wild  and  dreamy,  as  if  he  had  come  out  of  the 
cave  of  Trophonius,  and  who  is  a  mesmerizer  and  a  mystic, 
thinks  Enlightenment  is  in  full  career  toward  the  good  old  days 
of  alchemists  and  necromancers.  A  fifth,  whom  one  might  take 
for  a  Quaker,  asserts  that  the  march  of  Enlightenment  is  a  cru- 
sade for  universal  philanthropy,  vegetable  diet,  and  the  perpetu- 
ation of  peace  by  means  of  speeches,  which  certainly  do  pro- 
duce a  very  contrary  effect  from  the  Philippics  of  Demosthenes! 
The  sixth — (good  fellow  without  a  rag  on  his  back) — does  not 
care  a  straw  where  the  march  goes.  He  can't  be  worse  off  than 
he  is  ;  and  it  is  quite  immaterial  to  him  whether  he  goes  to  the 
dog-star  above,  or  the  bottomless  pit  below.  I  say  nothing,  how- 
ever, against  the  march,  while  we  take  it  altogether.  Whatever 
happens,  one  is  in  good  company  ;  and  though  I  am  somewhat 
indolent  by  nature,  and  would  rather  stay  at  home  with  Locke 
and  Burke  (dull  dogs  though  they  were),  than  have  my  thoughts 
set  off  helter-skelter  with  those  cursed  trumpets  and  drums, 
blown  and  dub-a-dubbed  by  fellows  whom  I  vow  to  heaven  I 
would  not  trust  with  a  five-pound  note — still,  if  I  must  march,  I 
must ;  and  so  deuce  take  the  hindmost.  But  when  it  comes  to 
individual  marchers  upon  their  own  account — privateers  and 
condottieri  of  Enlightenment — who  have  filled  their  pockets 
with  lucifer-matches,  and  have  a  sublime  contempt  for  their 
neighbors'  barns  and  hay-ricks,  I  don't  see  why  I  should  throw 
myself  into  the  seventh  heaven  of  admiration  and  ecstasy. 

If  those  who  are  eternally  rhapsodizing  on  the  celestial  bless- 
ings that  are  to  follow  Enlightenment,  Universal  Knowledge, 
and  so  forth,  would  just  take  their  eyes  out  of  their  pockets,  and 
look  about  them,  I  would  respectfully  inquire  if  they  have  never 
met  any  very  knowing  and  enlightened  gentleman  whose  ac- 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  459 

quaintance  is  by  no  means  desirable.  If  not,  they  are  monstrous 
lucky.  Every  man  must  judge  by  his  own  experience  ;  and  the 
worst  rogues  I  have  ever  encountered  were  amazingly  well- 
informed  clever  fellows!  From  dunderheads  and  dunces  we 
can  protect  ourselves,  but  from  your  sharp-witted  gentleman,  all 
enlightenment  and  no  prejudice,  we  have  but  to  cry,  "  Heaven 
defend  us ! "  It  is  true,  that  the  rogue  (let  him  be  ever  so 
enlightened)  usually  comes  to  no  good  himself  (though  not  before 
he  has  done  harm  enough  to  his  neighbors).  But  that  only 
shows  that  the  world  wants  something  else  in  those  it  rewards, 
besides  intelligence  per  se  and  in  the  abstract ;  and  is  much  too 
old  a  world  to  allow  any  Jack  Homer  to  pick  out  his  plums  for  his 
own  personal  gratification.  Hence  a  man  of  very  moderate  intel- 
ligence, who  believes  in  God,  suffers  his  heart  to  beat  with  human 
sympathies,  and  keeps  his  eyes  off  your  strong-box,  will  perhaps 
gain  a  vast  deal  more  power  than  knowledge  ever  gives  to  a  rogue. 
Wherefore,  though  I  anticipate  an  outcry  against  me  on  the 
part  of  the  blockheads,  who,  strange  to  say,  are  the  most  credu- 
lous idolaters  of  enlightenment,  and,  if  knowledge  were  power, 
would  rot  on  a  dunghill;  yet,  nevertheless,  I  think  all  really 
enlightened  men  will  agree  with  me,  that  when  one  falls  in  with 
detached  sharp-shooters  from  the  general  March  of  Enlighten- 
ment, it  is  no  reason  that  we  should  make  ourselves  a  target,  be- 
cause Enlightenment  has  furnished  them  with  a  gun.  It  has, 
doubtless,  been  already  remarked  by  the  judicious  reader,  that  of 
the  numerous  characters  introduced  into  this  work, the  larger  por- 
tion belong  to  that  species  which  we  call  the  INTELLECTUAL — 
that  through  them  are  analyzed  and  developed  human  intel- 
lect, in  various  forms  and  directions.  So  that  this  History, 
rightly  considered,  is  a  kind  of  humble  familiar  Epic,  or,  if  you 
prefer  it,  a  long  Serio-Comedy,  upon  the  Varieties  of  English 
Life  in  this  our  Century,  set  in  movement  by  the  intelligences 
most  prevalent.  And  where  more  ordinary  and  less  refined 
types  of  the  species  round  and  complete  the  survey  of  our  pass- 
ing generation,  they  will  often  suggest,  by  contrast,  the  deficien- 
cies which  mere  intellectual  culture  leaves  in  the  human  being. 
Certainly,  I  have  no  spite  against  intellect  and  enlightenment 
Heaven  forbid  I  should  be  such  a  Goth!  I  am  only  the  advo- 
cate for  common  sense  and  fair  play.  I  don't  think  an  able 
man  necessarily  an  angel  ;  but  I  think  if  his  heart  match  his 
head,  and  both  proceed  in  the  Great  March  under  the  divine  Ori- 
flamme,  he  goes  as  near  to  the  angel  as  humanity  will  permit:  if 
not,  if  he  has  but  a  penn'orth  of  heart  to  a  pound  of  brains,  I 
say,  " Bon  jour,  mon  ange  !  I  see  not  the  starry  upward  wings, 


460  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

but  the  grovelling  cloven-hoof."  I'd  rather  be  offuscated  by 
the  Squire  of  Hazeldean,  than  enlightened  by  Randal  Leslie. 
Every  man  to  his  taste.  But  intellect  itself  (not  in  the  philo- 
sophical, but  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  term)  is  rarely,  if  ever, 
one  completed  harmonious  agency;  it  is  not  one  faculty,  but  a 
compound  of  many,  some  of  which  are  often  at  war  with  each 
other,  and  mar  the  concord  of  the  whole.  Few  of  us  but  have 
some  predominant  faculty,  in  itself  a  strength;  but  which,  usurp- 
ing unseasonably  dominion  over  the  rest,  shares  the  lot  of  all 
tyranny,  however  brilliant,  and  leaves  the  empire  weak  against 
disaffection  within,  and  invasion  from  without.  Hence,  intellect 
may  be  perverted  in  a  man  of  evil  disposition,  and  sometimes 
merely  wasted  in  a  man  of  excellent  impulses,  for  want  of  the 
necessary  discipline,  or  of  a  strong  ruling  motive.  I  doubt  if 
there  be  one  person  in  the  world,  who  has  obtained  a  high  repu- 
tation for  talent,  who  has  not  met  somebody  much  cleverer  than 
himself,  which  said  somebody  has  never  obtained  any  reputa- 
tion at  all !  Men  like  Audley  Egerton  are  constantly  seen  in 
the  great  positions  of  life;  while  men  like  Harley  L'Estrange, 
who  could  have  beaten  them  hollow  in  anything  equally  striven 
for  by  both,  float  away  down  the  stream,  and,  unless  some  sud- 
den stimulant  arouse  their  dreamy  energies,  vanish  out  of  sight 
into  silent  graves.  If  Hamlet  and  Polonius  were  living  now, 
Polonius  would  have  a  much  better  chance  of  being  a  Cabinet 
Minister,  though  Hamlet  would  unquestionably  be  a  much  more 
intellectual  character.  What  would  become  of  Hamlet?  Heaven 
knows!  Dr.  Arnold  said,  from  his  experience  of  a  school,  that  the 
difference  between  one  man  and  another  was  not  mere  ability — 
it  was  energy.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  truth  in  that  saying. 

Submitting  these  hints  to  the  judgment  and  penetration  of 
the  sagacious,  I  enter  on  the  fresh  division  of  this  work,  and  see 
already  Randal  Leslie  gnawing  his  lips  on  the  background.  The 
German  poet  observes,  that  the  Cow  of  Isis  is  to  some  the  divine 
symbol  of  knowledge,  to  others  but  the  milch  cow,  only  regarded 
for  the  pounds  of  butter  she  will  yield.  O  tendency  of  our  age, 
to  look  on  Isis  as  the  milch  cow  !  Q  prostitution  of  the  grandest 
desires  to  the  basest  uses  !  Gaze  on  the  goddess,  Randal  Leslie, 
and  get  ready  thy  churn  and  thy  scales.  Let  us  see  what  the 
butter  will  fetch  in  the  market.: 

CHAPTER  II. 

A  NEW  Reign  has  commenced.  There  has  been  a  general 
election ;  the  unpopularity  of  the  Administration  has  been  appar- 
ent at  the  hustings.  Audley  Egerton,  hitherto  returned  by  vast 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  46! 

majorities,  has  barely  escaped  defeat — thanks  to  a  majority  of 
five.  The  expenses  of  his  election  are  said  to  have  been  pro- 
digious. "  But  who  can  stand  against  such  wealth  as  Egerton's— 
no  doubt  backed,  too,  by  the  Treasury  purse  ? "  said  the  defeated 
candidate.  It  is  toward  the  close  of  October  ;  London  is  already 
full :  Parliament  will  meet  in  less  than  a  fortnight. 

In  one  of  the  principal  apartments  of  that  hotel  in  which 
foreigners  may  discover  what  is  meant  by  English  comfort,  and 
the  price  which  foreigners  must  pay  for  it,  there  sat  two  persons 
side  by  side,  engaged  in  close  conversation.  The  one  was  a 
female,  in  whose  pale  clear  complexion  and  raven  hair — in  whose 
eyes,  vivid  with  a  power  of  expression  rarely  bestowed  on  the 
beauties  of  the  north,  we  recognize  Beatrice,  Marchesa  di  Negra. 
Undeniably  handsome  as  was  the  Italian  lady,  her  companion, 
though  a  man,  and  far  advanced  into  middle  age,  was  yet  more 
remarkable  for  personal  advantages.  There  was  a  strong  family 
likeness  between  the  two  ;  but  there  was  also  a  striking  contrast 
in  air,  manner,  and  all  that  stamps  on  the  physiognomy  the 
idiosyncrasies  of  character.  There  was  something  of  gravity, 
of  earnestness  and  passion,  in  Beatrice's  countenance  when  care- 
fully examined  ;  her  smile  at  times  might  be  false,  but  it  was 
rarely  ironical,  never  cynical.  Her  gestures,  though  graceful, 
were  unrestrained  and  frequent.  You  could  see  she  was  a 
daughter  of  the  south.  Her  companion, on  the  contrary,  preserved 
on  the  fair,  smooth  face,  to  which  years  had  given  scarcely  a  line 
or  wrinkle,  something  that  might  have  passed,  at  first  glance,  for 
the  levity  and  thoughtlessness  of  a  gay  and  youthful  nature  ;  but 
the  smile,  though  exquisitely  polished,  took  at  times  the  derision 
of  a  sneer.  In  his  manners  he  was  as  composed  and  as  free  from 
gesture  as  an  Englishman.  His  hair  was  of  that  red  brown  with 
which  the  Italian  painters  produce  such  marvellous  effects  of 
color  ;  and,  if  here  and  there  a  silver  thread  gleamed  through 
the  locks,  it  was  lost  at  once  amidst  their  luxuriance.  His  eyes 
were  light,and  hiscomplexion, though  without  much  color, was  sin- 
gularly transparent.  His  beauty,  indeed,  would  have  been  rather 
womanly  than  masculine,  but  for  the  height  and  sinewy  spare- 
ness  of  a  frame  in  which  muscular  strength  was  rather  adorned 
than  concealed  by  an  admirable  elegance  of  proportion.  You 
would  never  have  guessed  this  man  to  be  an  Italian  ;  more  likely 
you  would  have  supposed  him  a  Parisian.  He  conversed  in 
French,  his  dress  was  of  French  fashion,  his  mode  of  thought 
seemed  French.  Not  that  he  was  like  the  Frenchman  of  the 
present  day — an  animal  either  rude  or  reserved  ;  but  your  ideal 
of  the  Marquis  of  the  old  regime — the  rout  of  the  Regency. 


462  MY   NOVEL  ;   Oft, 

Italian,  however,  he  was,  and  of  a  race  renowned  in  Italian 
history.  But,  as  if  ashamed  of  his  country  and  his  birth,  he 
affected  to  be  a  citizen  of  the  world.  Heaven  help  the  world 
if  it  hold  only  such  citizens  ! 

"  But,  Giulio,"  said  Beatrice  di  Negra,  speaking  in  Italian, 
"  even  granting  that  you  discover  this  girl,  can  you  suppose  that 
her  father  will  even  consent  to  your  alliance  ?  Surely  you  know 
too  well  the  nature  of  your  kinsman  ?  " 

"  Tu  te  trompes,  ma  sczur"  replied  Giulio  Franzini,  Count  di 
Peschiera,  in  French,  as  usual — "  tu  te  trompes;  I  knew  it  before 
he  had  gone  through  exile  and  penury.  How  can  I  know  it  now  ? 
But  comfort  yourself,  my  too  anxious  Beatrice  ;  I  shall  not  care 
for  his  consent  till  I've  made  sure  of  his  daughter's." 

"  But  how  win  that  in  spite  of  the  father  ? " 

"  Eh^mordieur  interrupted  the  Count,  with  true  French  gaiety; 
"what  would  become  of  all  the  comedies  ever  written,  if  mar- 
riages were  not  made  in  despite  of  the  father  ?  Look  you,"  he 
resumed  with  a  very  slight  compression  of  his  lip,  and  a  still 
slighter  movement  of  his  chair — "  look  you,  this  is  no  question 
of  ifs  and  buts  !  it  is  a  question  of  must  and  shall, — a  question 
of  existence  to  you  and  to  me.  When  Danton  was  condemned 
to  the  guillotine,  he  said,  flinging  a  pellet  of  bread  at  the  nose 
of  his  respectable  judge, — '  Monindividu  sera  bientot  dans  le 
•nJantj — My  patrimony  is  there  already !  I  am  loaded  with  debts. 
I  see  before  me,  on  one  side,  ruin  or  suicide  :  on  the  other  side, 
wedlock  and  wealth." 

"  But  from  those  vast  possessions  which  you  have  been  per- 
mitted to  «njoy  so  long,  have  you  really,  saved  nothing  against 
the  time  when  they  might  be  reclaimed  at  your  hands  ?  " 

"  My  sister,"  replied  the  Count,  "do  I  look  like  a  man  who 
saved  ?  Besides,  when  the  Austrian  Emperor,  unwilling  to  raze 
from  his  Lombard  domains  a  name  and  a  house  so  illustrious  as 
our  kinsman's,  and  desirous  while  punishing  that  kinsman's 
rebellion,  to  reward  my  adherence,  forebore  the  peremptory  con- 
fiscation of  those  vast  possessions,  at  which  my  mouth  waters 
while  we  speak,  but,  annexing  them  to  the  crown  during  pleasure, 
allowed  me,  as  the  next  male  kin,  to  retain  the  revenues  of  one- 
half  for  the  same  very  indefinite  period, — had  I  not  every  reason 
to  suppose  that,  before  long,  I  could  so  influence  his  Imperial 
Majesty, or  his  minister,  as  to  obtain  a  decree  that  might  trans- 
fer the  whole,  unconditionally  and  absolutely,  to  myself  ?  And 
methinks  I  should  have  done  so,  but  for  this  accursed,  inter- 
meddling English  Milord,  who  has  never  ceased  to  besiege  the 
court  or  the  minister  with  alleged  extenuations  of  our  cousin's 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  463 

rebellion,  and  proof-less  assertions  that  I  shared  it  in  order  to 
entangle  my  kinsman,  and  betrayed  it  in  order  to  profit  by  his 
spoils.  So  that,  at  last,  in  return  for  all  my  services  and  in  answer 
to  all  my  claims,  I  received  from  the  minister  himself  this  cold 
reply ; — 'Count  of  Peschiera,  your  aid  was  important,  and  your 
reward  has  been  large.  That  reward  it  would  not  be  for  your 
honor  to  extend,  and  justify  the  ill  opinion  of  your  Italian  country- 
men by  formally  appropriating  to  yourself  all  that  was  forfeited 
by  the  treason  you  denounced.  A  name  so  noble  as  yours  should 
be  dearer  to  you  than  fortune  itself.' " 

"Ah,  Giulio,"  cried  Beatrice,  her  face  lighting  up,  changed  in 
its  whole  character. — "  those  were  words  that  might  make  the 
demon  that  tempts  to  avarice  fly  from  your  breast  in  shame." 

The  Count  opened  his  eyes  in  great  amaze  ;  then  he  glanced 
round  the  room,  and  said  quietly, — 

"  Nobody  else  hears  you,  my  dear  Beatrice  ;  talk  common 
sense.  Heroics  sound  well  in  mixed  society  ;  but  there  is  noth- 
ing less  suited  to  the  tone  of  a  family  conversation." 

Madame  di  Negra  bent  down  her  head  abashed, and  that  sudden 
change  in  the  expression  of  her  countenance  which  had  seemed  to 
betray  susceptibility  to  generous  emotion,faded  as  suddenly  away. 

"  But  still,"  she  said,  coldly,  "  you  enjoy  one-half  of  those 
ample  revenues, — why  talk,  then,  of  suicide  and  ruin  ? " 

"  I  enjoy  them  at  the  pleasure  of  the  crown  ;  and  what  if  it 
be  the  pleasure  of  the  crown  to  recall  our  cousin,  and  reinstate 
him  in  his  possessions  ?  " 

"There  is  ^.probability,  then,  of  that  pardon?  When  you  first 
employed  me  in  your  researches,  you  only  thought  there  was  a 
possibility" 

"  There  is  a  great  probability  of  it,  and  therefore  I  am  here. 
I  learned  some  little  time  since  that  the  question  of  such  recall 
had  been  suggested  by  the  Emperor,  and  discussed  in  council. 
The  danger  to  the  State  which  might  arise  from  our  cousin's 
wealth,  his  alleged  abilities— (abilities!  bah  !) — and  his  popular 
name,  deferred  any  decision  on  the  point  ;  and,  indeed,  the 
difficulty  of  dealing  with  myself  must  have  embarrassed  the 
minister.  But  it  is  a  mere  question  of  time.  He  cannot  long  re- 
main excluded  from  the  general  amnesty  already  extended  to  the 
other  refugees.  The  person  who  gave  me  this  information  is  high 
in  power,  and  friendly  to  myself ;  and  he  added  a  piece  of  advice, 
on  which  I  acted.  '  It  was  intimated,'  said  he,  '  by  one  of  the 
partisans  of  your  kinsman,  that  the  exile  could  give  a  hostage 
for  his  loyalty  in  the  person  of  his  daughter  and  heiress  ;  that 
she  had  arrived  at  marriageable  age  ;  that  if  she  were  to  wed,  with 


464  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

the  Emperor's  consent,  some  one  whose  attachment  to  the  Aus- 
trian crown  was  unquestionable,  there  would  be  a  guarantee  both 
for  the  faith  of  the  father,  and  for  the  transmission  of  so  impor- 
tant a  heritage  to  safe  and  loyal  hands.  Why  not,'  continued 
my  friend, '  apply  to  the  Emperor  for  his  consent  to  that  alliance 
for  yourself? — you,  on  whom  he  can  depend  ; — you  who,  if  the 
daughter  should  die,  would  be  the  legal  heir  to  those  lands  ? ' 
On  that  line  I  spoke." 

"You  saw  the  Emperor?" 

"  And  after  combating  the  unjust  prepossessions  against  me, 
I  stated  that,  so  far  from  my  cousin  having  any  fair  cause  of  re- 
sentment against  me,  when  all  was  duly  explained  to  him,  I  did 
not  doubt  that  he  would  willingly  give  me  the  hand  of  his  child." 

*'  You  did  !  "  cried  the  Marchesa,  amazed. 

"And,"  continued  the  Count,  imperturbably,  as  he  smoothed, 
with  careless  hand,  the  snowy  plaits  of  his  shirtfront,— "and  that 
I 'should  thushave  the  happinessofbecomingmyself  the  guarantee 
of  my  kinsman's  loyalty,— the  agent  for  the  restoration  of  his 
honors,  while  in  the  eyes  of  the  envious  and  malignant,  I  should 
clear  up  my  own  name  from  all  suspicion  that  I  had  wronged 
him." 

"And  the  Emperor  consented?" 

"  Pardieu,  my  dear  sister  ;  what  else  could  his  majesty  do  ? 
My  proposition  smoothed  every  obstacle,  and  reconciled  policy 
with  mercy.  It  remains,  therefore,  only  to  find  out  what  has 
hitherto  baffled  all  our  researches,  the  retreat  of  our  dear  kins- 
folk, and  to  make  myself  a  welcome  lover  to  demoiselle. 
There  is  some  disparity  of  years,  I  own,  but — unless  your  sex 
and  my  glass  flatter  me  over-much — I  am  still  a  match  for  many 
a  gallant  of  five-and-twenty." 

The  Count  said  this  with  so  charming  a  smile,  and  looked  so 
pre-eminently  handsome,  that  he  carried  off  the  coxcombry  of 
the  words  as  gracefully  as  if  they  had  been  spoken  by  some 
dazzling  hero  of  the  grand  old  comedy  of  Parisian  life. 

Then  interlacing  his  fingers,  and  lightly  leaning  his  hands, 
thus  clasped,  upon  his  sister's  shoulder,  he  looked  into  her  face, 
and  said  slowly — "  And  now,  my  sister,  for  some  gentle  but  de- 
served reproach.  Have  you  not  sadly  failed  me  in  the  task  I 
imposed  on  your  regard  for  my  interests  ?  Is  it  not  some  years 
since  you  first  came  to  England  on  the  mission  of  discovering 
these  worthy  relations  of  ours  ?  Did  I  not  entreat  you  to  se- 
duce into  your  toils  the  man  whom  I  knew  to  be  my  enemy,  and 
who  was  indubitably  acquainted  with  our  cousin's  retreat — a 
secret  he  has  hitherto  locked  within  his  bosom  !  Did  you  not  tell 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  465 

me,  that  though  he  was  then  in  England,  you  could  find  no  oc- 
casion even  to  meet  him,  but  that  you  had  obtained  the  friend- 
ship of  the  statesman  to  whom  I  had  directed  your  attention,  as 
his  most  intimate  associate?  And  yet  you,  whose  charms  are 
usually  so  irresistible,  learn  nothing  from  the  statesman,  as  you 
see  nothing  of  Milord.  Nay,  baffled  and  misled,  you  actually 
suppose  that  the  quarry  has  taken  refuge  in  France.  You  go 
thither— you  pretend  to  search  the  capital — the  provinces,  Switz- 
erland, que  sais-je — all  in  vain,— though — -foi  de  gentilhomme — 
your  police  costs  me  dearly — you  return  to  England — the  same 
chase,  and  the  same  result.  Palsambleu,  ma  saur,  I  do  too 
-much  credit  to  your  talents  not  to  question  your  zeal.  In  a 
word,  have  you  been  in  earnest — or  have  you  not  had  some 
womanly  pleasure  in  amusing  "yourself  arid  abusing  my  trust?" 

"  Giulio,"  answered  Beatrice,  sadly,  "  you  know  the  influence 
you  have  exercised  over  my  character  and  my  fate.  Your  re- 
proaches are  not  just.  I  made  such  inquiries  as  were  in  my 
power,  and  I  have  now  cause  to  believe  that  I  know  one  who  is 
possessed  of  this  secret,  and  .can  guide  us  to  it." 

"  Ah,  you  do  !  "  exclaimed  the  Count.  Beatrice  did  not  heed 
the  exclamation,  and  hurried  on. 

"  But  grant  that  my  heart  shrunk  from  the  task  you  imposed 
on  me,  would  it  not  have  been  natural  ?  When  I  first  came 
to  England,  you  informed  me  that  your  object  in  discovering 
the  exiles  was  one  which  I  could  honestly  aid.  You  naturally 
wished  first  to  know  if  the  daughter  lived  ;  if  not,  you  were  the 
heir.  If  she  did,  you  assured  me  you  desired  to  effect,  through 
my  mediation,  some  liberal  compromise  with  Alphonso,  by  which 
you  would  have  sought  to  obtain  his  restoration,  provided  he 
would  leave  you  for  life  in  the  possession  of  the  grant  you  hold 
from  the  crown.  While  these  were  your  objects,  I  did  my  best, 
ineffectual  as  it  was,  to  obtain  the  information  required." 

"And  what  made  me  lose  so  important,  though  so  ineffectual 
an  ally  ? "  asked  the  Count,  still  smiling  ;  but  a  gleam  that  be- 
lied the  smile  shot  from  his  eye. 

"  What !  when  you  bade  me  receive  and  co-operate  with  the 
miserable  spies — the  false  Italians — whom  you  sent  over,  and 
seek  to  entangle  this  poor  exile,  when  found,  in  some  rash  cor- 
respondence to  be  revealed  to  the  court; — when  you  sought 
to  seduce  the  daughter  of  the  Count  of  Peschiera,  the  descend- 
ant of  those  who  had  ruled  in  Italy,  into  the  informer,  the  cor- 
rupter,  and  the  traitress  !  No,  Giulio; — then  I  recoiled  ;  and 
then,  fearful  of  your  own  sway  over  me,  I  retreated  into  France. 
I  have  answered  you  frankly." 


466  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

The  Count  removed  his  hands  from  the  shoulder  on  which 
they  had  reclined  so  cordially. 

"And  this,"  said  he,  "  is  your  wisdom,  and  this  your  grati- 
tude. You,  whose  fortunes  are  bound  up  in  mine — you,  who 
subsist  on  my*  bounty — you,  who — " 

"Hold,"  cried  the  Marchesa,  rising,  and  with  a  burst  of  emo- 
tion, as  if  stung  to  the  utmost,  and  breaking  into  revolt  from  the 
tyranny  of  years — "hold — gratitude!  bounty!  Brother,brother — 
what,  indeed,  do  I  owe  to  you?  The  shame  and  misery  of  a  life. 
While  yet  a  child,  you  condemned  me  to  marry  against  my  will — 
against  my  heart — against  my  prayers — and  laughed  at  my  tears 
when  I  knelt  to  you  for  mercy.  I  was  pure  then,  Giulio — pure  and 
innocent  as  the  flowers  in  my  virgin  crown.  And  now — now- — " 

Beatrice  stopped  suddenly,  and  clasped  her  hands  before  her 
face. 

"Now  you  upbraid  me,"  said  the  Count,  unruffled  by  her  sud- 
den passion,  "  because  I  gave  you  in  marriage  to  a  man  young 
and  noble  ?  " 

"  Old  in  vices,  and  mean  in  soul !  The  marriage  I  forgave  you. 
You  had  the  right,  according  to  the  customs  of  our  country,  to 
dispose  of  my  hand.  But  I  forgave  you  not  the  consolations 
that  you  whispered  in  the  ear  of  a  wretched  and  insulted  wife." 

''Pardon  me  the  remark,"  replied  the  Count,  with  a  courtly 
bend  of  his  head,  "but  those  consolations  were  also  conformableto 
the  customs  of  our  country,  and  I  was  not  aware  till  now  that  you 
had  wholly  disdained  them.  And,"  continued  the  Count,  "you 
were  not  so  long  a  wife  that  the  gall  of  the  chain  should  smart  still. 
You  were  soon  left  a  widow — free,  childless,  young,  beautiful." 

"  And  penniless." 

"  True,  Di  Negra  was  a  gambler,  and  very  unlucky  ;  no  fault 
of  mine.  I  could  neither  keep  the  cards  from  his  hands,  nor 
advise  him  how  to  play  them." 

"  And  my  own  portion  ?  Oh,  Giulio,  I  knew  but  at  his  death 
why  you  had  condemned  me  to  that  renegade  Genoese.  He 
owed  you  money,  and  against  honor,  and  I  believe  against  law, 
you  had  accepted  my  fortune  in  discharge  of  the  debt." 

"  He  had  no  other  way  to  discharge  it — a  debt  of  honor  must 
be  paid: — old  stories  these.  What  matters  ?  Since  then  my 
purse  has  been  open  to  you." 

"^Yes,  not  as  your  sister,  but  your  instrument — your  spy  ! 
Yes,  your  purse  has  been  open — with  a  niggard  hand." 

"Unpeu  de  conscience,  ma  chere,  you  are  so  extravagant.  But 
come,  be  plain.  What  would  you  ? " 

"  I  would  be  free  from  you." 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  467 

"  That  is,  you  would  form  some  second  marriage  with  one  of 
those  rich  island  lords.  Ma  fot,  I  respect  your  ambition." 

"  It  is  not  so  high.  I  aim  but  to  escape  from  slavery — to  be 
placed  beyond  dishonorable  temptation.  I  desire/'cried  Beatrice, 
with  increased  emotion — -"I  desire  to  re-enter  the  life  of  woman." 

"  Eno'  !  "  said  the  Count,  with  a  visible  impatience  ;  "is  there 
anything  in  the  attainment  of  your  object  that  should  render 
you  indifferent  to  mine  ?  You  desire  to  marry,  if  I  comprehend 
you  right.  And  to  marry,  as  becomes  you,  you  should  bring  to 
your  husband  not  debts,  but  a  dowry.  Be  it  so.  I  will  restore 
the  portion  that  I  saved  from  the  spendthrift  clutch  of  the  Gen- 
oese— the  moment  that  it  is  mine  to  bestow — the  moment  that 
I  am  husband  to  my  kinsman's  heiress.  And  now,  Beatrice, 
you  imply  that  my  former  notions  revolted  your  conscience  ;  my 
present  plan  should  content  it  :  for  by  this  marriage  shall  our 
kinsman  regain  his  country,  and  repossess,  at  least,  half  his 
lands.  And  if  I  am  not  an  excellent  husband  to  the  demoiselle, 
it  will  be  her  own  fault.  I  have  sown  my  wild  oats.  Je  suis 
bon  prince,  when  I  have  things  a  little  my  own  way.  It  is  my 
hope  and  my  intention,  and  certainly  it  will  be  my  interest,  to 
become  digne  e'poux  et  irrfyrochable  pZre  de  famille.  I  speak 
lightly — 'tis  my  way.  I  mean  seriously.  The  little  girl  will  be 
very  happy  with  me,  and  I  shall  succeed  in  soothing  all  resent- 
ment her  father  may  retain.  Will  you  aid  me  then — yes  or  no  ? 
Aid  me,  and  you  shall  indeed  be  free.  The  magician  will  release 
the  fair  spirit  he  has  bound  to  his  will.  Aid  me  not,  ma  ch^re, 
and  mark,  I  do  not  threaten — I  do  but  warn — aid  me  not ;  grant 
that  I  become  a  beggar,  and  ask  yourself  what  is  to  become  of 
you — still  young,  still  beautiful,  and  still  penniless  ?  Nay, 
worse  than  penniless;  you  have  done  me  the  honor  "  (and  here 
the  Count,  looking  on  the  table,  drew  a  letter  from  a  portfolio 
emblazoned  with  his  arms  and  coronet),  "  you  have  done  me 
the  honor  to  consult  me  as  to  your  debts." 

"You  will  restore  my  fortune  ?"  said  the  Marchesa,  irresolute- 
ly— and  averting  her  head  from  an  odious  schedule  of  figures. 

"  When  my  own,  with  your  aid,  is  secured." 

"  But  do  you  not  overrate  the  value  of  my  aid  ?  " 

"  Possibly,"  said  the  Count,  with  a  caressing  suavity — and  he 
kissed  his  sister's  forehead.  "  Possibly  ;  but,  by  my  honor,  I 
wish  to  repair  to  you  any  wrong,  real  or  supposed,  I  may  have 
done  you  in  past  times.  I  wish  to  find  again  my  own  dear  sis- 
ter. I  may  overvalue  your  aid,  but  not  the  affection  from  which 
it  comes.  Let  us  be  friends,  cara  Beatrice  mt'a,"  added  the 
Count;  for  the  first  time  employing  Italian  words. 


468  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

The  Marchesa  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder  and  her  tears 
flowed  softly.  Evidently  this  man  had  great  influence  over  her — 
and  evidently,  whatever  her  cause  for  complaint,  her  affection 
for  him  was  still  sisterly  and  strong.  A  nature  with  fine  flashes  of 
generosity,  spirit,  honor,  and  passion,  was  hers — but  uncultured, 
unguided — spoilt  by  the  worst  social  examples — easily  led  into 
wrong — not  always  aware  where  the  wrong  was — letting  affections 
good  or  bad  whisper  away  her  conscience  or  blind  her  reason. 
Such  women  are  often  far  moredangerouswhen  induced  to  wrong, 
than  those  who  are  thoroughly  abandoned — such  women  are  the 
accomplices  men  like  theCount  of  Peschiera  most  desire  to  obtain. 

"Ah,  Giulio,"  said  Beatrice,  after  a  pause,  and  looking  up  at 
him  through  her  tears,  "when  you  speak  to  me  thus,  you  know 
you  can  do  with  me  what  you  will.  Fatherless  and  motherless, 
whom  had  my  childhood  to  love  and  obey  but  you?" 

"Dear  Beatrice,"  murmured  the  Count  tenderly — and  he 
again  kissed  her  forehead.  "  So,"  he  continued,  more  careless- 
ly— "  so  the  reconciliation  is  effected,  and  our  interests  and  our 
hearts  re-allied.  Now,  alas  !  to  descend  to  business.  You  say 
that  you  know  some  one  whom  you  believe  to  be  acquainted 
with  the  lurking-place  of  my  father-in-law — that  is  to  be  !  " 

"  I  think  so.  You  remind  me  that  I  have  an  appointment 
with  him  this  day  :  it  is  near  the  hour — I  must  leave  you." 

"To  learn  the  secret? — Quick — quick.  I  have  no  fear  of 
your  success,  if  it  is  by  his  heart  that  you  lead  him  !  " 

"  You  mistake  ;  on  his  heart  I  have  no  hold.  But  he  has  a 
friend  who  loves  me,  and  honorably,  and  whose  cause  he  pleads. 
I  think  here  that  I  have  some  means  to  control  or  persuade  him. 
If  not — ah,  he  is  of  a  character  that  perplexes  me  in  all  but  his 
worldly  ambition;  and  how  can  we  foreigners  influence  him 
thfough  that  ?  " 

"  Is  he  poor,  or  is  he  extravagant  ?" 

"  Not  extravagant,  and  not  positively  poor,  but  dependent." 

"Then  we  have  him,"  said  the  Count,  composedly.  "If  his 
assistance  be  worth  buying,  we  can  bid  high  for  it.  Sur  man  dine, 
I  never  yet. knew  money  fail  with  any  man  who  was  both  worldly 
and  dependent.  I  put  him  and  myself  in  your  hands," 

Thus  saying,  the  Count  opened  the  door,  and  conducted  his 
sister  with  formal  politeness  to  her  carriage.  He  then  returned, 
reseated  himself,  and  mused  in  silence.  As  he  did  so,  the  mus- 
cles of  his  countenance  relaxed.  The  levity  of  the  Frenchman 
fled  from  his  visage,  and  in  his  eye,  as  it  gazed  abstractedly  into 
space,  there  was  that  steady  depth  so  remarkable  in  the  old  por- 
traits of  Florentine  diplomatist  or  Venetian  Oligarch.  Thus 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  469 

seen,  there  was  in  that  face,  despite  all  its  beauty,  something 
that  would  have  awed  back  even  the  fond  gaze  of  love  ;  some- 
thing hard,  collected,  inscrutable,  remorseless.  But  this  change 
of  countenance  did  not  last  long.  Evidently  thought,  though  in- 
tense for  the  moment,  was  not  habitual  to  the  man.  Evidently  he 
had  lived  a  life  which  takes  all  things  lightly — so  he  rose  with  a 
look  of  fatigue,  shook  and  stretched  himself,  as  if  to  cast  off,  or 
grow  out  of,  an  unwelcome  and  irksome  mood.  An  hour  after- 
ward, the  Count  of  Peschiera  was  charming  all  eyes,  and  pleas- 
ing all  ears,  in  the  saloon  of  a  high-born  beauty,  whose  acquaint- 
ance he  had  made  at  Vienna,  and  whose  charms,  according  to 
that  old  and  never-truth  speaking  oracle,  Polite  Scandal,  were 
now  said  to  have  attracted  to  London  the  brilliant  foreigner. 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE  Marchesa  regained  her  house,which  was  in  Curzon  Street, 
and  withdrew  toher  own  room,  to  readjust  her  dress,  and  remove 
from  her  countenance  all  trace  of  the  tears  she  had  shed. 

Half  an  hour  afterward  she  was  seated  in  her  drawing-room, 
composed  and  calm  ;  nor,  seeing  her  then,  could  you  have 
guessed  that  she  was  capable  of  so  much  emotion  and  so  much 
weakness.  In  that  stately  exterior,  in  that  quiet  attitude,  in  that 
elaborate  and  finished  elegance  which  comes  alike  from  the  arts 
of  the  toilet  and  the  conventional  repose  of  rank,  you  could  see 
but  the  woman  of  the  world  and  the  great  lady. 

A  knock  at  the  door  was  heard,  and  in  a  few  moments  there 
entered  a  visitor,  with  the  easy  familiarity  of  intimate  acquaint- 
ance— a  young  man,  but  with  none  of  the  bloom  of  youth.  His 
hair,  fine  as  a  woman's,  was  thin  and  scanty,  but  it  fell  low  over 
the  forehead,  and  concealed  that  noblest  of  our  human  features. 
11  A  gentleman,"  says  Apuleius,  "ought  to  wear  his  whole  mind 
on  his  forehead."*  The  young  visitor  would  never  have  com- 
mitted so  frank  an  imprudence.  His  cheek  was  pale,  and  in  his 
step  and  his  movements  there  was  a  languor  that  spoke  of 
fatigued  nerves  or  delicate  health.  But  the  light  of  the  eye  and 
the  tone  of  the  voice  were  those  of  a  mental  temperament  con- 
trolling the  bodily — vigorous  and  energetic.  For  the  rest,  his 
general  appearance  was  distinguished  by  a  refinement  alike 
intellectual  and  social.  Once  seen,  you  would  not  easily  forget 
him.  And  the  reader,  no  doubt,  already  recognizes  Randal  Les- 
lie. His  salutation,  as  I  before  said,  was  that  of  intimate  famil- 
iarity :  yet  it  was  given  and  replied  to  with  that  unreserved  open- 
ness which  denotes  the  absence  of  a  more  tender  sentiment. 

*  "  Hominem  liberum  et  roagnificum  debere,  si  queat,  in  priraori  fronte,  animum  gestarc," 


47°  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Seating  himself  by  the  Marchesa's  side,  Randal  began  first  to 
converse  on  the  fashionable  topics  and  gossip  of  the  day;  but  it 
was  observable  that,  while  he  extracted  from  her  the  current  an- 
ecdote and  scandal  of  the  great  world,  neither  anecdote  nor  scan- 
dal did  he  communicate  in  return.  Randal  Leslie  had  already 
learned  the  art  not  to  commit  himself,  nor  to  have  quoted  against 
him  one  ill-natured  remark  upon  the  eminent.  Nothing  more 
injures  the  man  who  would  rise  beyond  the  fame  of  the  salons, 
than  to  be  considered  backbiter  and  gossip;  "yet  it  is  always  use- 
ful," thought  Randal  Leslie,  "to  know  the  foibles — the  small 
social  and  private  springs  by  which  the  great  are  moved.  Criti- 
cal occasions  may  arise  in  which  such  knowledge  may  be  power." 
And  hence,  perhaps  (besides  a  more  private  motive,  soon  to  be 
perceived),  Randal  did  not  consider  his  time  thrown  away  in 
cultivating  Madame  di  Negra's  friendship.  For,  despite  much 
that  was  whispered  against  her,  she  had  succeeded  in  dispelling 
the  coldness  with  which  she  had  at  first  been  received  in  the  Lon- 
don circles.  Her  beauty,  her  grace,  and  her  high  birth,  had  raised 
her  into  fashion;  and  the  homage  of  men  of  the  first  station, while 
it  perhaps  injured  her  reputation  as  woman,  added  to  her  celeb- 
rity as  fine  lady.  So  much  do  we  English,  prudes  though  we 
be,  forgive  to  the  foreigner  what  we  avenge  on  the  native. 

Sliding  at  last  from  these  general  topics  into  very  well-bred 
and  elegant  personal  compliment,  and  reciting  various  eulogies, 
which  Lord  this  and  the  Duke  of  that  had  passed  on  the  Mar- 
chesa's charms,  Randal  laid  his  hand  on  hers,  with  the  license 
of  admitted  friendship,  and  said — 

"  But  since  you  have  deigned  to  confide  in  me,  since  when 
(happily  for  me,  and  with  a  generosity  of  which  no  coquette 
could  have  been  capable)  you,  in  good  time,  repressed  into 
friendship  feelings  that  might  else  have  ripened  into  those  you 
are  formed  to  inspire  and  disdain  to  return,  you  told  me  with 
your  charming  smile,  '  Let  no  one  speak  to  me  of  love  who  does 
not  offer  me  his  hand,  and  with  it  the  means  to  supply  tastes 
that  I  fear  are  terribly  extravagant '; — since  thus  you  allowed  me 
to  divine  your  natural  objects,  and  upon  that  understanding  our 
intimacy  has  been  founded,  you  will  pardon  me  for  saying  that  the 
admiration  you  excite  among  these  grands  seigneurs  I  have  named 
only  serves  to  defeat  your  own  purpose,  and  scare  away  admirers 
less  brilliant,  but  more  in  earnest.  Most  of  these  gentlemen  are 
unfortunately  married  ;  and  they  who  are  not  belong  to  those 
members  of  our  aristocracy  who,  in  marriage,  seek  more  than 
beauty  and  wit — namely,  connections  to  strengthen  their  political 
station,  or  wealth  to  redeem  a  mortgnge  and  sustain  a  title." 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  471 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Leslie,"  replied  the  Marchesa — and  a  cer- 
tain sadness  might  be  detected  in  the  tone  of  the  voice  and  the 
droop  of  the  eye — "I  have  lived  long  enough  in  the  real  world 
to  appreciate  the  baseness  and  the  falsehood  of  most  of  those 
sentiments  which  take  the  noblest  names.  I  see  through  the 
hearts  of  the  admirers  you  parade  before  me,  and  know  that 
not  one  of  them  would  shelter  with  his  ermine  the  woman  to 
whom  he  talks  of  his  heart.  Ah,"  continued  Beatrice,  with  a 
softness  of  which  she  was  unconscious,  but  which  might  have 
been  extremely  dangerous  to  youth  less  steeled  and  self-guarded 
than  was  Randal  Leslie's — "  Ah,  I  am  less  ambitious  than  you 
suppose.  I  have  dreamed  of  a  friend,  a  companion,  a  pro- 
tector, with  feelings  still  fresh,  undebased  by  the  low  round  of 
vulgar  dissipation  and  mean  pleasures — of  a  heart  so  new,  that 
it  might  restore  my  own  to  what  it  was  in  its  happy  spring.  I 
have  seen  in  your  country  some  marriages,  the  mere  contem- 
plation of  which  has  filled  my  eyes  with  delicious  tears.  I 
have  learned  in  England  to  know  the  value  of  home.  And  with 
such  a  heart  as  I  describe,  and  such  a  home,  I  could  forget 
that  I  ever  knew  a  less  pure  ambition." 

"  This  language  does  not  surprise  me,"  said  Randal ;  "  yet 
it  does  not  harmonize  with  your  former  answer  to  me." 

"  To  you,"  repeated  Beatrice,  smiling,  and  regaining  her 
lighter  manner ;  "  to  you — true.  But  I  never  had  the  vanity  to 
think  that  your  affection  for  me  could  bear  the  sacrifices  it 
would  cost  |you  in  marriage;  that  you,  with  your  ambition, 
could  bound  your  dreams  of  happiness  to  home.  And  then, 
too,"  said  she,  raising  her  head,  and  with  a  certain  grave  pride 
in  her  air — "  and  then,  I  could  not  have  consented  to  share  my 
fate  with  one  whom  my  poverty  would  cripple.  I  could  not 
listen  to  my  heart,  if  it  had  beat  for  a  lover  without  fortune,  for 
to  him  I  could  then  have  brought  but  a  burden,  and  betrayed 
him  into  a  union  with  poverty  and  debt.  Now,  it  may  be  dif- 
ferent. Now  I  may  have  the  dowry  that  befits  my  birth.  And 
now  I  may  be  free  to  choose  according  to  my  heart  as  woman,  not 
according  to  my  necessities,  as  one  poor,  harassed  and  despairing." 

"  Ah,"  said  Randal,  interested,  and  drawing  still  closer  to- 
ward his  fair  companion — "  ah,  I  congratulate  you  sincerely  ; 
you  have  cause,  then,  to  think  that  you  shall  be — rich  ? " 

The  Marchesa  paused  before  she  answered,  and  during  that 
pause  Randal  relaxed  the  web  of  the  scheme  which  he  had  been 
secretly  weaving,  and  rapidly  considered  whether,  if  Beatrice 
di  Negra  would  indeed  be  rich,  she  might  answer  to  himself  as 
a  wife ;  and  in  what  way,  if  so,  he  had  best  change  his  tone 


472  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

from  that  of  friendship  into  that  of  love.  While  thus  reflect- 
ing, Beatrice  answered — 

*'  Not  rich  for  an  Englishwoman  ;  for  an  Italian,  yes.  My 
fortune  should  be  half  a  million — " 

"  Half  a  million  !  "  cried  Randal,  and  with  difficulty  he 
restrained  himself  from  falling  at  her  feet  in  adoration. 

"  Of  francs  !  "  continued  the  Marchesa. 

"Francs  !  Ah,"  said  Randal,  with  a  long-drawn  breath,  and 
recovering  from  his  sudden  enthusiasm,  "about  twenty  thousand 
pounds? — eight  hundred  a  year  at  four  per  cent.  A  very  hand- 
some portion  certainly  (Genteel  poverty  !  he  murmured  to  him- 
self. What  an  escape  I  have  had  !  but  I  see — I  see.  This  will 
smooth  all  difficulties  in  the  way  of  my  better  and  earlier  pro- 
ject. I  see) — a  very  handsome  portion,"  he  repeated  aloud — 
"not  for  a. grand  seigneur,  indeed,  but  still  for  a  gentleman  of 
birth  and  expectations  worthy  of  your  choice,  if  ambition  be 
not  your  first  object.  Ah,  while  you  spoke  with  such  endear- 
ing eloquence  of  feelings  that  were  fresh,  of  a  heart  that  was  new, 
of  the  happy  English  home,  you  might  guess  that  my  thoughts 
ran  to  my  friend  who  loves  you  so  devotedly,  and  who  so  real- 
izes your  ideal.  Proverbially,  with  us,  happy  marriages  and 
happy  homes  are  found  not  in  the  gay  circles  of  London  fashion, 
but  at  the  hearths  of  our  rural  nobility — our  untitled  country 
gentlemen.  And  who,  amongst  all  your  adorers,  can  offer  you 
a  lot  so  really  enviable  as  the  one  whom,  I  see  by  your  blush, 
you  already  guess  that  I  refer  to  ?" 

"  Did  I  blush  ?  "  said  the  Marchesa,  with  a  silvery  laugh. 
"  Nay,  I  think  that  your  zeal  for  your  friend  misled  you.  But 
I  will  own  frankly,  I  have  been  touched  by  his  honest  ingenuous 
love — so  evident,  yet  rather  looked  than  spoken.  I  have  con- 
trasted the  love  that  honors  me  with  the  suitors  that  seek  to 
degrade  ;  more  I  cannot  say.  For  though  I  grant  that  your  friend 
is  handsome,  high-spirited,  and  generous,  still  he  is  not  what — 

"  You  mistake,  believe  me,"  interrupted  Randal.  "You  shall 
not  finish  your  sentence.  He.  is  all  that  you  do  not  yet  sup- 
pose him  ;  for  his  shyness,  and  his  very  love,  his  very  respect 
for  your  superiority,  do  not  allow  his  mind  and  his  nature  to 
appear  to  advantage.  You,  it  is  true,  have  a  taste  for  letters 
and  poetry  rare  among  your  countrywomen.  He  has  not  at 
present — few  men  have.  But  what  Cimon  would  not  be  refined 
by  so  fair  an  Iphigenia?  Such .  frivolities  as  he  now  shows 
belong  but  to  youth  and  inexperience  of  life.  Happy  the 
brother  who  could  see  his  sister  the  wife  of  Frank  Hazeldean." 

The  Marchesa  leant  her  check  on  her  hand  in  silence.     To 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  473 

her,  marriage  was  more  than  it  usually  seems  to  dreaming 
maiden  or  to  disconsolate  widow.  So  had  the  strong  desire  to 
escape  from  the  control  of  her  unprincipled  and  remorseless 
brother  grown  a  part  of  her  very  soul — so  had  whatever  was 
best  and  highest  in  her  very  mixed  and  complex  character  been 
galled  and  outraged  by  her  friendless  and  exposed  position, 
the  equivocal  worship  rendered  to  her  beauty,  the  various 
debasements  to  which  pecuniary  embarrassments  had  subjected 
her — (not  without  design  on  the  part  of  the  Count,  who,  though 
grasping,  was  not  miserly,  and  who  by  precarious  and  seemingly 
capricious  gifts  at  one  time,  and  refusals  of  all  aid  at  another, 
had  involved  her  in  debt  in  order  to  retain  his  hold  on  her) — • 
so  utterly  painful  and  humiliating  to  a  woman  of  her  pride  and 
her  birth  was  the  station  that  she  held  in  the  world — that  in 
marriage  she  saw  liberty,  life,  honor,  self-redemption  ;  and  these 
thoughts,  while  they  compelled  her  to  co-operate  with  the 
schemes,  by  which  the  Count,  on  securing  to  himself  a  bride, 
was  to  beslo\v  on  herself  a  dower,  also  disposed  her  now  to  receive 
with  favor  Randal  Leslie's  pleadings  on  behalf  of  his  friend. 

The  advocate  saw  that  he  had  made  an  impression,  and  with 
the  marvellous  skill  which  his  knowledge  of  those  natures  that 
engaged  his  study  bestowed  on  his  intelligence,  he  continued 
to  improve  his  cause  by  such  representations  as  were  likely  to 
be  mast  effective.  With  what  admirable  tact  he  avoided  pane- 
gyric of  Frank  as  the  mere  individual,  and  drew  him  rather  as 
the  type,  the  ideal  of  what  a  woman  in  Beatrice's  position  might 
desire,  in  the  safety,  peace,  and  honor  of  a  home,  in  the  trust, 
and  constancy,  and  honest  confiding  love  of  its  partner!  He  did 
not  paint  an  elysium,  he  described  a  haven  ;  he  did  not  glow- 
ingly delineate  a  hero  of  romance— he  soberly  portrayed  that  Rep- 
resentative of  the  Respectable  and  the  Real  which  a  woman  turns 
to  when  romance  begins  to  seem  to  her  but  delusion.  Verily,  if 
you  could  have  looked  into  the  heart  of  the  person  he  addressed, 
and  heard  him  speak,  you  would  have  cried'  admiringly, 
"  Knowledge/^  power  ;  and  this  man,  if  as  able  on  a  larger  field 
of  action,  should  nlay  no  mean  part  in  the  history  of  his  time." 

Slowly  Beatrice  roused  herself  from  the  reveries  which  crept 
over  her  as  he  spoke — slowly,  and  with  a  deep  sigh,  and  said — 

"  Well,  well,  grant  all  you  say  ;  at  least  before  I  can  listen 
to  so  honorable  a  love,  I  must  be  relieved  from  the  base  and 
sordid  pressure  that  weighs  on  me.  I  cannot  say  to  the  man 
who  woos  me,  'Will  you  pay  the  debts  of  the  daughter  of 
Franzini,  and  the  widow  of  di  Negra?' ' 

"Nay,  your  debts,  surely,  make  soslight  a  portion  of  yourdowry/ 


474  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

"But  the  dowry  has  to  be  secured";  and  here,  turning  the 
tables  upon  her  companion,  as  the  apt  proverb  expresses  it,  Mad- 
ame di  Negra  extended  her  hand  to  Randal,  and  said  in  the  most 
winning  accents,  "  You  are,  then  truly  and  sincerely  my  friend  ? " 

'  Can  you  doubt  it?  " 

'  I  prove  that  I  do  not,  for  I  ask  your  assistance." 

1  Mine  ?     How  ?  " 

'  Listen  :  my  brother  has  arrived  in  London — " 

'  I  see  that  arrival  announced  in  the  papers." 

'  And  he  comes,  empowered  by  the  consent  of  the  Emperor, 
to  ask  the  hand  of  a  relation  and  countrywoman  of  his  ;  an 
alliance  that  will  heal  long  family  dissensions,  and  add  to  his 
own  fortunes  those  of  an  heiress.  My  brother,  like  myself,  has 
been  extravagant.  The  dowry  which  by  law  he  still  owes  me 
it  would  distress  him  to  pay  till  this  marriage  be  assured." 

"I  understand," said  Randal.  "Buthoweanlaidthismarriage?" 

"  By  assisting  us  to  discover  the  bride.  She,  with  her  father, 
sought  refuge  and  concealment  in  England." 

"•The  father  had,  then,  taken  part  in  some  political  disaffec- 
tions,  and  was  proscribed?" 

"  Exactly;  and  so  well  has  he  concealed  himself,  that  he  has 
baffled  all  our  efforts  to  discover  his  retreat.  My  brother  can 
obtain  him  his  pardon  in  cementing  this  alliance — " 

"Proceed." 

"Ah,  Randal,  Randal,  is  this  the  frankness  of  friendship? 
You  know  that  I  have  before  sought  to  obtain  the  secret  of  our 
relation's  retreat — sought  in  vain  to  obtain  it  from  Mr.  Egerton, 
who  assuredly  knows  it—'* 

"But  who  communicates  no  secrets  to  living  man,"  said  Randal, 
almost  bitterly;  "who,  close  and  compact  as  iron,  is  as  little 
malleable  to  me  as  to  you." 

"Pardon  me.  I  know  you  so  well  that  I  believe  you  could  attain 
to  any  secret  you  sought  earnestly  to  acquire.  Nay,  more,  I  believe 
that  you  knowalready  that  secret  which  I  ask  you  to  share  with  me." 

"  What  on  earth  makes  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  When,  some  weeks  ago,  you  asked  me  to  describe  the  personal 
appearance  and  manners  of  the  exile,  which  I  did  partly  from  the 
recollections  of  my  childhood,  partly  from  the  description  given 
to  me  by  others,  I  could  not  but  notice  your  countenance,  and 
remark  its  change;  in  spite,"  said  the  Marchesa,  smiling,  and 
watching  Randal  while  she  spoke — "in  spite  of  your  habitual 
self-command.  And  when  I  pressed  you  to  own  that  you  had 
actually  seen  some  one  who  tallied  with  that  description,  your 
denial  did  not  deceive  me.  Still  more,  when  returning  recently  of 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  475 

your  own  accord,  to  the  subject,  you  questioned  me  so  shrewdly 
as  to  my  motives  in  seeking  the  clue  to  our  refugees,  and  I  did 
not  then  answer  you  satisfactorily,  I  could  detect — " 

"  Ha,  ha !  "  interrupted  Randal,  with  the  low  soft  laugh  by 
which  occasionally  he  infringed  upon  Lord  Chesterfield's  recom- 
mendations to  shun  a  merriment  so  natural  as  to  be  ill-bred — 
"Ha,  ha,  you  have  the  fault  of  all  observers  too  minute  and  refined. 
But  even  granting  that  I  may  have  seen  some  Italian  exiles 
(which  is  likely  enough),  what  could  me  more  natural  than  my 
seeking  to  compare  your  description  with  their  appearance;  and 
granting  that  i  might  suspect  some  one  amongst  them  to  be  the 
man  you  search  for,  what  more  natural,  also,  than  that  I  should 
desire  to  know  if  you  meant  him  harm  or  good  in  discovering  his 
'  whereabout  ? '  For  ill,"  added  Randal,  with  an  air  of  prudery — 
"  ill  would  it  become  me  to  betray,  even  to  friendship,  the  retreat 
of  one  who  would  hide  from  persecution;  and  even  if  I  did  so — 
for  honor  itself  is  a  weak  safeguard  against  your  fascinations — 
such  indiscretion  might  be  fatal  to  my  future  career." 

"  How  ? " 

"Do  you  not  say  that  Egerton  knows  the  secret,  yet  will  not 
communicate  ? — and  is  he  a  man  who  would  ever  forgive  in  me 
an  imprudence  that  committed  himself  ?  My  dear  friend,  I  will 
tell  you  more.  When  Audley  Egerton  first  noticed  my  growing 
intimacy  with  you,  he  said,  with  his  usual  dryness  of  counsel, 
'  Randal,  I  do  not  ask  you  to  discontinue  acquaintance  with 
Madame  di  Negra — for  an  acquaintance  with  women  like  her 
forms  the  manners,  and  refines  the  intellect;  but  charming  women 
are  dangerous,  and  Madame  di  Negra  is — a  charming  woman.' " 

The  Marchesa's  face  flushed.  Randal  resumed:  "  *  Your  fair 
acquaintance'  (I  am  still  quoting  Egerton)  'seeks  to  discover  the 
home  of  a  countryman  of  hers.  She  suspects  that  I  know  it. 
She  may  try  to  learn  it  through  you.  Accident  may  possibly 
give  you  the  information  she  requires.  Beware  how  you  betray 
it.  By  one  such  weakness  I  should  judge  of  your  general  char- 
acter. He  from  whom  a  woman  can  extract  a  secret  will  never  be 
fit  for  public  life.'  Therefore,  my  dearMarchesa,  even  supposing 
I  possess  this  secret,  you  would  be  no  true  friend  of  mine  to 
ask  me  to  reveal  what  would  imperil  all  my  prospects.  For,  as 
yet,"  added  Randal,  with  a  gloomy  shade  on  his  brow — "  as  yet  I 
do  not  stand  alone  and  erect — I  lean;— I  am  dependent." 

There  may  be  a  way,"  replied  Madame  di  Negra,  persist- 
ing, "  to  communicate  this  intelligence,  without  the  possibility 
of  Mr.  Egerton's  tracing  our  discovery  to  yourself;  and,  though 
I  will  not  press  you  farther,  I  add  this — You  urge  me  to  accept 


476  MY   NOVEL  ;    OR, 

your  friend's  hand;  you  seem  interested  in  the  success  of  his 
suit,  and  you  plead  it  with  a  warmth  that  shows  how  much  you 
regard  what  you  suppose  is  his  happiness;  I  will  never  accept  his 
hand  till  I  can  do  so  without  a  blush  for  my  penury — till  my 
dowry  is  secured,  and  that  can  only  be  by  my  brother's  union 
with  the  exile's  daughter.  For  your  friend's  sake,  therefore, 
think  well  how  you  can  aid  me  in  the  first  step  to  that  alliance. 
The  young  lady  once  discovered,  and  my  brother  has  no  fear 
for  the  success  of  his  suit." 

"And  you  would  marry  Frank  if  the  dower  was  secured  ?" 

"Your  arguments  in  his  favor  seem  irresistible,"  replied 
Beatrice,  looking  down. 

A  flash  went  from  Randal's  eyes,  and  he  mused  a  few  moments. 

Then  slowly  rising  and  drawing  on  his  gloves,  he  said — 

"Well,  at  least  you  so  far  reconcile  my  honor  toward  aiding  your 
research,  that  you  now  inform  me  you  mean  no  ill  to  the  exile." 

"Ill ! — the  restoration  to  fortune,  honors,  his  native  land." 

"  And  you  so  far  enlist  my  heart  on  your  side,  that  you  inspire 
me  with  the  hope  to  contribute  to  the  happiness  of  two  friends 
whom  I  dearly  love.  I  will  therefore  diligently  try  to  ascertain 
if,  among  the  refugees  I  have  met  with,  lurk  those  whom  you 
seek;  and  if  so,  I  will  thoughtfully  consider  how  to  give  you  the 
clue.  Meanwhile,  not  one  incautious  word  to  Egerton." 

"Trust  me— I  am  a  woman  of  the  world." 

Randal  now  had  gained  the  door.  He  paused  and  renewed 
carelessly— 

,  "  This  young  lady  must  be  heiress  to  great  wealth,  to  induce  a 
man  of  your  brother's  rank  to  take  so  much  pains  to  discover  her." 

"Her  wealth  will  be  vast,"  replied  the  Marchesa;  "and  if 
anything  from  wealth  or  influence  in  a  foreign  state  could  be 
permitted  to  prove  my  brother's  gratitude — " 

"Ah,  fie!"  interrupted  Randal;  and,  approaching  Madame 
di  Negra,  he  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips,  and  said,  gallantly — 

"This  is  reward  enough  to  your preux  chevalier." 

With  those  words  he  took  his  leave. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

WITH  his  hands  behind  him,  and  his  head  drooping  on  his 
breast — slow,  stealthy,  noiseless,  Randal  Leslie  glided  along  the 
streets  on  leaving  the  Italian's  house.  Across  the  scheme  he 
had  before  revolved,  there  glanced  another  yet  more  glittering, 
for  its  gain  might  be  more  sure  and  immediate.  If  the  exileV 
daughter  were' heiress  to  such  wealth,  might  he  himself  hope — ' 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  477 

He  stopped  short  even  in  his  own  soliloquy,  and  his  breath  came 
quick.  Now,  in  his  last  visit  to  Hazeldean  he  had  come  in  con- 
tact with  Riccabocca,  and  been  struck  by  the  beauty  of  Violante 
A  vague  suspicion  had  crossed  him  that  these  might  be  the  per. 
sons  of  whom  the  Marchesa  was  in  search,  and  the  suspicion 
had  been  confirmed  by  Beatrice's  description  of  the  refugee  she 
desired  to  discover.  But  as  he  had  not  then  learned  the  reason 
for  her  inquiries,  nor  conceived  the  possibility  that  he  could 
have  any  personal  interest  in  ascertaining  the  truth,  he  had  only 
classed  the  secret  in  question  among  those  the  farther  research 
into  which  might  be  left  to  time  and  occasion.  Certainly,  the 
reader  will  not  do  the  unscrupulous  intellect  of  Randal  Leslie 
the  injustice  to  suppose  that  he  was  deterred  from  confiding  to 
his  fair  friend  all  that  he  knew  of  Riccabocca,  by  the  refine- 
ment of  honor  to  which  he  had  so  chivalrously  alluded.  He  had 
correctly  stated  Audley  Egerton's  warning  against  any  indiscreet 
confidence,  though  he  had  forborne  to  mention  a  more  recent  and 
direct  renewal  of  the  same  caution.  His  first  visit  to  Hazeldean 
had  been  paid  without  consulting  Egerton.  He  had  been  passing 
some  days  at  his  father's  house,  and  had  gone  over  thence  to  the 
Squire's.  On  his  return  to  London,  he  had,  however,  mentioned 
this  visit  to  Audley,  who  had  seemed  annoyed,  and  even  dis- 
pleased at  it,  though  Randal  knew  sufficient  of  Egerton's  char- 
acter to  guess  that  such  feelings  could  scarce  be  occasioned 
merely  by  his  estrangement  from  his  half-brother.  This  dissat- 
isfaction had,  therefore,  puzzled  the  young  man.  But  as  it  was 
necessary  to  his  views  to  establish  intimacy  with  the  Squire,  he 
did  not  yield  the  point  with  his  customary  deference  to  his 
patron's  whims.  Accordingly,  he  observed,  that  he  should  be 
very  sorry  to  do  anything  displeasing  to  his  benefactor,  but  that 
his  father  had  been  naturally  anxious  that  he  should  not  appear 
positively  to  slight  the  friendly  overtures  of  Mr.  Hazeldean. 

"  Why  naturally  ?  "  asked  Egerton. 

"  Because  you  know  that  Mr.  Hazeldean  is  a  relation  of 
mine— that  my  grandmother  was  a  Hazeldean." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Egerton,  who,  as  it  has  been  before  said,  knew 
little  and  cared  less  about  the  Hazeldean  pedigree,"  I  was  either 
not  aware  of  that  circumstance,  or  had  forgotten  it.  And  your 
father  thinks  that  the  Squire  may  leave  you  a  legacy  ?  " 

"  Oh,  sir,  my  father  is  not  so  mercenary — such  an  idea  never 
entered  his  head.  But  the  Squire  himself  has  indeed  said — 
'Why,  if  any  thing  happened  to  Frank,  you  would  be  next  heir  to 
my  lands,  and  therefore  we  ought  to  know  each  other.'  But — " 

"Enough,"  interrupted  Egerton.     "I  am  the  last  man  topre- 


478  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

tend  to  the  right  of  standing  between  you  and  a  single  chance  of 
fortune,  or  of  aid  to  it.  And  whom  did  you  meetatHazeldean?" 

"  There  was  no  one  there,  sir  !  not  even  Frank." 

"  Hum.  Is  the  Squire  not  on  good  terms  with  his  parson  ? 
Any  quarrel  about  tithes?" 

"  Oh,  no  quarrel.  I  forgot  Dr.  Dale  ;  I  saw  him  pretty  often. 
He  admires  and  praises  you  very  much,  sir." 

"  Me — and  why  ?     What  did  he  say  of  me  ? " 

"  That  your  heart  was  as  sound  as  your  head  ;  that  he  had 
once  seen  you  about  some  old  parishioners  of  his  ;  and  that  he 
had  been  much  impressed  with  the  depth  of  feeling  he  could 
not  have  anticipated  in  a  man  of  the  world,  and  a  statesman." 

"  Oh,  that  was  all ;  some  affair  when  I  was  member  for  Lans- 
mere  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so." 

Here  the  conversation  had  broken  off  ;  but  the  next  time 
Randal  was  led  to  visit  the  Squire,  he  had  formally  asked  Eger- 
ton's  consent,  who,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  had  as  formally 
replied,  "  I  have  no  objection." 

On  returning  from  his  visit,  Randal  mentioned  that  he  had 
seen  Riccabocca  ;  and  Egerton,  a  little  startled  at  first,  said, 
composedly,  "  Doubtless  one  of  the  political  refugees  ;  take  care 
not  to  set  Madame  di  Negra  on  his  track.  Remember,  she  is 
suspected  of  being  a  spy  of  the  Austrian  government." 

"Rely  on  me,  sir,"  said  Randal  ;  "but  I  should  think  this 
poor  doctor  can  scarcely  be  the  person  she  seeks  to  discover." 

"That  is  no  affair  of  ours,"  answered  Egerton;  "we  are  English 
gentlemen,  and  make  not  a  step  toward  the  secrets  of  another." 

Now,  when  Randal  revolved  this  rather  ambiguous  answer, 
and  recalled  the  uneasiness  with  which  Egerton  had  first  heard 
of  his  visit  to  Hazeldean,  he  thought  that  he  was  indeed  near 
the  secret  which  Egerton  desired  to  conceal  from  him  and  from 
all — viz.,  the  incognito  of  the  Italian  whom  Lord  L'Estrange 
had  taken  under  his  protection. 

"  My  cards,"  said  Randal  to  himself,  as  with  a  deep-drawn 
sigh  he  resumed  his  soliloquy,  "  are  become  difficult  to  play. 
On  the  one  hand,  to  entangle  Frank  into  marriage  with  this 
foreigner,  the  Squire  could  never  forgive  him.  On  the  other 
hand,  if  she  will  not  marry  him  without  the  dowry — and  that  de- 
pends on  her  brother's  wedding  this  countrywoman-^-and  that 
countrywoman  be,  as  I  surmise,  Violante — and  Violante  be  this 
heiress,  and  to  be  won  by  me  !  Tush,  tush.  Such  delicate 
scruples  in  a  woman  so  placed  and  so  constituted  as  Beatrice  di 
Negra  must  be  easily  talked  away.  Nay,  the  loss  itself  of  this 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  479 

alliance  to  her  brother,  the  loss  of  her  own  dowry — the  very  press- 
ure of  poverty  and  debt,  would  compel  her  into  the  sole  escape 
left  to  her  option.  I  will  then  follow  up  the  old  plan  ;  I  will  go 
down  to  Hazeldean,  and  see  if  there  be  any  substance  in  the  new 
one  ; — and  then  to  reconcile  both.  Aha — the  House  of  Leslie 
shall  rise  yet  from  its  ruin — and — " 

Here  he  was  startled  from  his  reverie  by  a  friendly  slap  on 
the  shoulder,  and  an  exclamation — "  Why,  Randal,  you  are 
more  absent  than  when  you  used  to  steal  away  from  the  cricket- 
ground,  muttering  Greek  verses,  at  Eton." 

"  My  dear  Frank,"  said  Randal,  "  you — you  are  so  brusque, 
and  I  was  just  thinking  of  you." 

"  Were  you  ?  And  kindly,  then,  I  am  sure,"  said  Frank  Haz- 
eldean, his  honest  handsome  face  lighted  up  with  the  unsuspect* 
ing  genial  trust  of  friendship  ;  "and  heaven  knows,"  he  added, 
with  a  sadder  voice,  and  a  graver  expression  on  his  eye  and 
lip, — "  heaven  knows  I  want  all  the  kindness  you  can  give  me  !" 

"  I  thought,"  said  Randal,  "  that  your  father's  last  supply,  of 
which  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  be  the  bearer,  would  clear  off 
your  more  pressing  debts.  I  don't  pretend  to  preach,  but  really 
I  must  say,  once  more,  you  should  not  be  so  extravagant." 

FRANK  (seriously). — I  have  done  my  best  to  reform.  'I  have 
sold  off  my  horses,  and  I  have  not  touched  dice  nor  cards  these 
six  months;  I  would  not  even  put  into  the  raffle  for  the  last 
Derby."  This  last  was  said  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  doubted 
the  possibility  of  obtaining  belief  to  some  assertion  of  preter- 
natural abstinence  and  virtue. 

RANDAL. — Is  it  possible  ?  But  with  such  self-conquest  how 
is  it  that  you  can  not  contrive  to  live  within  the  bounds  of  a 
very  liberal  allowance  ? 

FRANK  (despondingly). — Why,  when  a  man  once  gets  his  head 
under  water,  it  is  so  hard  to  float  back  again  on  the  surface. 
You  see,  I  attribute  all  my  embarrassments  to  that  first  conceal- 
ment of  my  debts  from  my  father,  when  they  could  have  been 
so  easily  met,  and  when  he  came  up  to  town  so  kindly." 

"  I  am  sorry,  then,  that  I  gave  you  that  advice." 

"Oh,  you  meant  it  so  kindly,  I  don't  reproach  you  ;  it  was  all 
my  own  fault." 

"Why,  indeed,  I  did  urge  you  to  pay  off  that  moiety  of  your 
debts  left  unpaid,  with  your  allowance.  Had  you  done  so,  all 
had  been  well." 

"  Yes;  but  poor  Borrowel  got  into  such  a  scrape  at  Goodwood — 
I  could  not  resist  him  ;  a  debt  of  honor — that  must  be  paid  ; 
so  when  I  signed  another  bill  for  him,  he  could  not  pay  it,  poor 


480  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

fellow  !  Really  lie  would  have  shot  himself,  if  I  had  not  re- 
newed it.  And  now  it  is  swelled  to  such  an  amount  with  that 
cursed  interest,  that  he  never  can  pay  it ;  and  one  bill,  of  course, 
begets  another — and  to  be  renewed  every  three  months;  'tis 
the  devil  and  all  !  So  little  as  I  ever  got  for  all  I  have  bor- 
rowed," added  Frank,  with  a  kind  of  rueful  amaze.  "  Not  £\  500 
ready  money  ;  and  the  interest  would  cost  me  almost  as  much 
yearly — if  I  had  it." 

"Only  ^1500  !" 

"Well — besides  seven  large  chests  of  the  worst  cigars  you  ever 
smoked,  three  pipes  of  wine  that  no  one  would  drink  ;  and  a 
great  bear  that  had  been  imported  from  Greenland  for  the  sake 
of  its  grease." 

"  That  should,  at  least,  have  saved  you  a  bill  with  your  hair- 
dresser." 

"  I  paid  his  bill  with  it,"  said  Frank, "  and  very  good  natured  he 
was  to  take  the  monster  off  my  hands — it  had  already  hugged 
two  soldiers  and  one  groom  into  the  shape  of  a  flounder.  I  tell 
you  what,"  resumed  Frank,  after  a  short  pause, "  I  have  a  great 
mind  even  now  to  tell  my  father  honestly  all  my  embarrassments." 

RANDAL  (solemnly). — Hum  ! 

FRANK. — What?  don't  you  think  it  would  be  the  best  way? 
I  never  can  save  enough — never  can  payoff  what  I  owe  ;  and  it 
rolls  like  a  snowball. 

RANDAL. — Judging  by  the  Squire's  talk,  I  think  that  with  the 
first  sight  of  your  affairs  you  would  forfeit  his  favor  for  ever  ; 
and  your  mother  would  be  so  shocked,  especially  after  suppos- 
ing that  the  sum  I  brought  you  so  lately  sufficed  to  pay  off  every 
claim  on  you.  If  you  had  not  assured  her  of  that,  it  might  be 
different ;  but  she  who  so  hates  an  untruth,  and  who  said  to  the 
Squire,  "  Frank  says  this  will  clear  him  ;  and  with  all  his  faults, 
Frank  never  yet  told  a  lie  !  " 

"  Oh,  my  dear  mother  ! — I  fancy  I  hear  her  !  "  cried  Frank, 
with  deep  emotion.  "  But  I  did  hot  tell  a  lie,  Randal  ;  I  did 
not  say  that  that  sum  would  clear  me." 

"  You  empowered  and  begged  me  to  say  so,"  replied  Ran- 
dal, with  grave  coldness;  "and  don't  blame  me  if  I  believed  vou." 

"  No,  no  !     I  only  said  it  would  clear  me  for  the  moment." 

"  I  misunderstood  you,  then,  sadly;  and  such  mistakes  involve 
my  own  honor.  Pardon  me,  Frank;  don  "task  my  aid  in  future. 
You  see,  with  the  best  intentions,  I  only  compromise  myself." 

"  If  you  forsake  me,  I  may  as  well  go  and  throw  myself  into 
the  river,"  said  Frank,  in  a  tone  of  despair;  "  and  sooner  or 
later,  my  father  must  know  my  necessities.  The  Jews  threaten 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  4&I 

to  go  to  him  already  ;  and  the  longer  the  delay,  the  more  terri- 
ble the  explanation." 

"I  don't  see  \vhyyourfathershouldeverlearnthestateofyour 
affairs;  and  it  seems  to  me  that  you  could  pay  off  these  usurers,and 
get  rid  of  these  bills,byraisingmoney  on  comparatively  easy  terms." 

"How?"  cried  Frank,  eagerly. 

"Why,  the  Casino  property  is  entailed  on  you,  and  you  m  ight  ob- 
tain a  sum  upon  that,not  to  be  paid  till  the  property  becomes  yours. ' ' 

"At  my  poor  father's  death  ?  Oh,  no — no!  I  can  not  bear 
the  idea  of  this  cold-blooded  calculation  on  a  father's  death.  I 
know  it  is  not  uncommon  ;  I  know  other  fellows  who  have  done 
it,  but  they  never  had  parents  so  kind  as  mine  ;  and  even  in 
them  it  shocked  and  revolted  me.  The  contemplating  a  father's 
death,  and  profiting  by  the  contemplation, — it  seems  a  kind  of 
parricide;  it  is  not  natural,  Randal.  Besides,  don't  you  remem- 
ber what  the  Governor  said — he  actually  wept  while  he  said  it — 
'Never  calculate  on  my  death  ;  I  could  not  bear  that.'  Oh, 
Randal,  don't  speak  of  it  !  "  • 

"  I  respect  your  sentiments  ;  but  still,  all  the  post-obits  you 
could  raise  could  not  shorten  Mr.  Hazeldean's  life  by  a  day. 
However,  dismiss  that  idea  ;  we  must  think  of  some  other  device. 
Ha,  Frank  !  you  are  a  handsome  fellow,  and  your  expectations 
are  great — why  don't  you  marry  some  woman  with  money  ?  " 

"  Pooh  !  "  exclaimed  Frank,  coloring.  "You  know,  Randal, 
that  there  is  but  one  woman  in  the  world  I  can  even  think  of  ; 
and  I  love  her  so  devotedly,  that,  though  I  was  as  gay  as  most 
men  before,  I  really  feel  as  if  the  rest  of  her  sex  had  lost  every 
charm.  I  was  passing  through  the  street  now — merely  to  look 
up  at  her  windows." 

"  You  speak  of  Madame  di  Negra  ?  I  have  just  left  her.  Cer- 
tainly she  is  two  or  three  years  older  than  you  ;  but  if  you  can 
get  over  that  misfortune,  why  not  marry  her  ? " 

"  Marry  her !  "  cried  Frank,  in  amaze,  and  all  his  color  fled 
from  his  cheeks.  "  Marry  her  !  are  you  serious  ?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  But  even  if  she,  who  is  so  accomplished,  so  admired — even 
if  she  would  accept  me,  she  is,  you  know,  poorer  than  myself. 
She  has  told  me  so  frankly.  That  woman  has  such  a  noble 
heart !  and — and — my  father  would  never  consent,  nor  my 
mother  either.  I  know  they  would  not." 

"Because  she  is  a  foreigner  ?" 

"  Yes — partly." 

"  Yet  the  Squire  suffered  his  cousin  to  marry  a  foreigner." 

"  That  was  different.     He  had  no  control  over  Jemima  ;  and 


482  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

a  daughter-in-law  is  so  different  ;  and  ray  father  is  so  English  in 
his  notions  ;  and  Madame  di  Negra,  you  see,  is-  altogether  so 
foreign.  Her  very  graces  would. .be  against  her  in  his  eyes." 

"  I  think  you  do  both  your  pa-rents  injustice.  A  foreignerof 
low  birth — an  actress -or  singer,  for,  instance— of  course  would 
be  highly  objectionable  ;  but  a  woman  like  Madame  di  Negra, 
of  such  high  birth  and  connections-1—"  : 

Frank  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  think  the  .Governor  would 
care  a  straw  about  her  connections,  if  she  were  a  king's  daugh- 
ter. He  considersall  foreigners  pretty  much  alike.  And  then, 
you  know  "  (Frank's  voice  sank  into  a  whisper)—"  you  know 
that  one  of  the  very  reasons  why  she  is  so  dear  .to  me,  would  be 
an  insuperable  objection  to  the  old-fashioned  folks  at  home." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,  Frank." 

"I  love  her  the  more,"  said  young  Hazeldean,  raising,  his 
front  with  a  noble  pride,  that  seemed  to  speak  of  his  descent 
from  a  race  of  cavaliers  and  gentlemen— "I  love  her  the  more 
because  the  world  has  slandered  her  name — because  I  believe 
her  to  be  pure  and  wronged.  But  would  they  at  the  Hall — they 
who  do  not  see  with  a  Lover's.eyes — they  who  have  all  the  stub- 
born English  notions  about  the  indecorum  and  license  of  Con- 
tinental manners,  and  will  so  readily  credit  the  worst? — Oh, 
no — I  love,  I  cannot  help  it — but  I  ;have  no  hope." 

"It  is  very  possible  that  you  may  be  right,"  exclaimed,  Ran- 
dal, as  if  struck  and." half  convinced  by  his  companion's  argu- 
ment— "  very  possible  ;  and  .certainly  I  think  that  the  homely 
folks  at  the  Hall  would  fret  and  fume  at  first,  if  they  heard  you 
were  married  to  Madame  di  Negra.  Yet  still,  when  your  father 
learned  that  you  had  done  so,  not  from  passion  alone,  but  to  save 
him  from  all  pecuniary  sacrifice— to  clear  yourself  of  debt — to — 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  exclaimed  Frank,  impatiently. 

"  I  have  reason  to  know  that;  Madame  di  Negra  will  have  as 
large  a  portion  as  your  father  could  reasonably- expect  you  to 
receive  with  any  English  wife.  And  when  this  is  properly  stated 
to  the  Squire,  and  the  high  position  and  rank  of  your  wife  fully 
established  andbroughthometo  him-— for  I  must  think  that  these 
would  tell,  despite  your  exaggerated  notions  of  his  prejudices— 
and  then,  when  he  really  sees  Madame  di  Negra,  and  can  judge 
of  her  beauty  and  rare  gifts,  upon  my  word,  I  think,  Frank,  that 
there  would  be  no  cause  for  fear.  After  all,  too,  you  are  his  only 
son.  He  will  have  no  option  but  to  forgive  you;  and  I  know  how 
anxiously  both  your  parents  wish  to  see  you  settled  in  life." 

Frank's  whole  countenance  became  illuminated.  "  There  is 
no  one  who  understands  the  Squire  like  you,  certainly^"  said  he. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  483 

with  lively  joy.    '*  He  has  the  highest  opinion  of  your  judgment, 
And  you  really  believe  you  could  smooth  matters?" 

"  I  believe  so  ;  ,but  I  should  be  sorry  to  induce  you  to  runany 
risk;  and  if,  on  tool  consideration/you  think  that  risk  is  incurred, 
I  strongly  advise  you  to  avoid  all  occasion  of  seeing  the  poor 
Marchesa.  Ah,  you  wince  ;  but  I  say  it  for  her  sake  as  well  as 
your  own.  First,  you  must  be  aware,  that  unless  you  have  seri- 
ous thoughts  of  marriage,  your  attentions  can  but  add  to  the  very 
rumors  that,  eqttaliy  groundless,  you  so  feelingly  resent ;  and^sec"* 
ondly,  because  Won't  think.any  man  has  a  right  to  win  theaffec- 
tionsofawoman — especially  a  woman  whoseemstomelikely  to  love 
with  her  whole  heart  and  soul— merely  to  gratify  his  own  vanity." 

"  Vanity- !  Good  heavens  !  Can  you  think  so  poorly  of  me  ? 
But  as  to  the  Marchesa's  affections,"  continued  Frank,  with  a 
faltering  voice,  "do  you  really  and  honestly  believe  that  they 
are  to  be  won  by  me  ?  " 

"  I  fear  lest  they  may  be  half  won  already,"  said  Randal,  with  a 
smile  and  a  shake  of  the  head ;  "  but  she  is  too  proud  to  letyou  see 
any  effect  you  may  produce  on  her;  especially  when,  as  I  takeit  for 
granted, you  have  never  hintedat  the  hope  of  obtaining  her  hand." 

"  I  never  till- now  conceived  such  a  hope.  My  dear  Randal, 
all  my  cares  have  vanished — I  tread  upon  air — I  have  a  great 
mind  to  call  on  her  at  once." 

(<  Stay,  stay,"  said  Randal.  "  Let  me1  give  you  a  caution.  ,  I 
have  just  informed  you  that  Madame  diNegra  will  have,  what  you 
suspected  not  before,  a  fortune  suitable  to  her  birth.  Any  abrupt 
change  in  your  manner  at  present  might  induce  her  to  believe 
that  you  were  influenced  by  that  intelligence." 

"Ah  !  "  exclaimed  Frank,  stopping  short  as  if  wounded  to 
the  quick.  "And  I  feel  guilty— feel  as  if  I  was  influenced  by 
that  intelligence.  So  I  am  too,  when  I  reflect,"  he  continued, 
with  a  «fltttf//.that  was  half  pathetic  ;  "  but  I  hope  she  will  not 
be  very  rich — if  so,  I'll  not  call." 

"  Make  your  mind  easy,  it  is  but  a  portion  of  some  twenty  or 
thirty  thousand  pounds,  that  would  just  suffice  to  discharge  all 
your  debts,  clear  away  all  obtacles  to  your  union/arid  in.  .return 
for  which  you  would  secure  a  more  than  adequate  jointure  and 
settlement  on  the  Casino  property.  Now  I  am  on  that  head, 
I  will  be  more  communicative.  Madame  di  Negra  has  a  noble 
heart,  as  you  say,  and  told  me  herself,  that  until  her  brother  on 
his  arrival  had" assured  her  of  this  dowry,  she  would  never  have 
consented  to  marry  you — never  crippled  with  her  own  embar- 
rassments the  man  she  loves.  Ah!  with  what  delight  she  will 
hail  the  thought  of  assisting  you  to  win  back  your  father's  heart  ! 


484  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

But  be  guarded,  meanwhile.  And  now,  Frank,  what  say  you — 
would  it  not  be  well  if  I  ran  down  to  Hazeldean  to  sound  your 
parents  ?  It  is  rather  inconvenient  to  me,  to  be  sure,  to  leave 
town  just  at  present  ;  'but  I  would  do  more  than  that  to  render 
you  a  smaller  service.  Yes,  I'll  go  to  Rood  Hall  to-morrow,  and 
thence  to  Hazeldean.  I  am  sure  your  father  will  press  me  to  stay, 
and  I  shall  have  ample  opportunities  to  judge  of  the  manner  in 
which  he  would  be  likely  to  regard  your  marriage  with  Madame 
di  Negra — supposing  it  were  properly  put  to  him.  We  can  then 
act  accordingly." 

"  My  dear,  dear  Randal,  how  can  I  thank  you  ?  If  ever  a  poor 
fellow  like  me  can  serve  you  in  return — but  that's  impossible." 

"Why,  certainly,  I  will  never  ask  you  to  be  security  to  a  bill  of 
mine,"  said  Randal  laughing.  "I  practise  the  economy  I  preach." 

"Ah  !"  said  Frank,  with  a  groan,  "that  is  because  your  mind 
is  cultivated — you  have  so  many  resources  ;  and  all  my  faults 
have  come  from  idleness.  If  I  had  had  anything  to  do  on  a 
rainy  day,  I  should  never  have  got  into  these  scrapes." 

"  Oh  !  you  will  have  enough  to  do  some  day  managing  your 
property.  We  who  have  no  property  must  find  one  in  knowledge. 
Adieu, mydearFrank^-Imustgohomenow.  By  the  way,  you  have 
never,bychance,spokenoftheRiccabpccastoMadamedi  Negra?" 

"  The  Riccaboccas  !  No.  That's  well  thought  of.  It  may 
interest  her  to  know  that  a  relation  of  mine  has  married  her 
countryman.  Very  odd  that  I  never  did  mention  it  ;  but  to 
say  truth,  I  really  do  talk  so  little  to  her  ;  she  is  so  superior, 
and  I  feel  positively  shy  with  her."  . 

"Dome  the  favor,  Frank,", said  Randal,  waiting  patiently  till 
this  reply  ended — for  he  was  devising  all  the  time  what  reason  to 
give  for  his  request — "  never  to  allude  to  the  Riccaboccas,  either 
to  her  or  to  her  brother  to  whom  you  are  sure  to  be  presented." 

"  Why  not  allude  to  them  ?" 

Randal  hesitated  a  moment.  His  invention  \ras  still  at  fault, 
and,  for  a  wonder,  he  thought  it  best  policy  to  go  pretty  near 
the  truth. 

"  Why,  I  will  tell  you.  The  Marchesa  conceals  nothing  from 
her  brother,  and  he  is  one  of  the  few  Italians  who  are  in  high 
favor  with  the  Austrian  court." 

"Well!" 

"And  I  suspect  that  poor  Dr.  Riccabocca  fled  his  country 
from  some  mad  experiment  at  revolution,  and  is  still  hiding 
from  the  Austrian  police." 

'  "  But  they  can't  hurt  him  here,"  said  Frank,  with  an  English- 
man's dogged  inborn  conviction  of.  the  sanctity  of  his  native 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  485 

island.  "  I  should  like  to  see  an  Austrian  pretend  to  dictate  to 
us  whom  to  receive  and  whom  to  reject." 

"  Hum — that's  true  and  constitutional,  no  doubt ;  but  Ricca- 
bocca  may  have  excellent  reasons — and,  to  speak  plainly,  I  know 
he  has  (perhaps  as  affecting  the  safety  of  friends  in  Italy) — for 
preserving  his  incognito,  and  we  are  bound  to  respect  those 
reasons  without  inquiring  further." 

"Still  I  cannot  think  so  meanly  of  Madame  di  Negra,"  persist- 
ed Frank(shrewd  here,though  credulous  elsewhere,and  both  from 
his  sense  of  honor),  "  as  to  suppose  that  she  would  descend  to  be 
a  spy,  and  injure  a  poor  countryman  of  her  own,  who  trusts  to  the 
same  hospitality  she  receives  herself  at  our  English  hands.  Oh!  if 
I  thought  that  I  could  not  love  her!  "added  Frank,  with  energy. 

"  Certainly  you  are  right.  But  see  in  what  a  false  position  you 
would  place  both  her  brother  and  herself.  If  they  knew  Ricca- 
bocca's  secret,  and  proclaimed  it  to  the  Austrian  government, 
as  you  say,  it  would  be  cruel  and  mean' ;  but,  if  they  knew  it  and 
concealed,  it  might  involve  them  both  in  the  most  serious  con- 
sequences. You  know  the  Austrian  policy  is  proverbially  so 
jealous  and  tyrannical ! " 

"Well,  the  newspapers  say  so,  certainly." 

"  And,  in  short,  your  discretion  can  do  no  harm,  and  your  in- 
discretion may.  Therefore,  give  me  your  word,  Frank.  I  can't 
stay  to  argue'  now." 

"I'll  not  allude  to  the  Riccaboccas,  upon  my  honor,"  an- 
swered Frank  ;  "  still,  I  am  sure  that  they  would  be  as  safe  with 
the  Marchesa  as  with — " 

"I  rely  on  your  honor,"  interrupted  Randal  hastily,  and 
hurried  off. 

CHAPTER  V. 

TOWARD  the  evening  of  the  following  day,  Randal  Leslie 
walked  slowly  from  a  village  in  the  main  road  (about  two  miles 
from  Rood  Hall),  at  which  he  had  got  out  of  the  coach.  He 
passed  through  meads  and  corn-fields,  and  by  the  skirts  of  woods 
which  had  formerly  belonged  to  his  ancestors,  but  had  been  long 
since  alienated.  He  was  alone  amidst  the  haunts  of  his  boyhood, 
the  scenes  in  which  he  had  first  invoked  the  grand  Spirit  of 
Knowledge,  to  bid  the  Celestial  Still  One  minister  to  the  com- 
mands of  an  earthly  and  turbulent  ambition.  He  paused  often 
in  his  path,  especially  when  the  undulations  of  the  ground  gave 
a  glimpse  of  the  gray  church-tower,  or  the  gloomy  firs  that  rose 
above  the  desolate  wastes  of  Rood. 

"Here/'  thought  Randal,  with  a  softening  eye — "here,  how 


486  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

often,  comparing  the  fertility  of  the  lands  passed  away  from  the 
inheritance  of  my  fathers,  with  the  forlorn  wilds  that  are  left  to 
their  mouldering  hall — here,  how  often  have  I  said  to  myself — 
'  J  will  rebuild  the,  fortunes  of  my  house.'  And  straightway  Toil 
lost  its  aspect  of  drudge,  and  grew  kingly,  and  books  became 
as  living  armies  to  serve  my  thoughts.  Again— again — O  thou. 
haughty  Past,  brace  and  strengthen  me  in  my  battle  with  the 
Future."  His  pale  lips  writhed  as  he  soliloquized,  for  his  con- 
science spoke  to  him  while  he  thus  addressed  his  will,  and  its 
voice  was  heard  more  audibly  in  the  quiet  of  the  rural  landscape, 
than  amidst  the  turmoil  and  din  of  that  armed  and  sleepless  camp 
which  we  call  a  city. 

Doubtless,  though  Ambition  have  objects  more  vast  and  be- 
neficent than  the  restoration  of  a  name— that  in  itself  is  high  and 
chivalrous,  and  appeals  to  a  strong  interest  in  the  human  heart. 
But  all  emotions,  and  all  ends,  of  a  nobler  character,  had  Seemed 
to  filter  themselves  free  from  every  golden  grain  in  passing 
through  the  mechanism  of  Randal's  intellect,  and  came  forth 
at  last  into  egotism  clear  and  unalloyed.  Nevertheless,  it  is  a 
strange  truth  that,  to  a  man  of  cultivated  mind,  however  per- 
verted and  vicious,  there  are  vouchsafed  gleams  of  brighter  sen- 
timents, irregular  perceptions  of  moral  beauty,  denied  to  the 
brutal  unreasoning  wickedness  of  uneducated  villany — which 
perhaps  ultimately  serve  as  his  punishment — according  to  the 
old  thought  of  the  satirist,  that  there  is  no  greater  curse  than  to 
perceive  virtue  yet  adopt  vice.  And  as  the  solitary  schemer 
walked  slowly  on,  and  his  childhood — innocent  at  least  in  deed; — 
came  distinct  :beforq  him  through  the  halo  of  bygone  dreams — 
dreams  far  purer  than  those  from  which  he  now  rose  each  morn- 
ing to  the  active  world  of  Man — a  profound  melancholy  crept 
over  him,  and  suddenly  he  exclaimed  aloud,  "  Then  I  aspired  to 
be  renowned  and  great — now  how  is  it  that,  so  advanced  in  my 
career,  all  that  seemed  lofty  in  the  end  has  vanished  from  me, 
and  the  only  means  that  I  contemplate  are  those  which  my  child- 
hood would  have  called  poor  and  vile?  Ah'!  is  it  that  I  then 
read  but  books,  and;npw  my  knowledge  has  passed  onward,  and 
men  contaminate  more  than  books?  But,"  he  continued^  in  a 
lower  voice,  as  if  arguing  with  himself, — "  if  power  is  only  so  to 
be  won — and  of  what  use  is  knowledge  if  it  be  not  power — does 
not  success  in  life  justify  all  things?  And  who  prizes  the  wise 
man  if  he  fails?"  He  con.tinued,his  way,  but  still  the  soft  tran- 
quillity around  rebuked  him,  and  still  his  reason  was- dissatisfied, 
as  well  as  his  conscience.  There  are  times  when  Nature,  like  a 
bath  of  youth,  seems  ^o  restore  to  the  jaded  soul  its  freshness — 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  487 

times  from  which  some  men  have  emerged,  as  if  reborn.  The 
crises  of  life  are  very  silent.  Suddenly  the  scene  opened  on 
Randal  Leslie's  eyes.  The  bare  desert  common — the-dilapidated 
church — the  old  house,  partially  seen  in  the  dank  dreary  hollow, 
into  which  it  seemed  to  Randal  to  have  sunken  deeper  and  low- 
lier than  when  he  saw  it  last.  And  on  the  common  were  some 
young  meo  playing  hockey.  That  old-fashioned  game,  now  very 
uncommon  in  England,  except  at  schools,  was  still  preserved  in 
the  primitive  vicinity  of  Rood  by  the  young  yeoman  and  farmers. 
Randal  stood  by  the  stile  and  looked  on,  for  among  the  players 
he  recognized  his  brother  Oliver.  Presently  the  ball  was  struck 
toward  Oliver,  and  the  group  instantly  gathered  round  that 
young  gentleman  and  snatched  him  from  Randal's  eye  ;  but  the 
elder  brother  heard  a  displeasing  din,  a  derisive  laughter.  Oliver 
had  shrunk  from  the  danger  of  the  thick  clubbed  sticks  that 
plied  round  him,  and  received  some  strokes  across  the  legs,  for 
his  voice  rose  whining,  and  was  crowned  by  shouts  of,  "Go  to 
your  mammy.  That's  Noll  Leslie— all, aver.  Buttershins." 

Randal's  sallow  face  became  scarlet.  "The  jest  of  boors — 
a  Leslie  !  "  he  muttered,  and  ground  his  teeth.  He  sprang  over 
the  stifle,  and  walked  :erect  and  haughtily  .across  the  ground. 
The  players  cried  out  indignantly.  Randal  raised  his  hat^  and 
they  recognized  him;  and  stopped  the  game.  For  him  at  least  a 
certain  respect  was  felt.  Oliver  turned  round  quickly,  and.ran  up 
to.  him.  Randal  caught  his  arm  firmly,  and  without  sayingaword 
to  the  rest,  drew  him  away  toward  the  house.  Oliver  cast  a  regret- 
ful, lingering  look  behind  him,  rubbed  his  shins,  and  then  stole  a 
timid  glance  toward  Randal's  severe  and  moody  countenance. 

"You  are  not  angry  that  I  was  playing  at  hockey  with,  our 
neighbors? "  said  he,  deprecatingly,  observing  that  Randal  would 
not  break  the  silence. 

"No,"  replied  the  elder  brother;  "but,  in  associating  with 
his  inferiors,  a  gentleman  still  knows  ho.w  to  maintain  his  dignity. 
There  is  no  harmin  playing  with  inferiors,  but  it  is  necessary  to  a 
gentleman  to  play  so  that  he  is  not  the  laughing-stock  of  clowns." 

Oliver  hung  his  head,  and  made  no  answer.  They  came  into 
the  slovenly  precincts  of  the  court,  and  the  pigs  stared  at  them 
from  the  palings,  as  their  progenitors  had  stared,  years  before, 
at  Frank  Hazeldean. 

Mr.  Leslie,  senior,  in  a-shabby  straw  hat,  was  engaged  in  feeding 
the  chickens  before  the  threshold,  and  he  performed  even  that  oc- 
cupation with  a  maundering,lackadaisical  slothfulness,dropping 
down  the  grains  almost  one  by  one  from  his  inert,  dreamy  fingers. 
..Randal's  sister,  her  hair  still  and  forever  hanging  about  her 


488  MY    NOVEL  ;   OR 

ears,  was  seated  on  a  rush-bottom  chair,  reading  a  tattered  novel; 
and  from  the  parlor  window  was  heard  the  querulous  voice  of 
Mrs.  Leslie,  in  high  fidget  and  complaint. 

Somehow  or  other,  as  the  young  heir  to  all  this  helpless  pov- 
erty stood  in  the  court-yard,  with  his  sharp,  refined,  intelligent 
features,  and  his  strange  elegance  of  dress  and  aspect,  one  better 
comprehended  how,  left  solely  to  the  egotism  of  his  knowledge 
and  his  ambition,  in  such  a  family,  and  without  any  of  the  sweet 
nameless  lessons  of  Home,  he  had  grown  up  into  such  close  and 
secret  solitude  of  soul — how  the  mind  had  taken  so  little  nutri- 
ment from  the  heart,  and  how  that  affection  and  respect  which 
the  warm  circle  of  the  hearth  usually  calls  forth  had  passed  with 
him  to  the  graves  of  dead  fathers,  growing,  as  it  were,  bloodless 
and  ghoul-like  amidst  the  charnels  on  which  they  fed. 

"Ha,  Randal,  boy,"  said  Mr.  Leslie,  looking  up  lazily,  "how 
d'ye  do  ?— who  could  have  expected  you  ?  My  dear — my  dear," 
he  cried,  in  a  broken  voice,  and  as  if  in  helpless  dismay,  "here's 
Randal,  and  he'll  be  wanting  dinner,  or  supper,  or  something." 
But,  in  the  mean  while,  Randal's  sister  Juliet  had  sprung  up,  and 
thrown  her  arms  round  her  brother's  neck,  and  he  had  drawn 
her  aside  caressingly,  for  Randal's  strongest  human  affection 
was  for  his  sister. 

"You  are  growing  very  pretty,  Juliet,"  said  he,  smoothing 
back  her  hair ;  "  why  do  yourself  such  injustice? — why- not  pay 
more  attention  to  your  appearance,  as  I  have  so  often  begged 
you  to  do  ? " 

"  I  did  not  expect  you,  dear  Randal ;  you  always  come  so 
suddenly,  and  catch  us  en  dish-a-bilL" 

"  Dish-a-bill ! "  echoed  Randal,  with  a  groan.  "  Dis-ha-bilU  ! — 
you  ought  never  to  be  so  caught !" 

"  No  one  else  does  so  catch  us — nobody  else  ever  comes. 
Heigho  !  "  and  the  young  lady  sighed  very  heartily. 

"  Patience,  patience  ;  my  day  is  coming,  and  then  yours,  my 
sister,"  replied  Randal,  with  genuine  pity,  as  he  gazed  upon 
what  a  little  care  could  have  trained  into  so  fair  a  flower,  and 
what  now  looked  so  like  a  weed. 

Here  Mrs.  Leslie,  in  a  state  of  intense  excitement — having 
rushed  through  the  parlor,  leaving  a  fragment  of  her  gown  between 
the  yawning  brass  of  the  never-mended  Brummagem  work-table — 
tore  across  the  hall — whirled  out  of  the  door,  scattering  the 
chickens  to  the  right  and  left,  and  clutched  hold  of  Randal  in 
her  motherly  embrace.  "  La,  how  you  do  shake  my  nerves,"  she 
cried,  after  giving  him  a  most  hasty  and  uncomfortable  kiss. 
"And  you  are  hungry,  too,  and  nothing  in  the  house  but  cold 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  489 

mutton  !  Jenny,  Jenny  ! — I  say,  Jenny  !  Juliet,  have  you  seen 
Jenny?  Where's  Jenny?  Out  with  the  odd  man,  I'll  be  bound." 

"  I  am  not  hungry,  mother,"  said  Randal;  "I  wish  for  nothing 
but  tea."  Juliet,  scrambling  up  her  hair,  darted  into  the  house 
to  prepare  the  tea,  and  also  to  "  tidy  herself."  She  dearly  loved 
her  fine  brother,  but  she  was  greatly  in  awe  of  him. 

Randal  seated  himself  on  the  broken  pales.  "Take  care  they 
don't  come  down,"  said  Mr.  Leslie,  with  some  anxiety. 

"Oh,  sir,  I  am  very  light ;  nothing  comes  down  with  me." 

The  pigs  stared  up,  and  grunted  in  amaze  at  the  stranger. 

"Mother,"  said  the  young  man,  detaining  Mrs.  Leslie,  who 
wanted  to  set  off  in  chase  of  Jenny — "mother,  you  should  not 
let  Oliver  associate  with  those  village  boors.  It  is  time  to  think 
of  a  profession  for  him," 

"  Oh,  he  eats  us  out  of  house  and  home — such  an  appetite !  But 
as  to  a  profession — what  is  he  fitfor  ?  He  will  never  be  a  scholar." 

Randal  noddedamoody  assent;  for,  indeed,  Oliver  had  been  sent 
to  Cambridge,  and  supported  there  out  of  Randal's  income  from 
his  official  pay ;  and  Oliver  had  been  plucked  for  his  Little  Go. 

"There  is  the  army,"  said  the  elder  brother — "a gentleman's 
calling.  How  handsome  Juliet  ought  to  be- — but — I  left  money  for 
masters — and  she  pronounces  French  like  a  chambermaid." 

"Yet  she  is  fond  of  her  book,  too.  She's  always  reading,  and 
good  for  nothing  else." 

"  Reading  ! — those  trashy  novels  !  " 

"So  like  you — you  always  come  to  scold,  and  make  things 
unpleasant, '  said  Mrs.  Leslie,  peevishly.  "  You  are  grown  too 
fine  for  us;  and!  am  sure  we  suffer  affronts  enough  from  others, 
not  to  want  a  little  respect  from  our  own  children." 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  affront  you,"  said  Randal,  sadly.  "  Pardon 
me  ;  but  who  else  has  done  so  ? "  • 

Then  Mrs.  Leslie  went  into  a  minute  and  most.irritating.cata- 
logueof  all  the  mortifications  and  insults  she  had  received  ;  the 
grievances  of  a  petty  provincial  family,  with  much  pretension  and 
small  power ::  of  all  people,  indeed,  without  the  disposition  to 
please — withoutftheabilitytcxserve — whoexaggeratefeveryfoffence, 
and  are  thankful  for  no  kindness.  Fanner  Jones  had  insolently 
refused  to  send  his  wagon  twenty  miles  for  coals.  Mr.  Giles,  the 
butcher,  requesting  the  payment  of  his  bill,  had  stated  that  the 
custom  at  Rood  was  too  small  for  him  to  allow  credit.  Squire 
Thornhill,  who  was  the  present  owner  of  the  fairest  slice  of  the 
old  Leslie  domains,  had  taken  the  liberty  to  ask  permission  to 
shoot  over  Mr.  Leslie's  land,  since  Mr.  Leslie  did  not  preserve. 
Lady  Spratt  (new  people  from  the  city,  whg  hired  a  neighbor- 


490  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

ingcountry-seat)  had  taken  a  discharged  servant  of  Mrs.  Leslie's 
without  applying  for  the  character.  The  Lord-Lieutenari't  had 
given  a  ball,  and  had  not  invited  the  Leslies.  Mr.  Leslie's  tenants 
had  voted  against  their  landlord's  wish  at  the  recent  election. 
More  than  all,  Squire  Hazeldean  and  his  Hiarry  had  called  at 
Rood  ;  and  though  Mrs.  Leslie  had  screamed  out  to  Jenny, "  Not 
at  home,"  she  had-beeri  seen  at  the  window,  and  the  Squire  had 
actually  forced  his  way  in,  and  caught  the  whole  family  "in  a 
state  not  fit  to  be  seen."  That  was  a  trifle ;  but  the  Squire  had 
presumed  to  instruct  Mr.  Leslie  how  to  manage  his  property, 
and  Mrs.  Hazeldean  had  actually  told  Juliet  to  hold  up  her  head, 
and  tie  up  her  hair,  "as  if  we  were  her  cottagers!"  said  Mrs. 
Leslie,  with  the  pride  of  a  Montfydget. 

All  these,  and  various  other  annoyances,  though  Randal  was 
too  sensible  not  to  preceive  their  insignificance,  s'till  galled  and 
mortified  the  listening  heir  of  Rood.  -They  showed,  at  least,  even 
to  the  well-meant  officiousness  of  the  Hazeldeans,  the  small 
account  in  which  the  fallen  family  was  held.  As  he  sat  still  on 
the  moss-grown  pales,  gloomy  and  taciturn, 'his  mother  standing 
beside  him,  with"  her  cap  awry,  Mr.  Leslie  shamblingly  sauntered 
up  and  said,  in  a  pensive,  dolorous  whine- — 

"  I  wish  we  had  a  good  sum  of  money,  Ra.ndal  boy  !  " 

To-do  Mr.'Leslie  justice,  he  seldom  gave  Vent  to  any  wish 
that  savored  of  avarice.  His  mind  must  be  singularly  aroused, 
to  wander  out  of  its  normal  limits  of  sluggish  dull  content. 

So  Randal  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  and  said,  "  Do  you, 
sir?-why?" 

"  The  manors  of  Rood  and  Dulmansberry,  and  all  the  lands 
therein,  which  my  great-grandfather  sold  away,  are  to  be  sold 
again  when  Squire  Thornhill's  eldest  son  comes  of  age,  to  cut 
off  the  entail.  Sir  John  Spratt  talks  of  buying  them.  I  should 
like  to  have  them  back  again  !  ;'Tis  a  shame  to  see  the  Leslie 
estates  hawked  about,  and  bought  by  Spratts  and  people.  I 
wish  I  had  a  great — great  sum  of  ready  money." 

The  poor  gentleman  extended  his  helpless  fingers  as  he  spoke, 
and  fell  into  a  dejected  reverie. 

Randal  sprang  from  the  paling,  a  movement  which  frightened 
the  contemplative  pigs,;  and1  set  them  off  squalling  and  scamper- 
ing. '"  When  does  yoUng  Thornhill  come  of  age  ?  " 

'"  He  was  nineteen  last  August.  I  know  it,  because,  the  day 
he  was  born  I  picked  up  my  fossil  of  tfre  sea-horse,  just  by  Dul- 
mansberry  church;  when  the  joy-bells  were  ringing.  My  fossil 
sea-horse  '!  It  will  be  an  heirloom,  Randal — 

"  Two  years — nearly  two  years — yet— ah,  ah  !  "  said  Randal ; 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  491 

and  his  sister  now  appearing,  to  announce  that  tea  was  ready,  he 
threw  his  arms  round  her  neck  and  kissed  her.  Juliet  had  ar- 
ranged her  hair  and  trimmed  upherdress.  She  looked  veryprettyj 
and  she  had  now  theair  of  a  gentlewoman — something  of  Randal's 
own  refinement  in  her  slender  proportions  and  well-shaped  head. 

"  Be  patient,  patient  still,  mydear  sister,"  whispered  Randal, 
"and  keep  your  heart  whole  for  two  years  longer." 

The  young  man  was  gay  and  good-humored  over  his  simple 
meal,  while  his  family  grouped  round  him.  When  it  was  over, 
Mr.  Leslie  lighted  his  pipe,  and  called  for  hisbrandy-and-water. 
Mrs.  Leslie  began  to  question  about  London  and  Court,  and  the 
new  King  and  the  new  Queen,  and  Mr.  Audley  Egerton,  and 
hoped  Mr.  Egerton  would  leave  Randal  all  his  money,  and  that 
Randal  would  marry  a  rich  woman,  and  that  the  King  would 
make  him  a  prime-minister  one  of  these  days;  and  then  she  should 
like  to  see  if  Farmer  Jones  would  refuse  to  send  his  wagon  for 
coals.  Andevery  now  and  then, as  the  word  "riches"or  "money" 
caught  Mr.  Leslie's  ears,  he  shook  his  head,  drew.his  pipe  from 
his  mouth,  "  A  Spratt  should  not  have  what  belonged  to  my 
great-great-grandfather.  If  I  had  a  good  sum  of  ready  money  !-— 
the  old  family  estates!  "  Oliver  and  Juliet  sat  silent,  and  on  their 
good  behavior;  and  Randal',-  indulging'  his.  own  reveries, 
dreamily  heard  the  words  "  money,"  "  Spr&tt,"  "  great-great- 
grandfather," "rich  wife,"  "familyestates";  and  they  sounded  to1 
him  vague  and  afar  off,  like  whispers  from  the  world  of  romance 
and  legend — weird  prophecies  of  things  to  be. 

Such  was  the  hearth  which  Avarmed  the  viper  that  nestled 
and  gnawed  at  the  heart  of  Randal,  poisoning  all  the  aspirations 
that  youth  should  have  rendered  pure,  ambition  lofty,  and  -knowl- 
edge beneficent  and  divine. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

WHEN  the  rest  of  the  household  were  in  deep  sleep,  Randal 
stood  long  at  his  open  window,  looking  over  the  dreary,  com- 
fortless scene — the  moon  gleaming  from  skies  half-autumnal, 
half-wintry,  upon  squalid  decay,  through,  the  ragged  fissures  of 
the  firs  ;  dnd  when  he  lay  down  to  rest  his  sleep  was  feverish, 
and  troubled  by  turbulent  dreams. 

Ho.veve:  he  was  up  early,  and  with  an  unwonted  color  in  his 
cheeks,  which  his  sister  ascribed  to  the  country  air.  After  break- 
fast he -took  his  way  toward  Hazeld'eah,  mounted  upon  a  toler- 
able horse,  which  he  borrowed  of  a  neighboring  farmer  who  oc- 
casionally hunted.  Before  noon  the  garden  and 'terrace  of  the 
Casino  came  in'sight:  He  reinecf  in  his-h'brse^arrd'by  the  little 


492  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

fountain  at  which  Leonard  had  been  wont  to  eat  his  radishes 
and  con  his  book,  he  saw  Riccabocca  seated  under  the  shade  of 
the  red  umbrella.  And  by  the  Italian's  side  stood  a  form  that 
a  Greek  of  old  might  have  deemed  the  Naiad  of  the  Fount ; 
for  in  its  youthful  beauty  there  was  something  so  full  of  poetry — 
something  at  once  so  sweet  and  so  stately — that  it  spoke  to  the 
imagination  while  it  charmed  the  sense. 

Randal  dismounted,  tied  his  horse  to  the  gate,  and,  walking 
down  a  trellised  alley,  came  suddenly  to  the  spot.  His  dark 
shadow  fell  over  the  clear  mirror  of  the  fountain  just  as  Ricca- 
bocea  had  said,  "All  here  is  so  secure  from  evil ! — the  waves  of 
the  fountain  are  never  .troubled  like  those  of  the  river  !  "  and 
Violante  had  answered  in  her  soft,  native  tongue,  and  lifting  her 
dark  spiritual  eyes — "  But  the  fountain  would  be  but  a  lifeless 
pool,  O  my  father,  if  the  spray  did  not  mount  toward  the  skies!  " 
i 

CHAPTER  VII. 

. 

RANDAL  advanced — "  I  fear.,  Signer  Riccabocca,  that  I  am 
guiHy  of  some  want  of  ceremony." 

~  "  To  dispense  with  ceremony  is  the  most  delicate  mode  of 
conferring  a  compliment,"  replied  the  urbane  Italian,  as  he  re- 
covered from  his  first  surprise  at  Randal's  sudden  address,  and 
extended  his  hand. 

Violante  bowed  her  graceful  head  to  the  young  man's  respectful 
salutation.  "  I  am  on  my  way  to  Hazeldean,"  resumed  Randal, 
"  and,  seeing  you  in  the  garden,  could  not  resist  this  intrusion." 

RICCABOCCA. — You  come  from  London?  Stirring  times  for  you 
English,  but  I  do  not  ask  you  the  news.  No  news  can  affect  us. 

RANDAL  (softly). — Perhaps,  yes. 

RICCABOCCA  (startled). — How  ? 

VIOLANTE. — Surely  he  speaks  of  Italy,  and  news  from  that 
country  affects  you  still,  my  father. 

RICCABOCCA. — Nay,  nay,  nothing  affects  me  like  this  country; 
its  east  winds  might  affect  a  pyramid  !  Draw  your^mantle  round 
you,  child,  and  go  in  ;  the  air  has  suddenly  grown  chill. 

Violante  smiled  on  her  father,  glanced  uneasily  toward  Ran- 
dal's grave  brow,  and  went  slowly  toward  the  house. 

Riccabocca,  after  waiting  some  moments  in  silence,  as  if  ex- 
pecting Randal  to  speak,  said  with  affected  carelessness — "  So 
you  think  that  you  have  news  that  might  affect  me  ?  Corpo  di 
Bacco  !  I  am  curious  to  learn  what !  " 

"  I  may  be  mistaken — that  depends  on  your  answer  to  one 
question.  Do  you  know  the  Count  of  Peschiera  ?  " 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  493 

Riccabocca  winced,  and  turned  pale.  He  could  not  baffle 
the  watchful  eye  of  the  questioner. 

"Enough,'*said  Randal;  "  I  see  that  I  am  right.  Believeinmy 
sincerity.  I  speak  but  to  warn  and  to  serve  you.  TheCount  seeks 
to  discover  the  retreat  of  a  countryman  and  kinsman  of  his  own." 

"  And  for  what  end  ?  "  cried  Riccabocca,  thrown  off  his  guard, 
and  his  breast  dilated,  his  crest  rose,  and  his  eye  flashed  ;  valor 
and  defiance  broke  from  habitual  caution  and  self-control. 
"  But — pooh  !  "  he  added,  striving  to  regain  his  ordinary  and 
half-ironical  calm,  <rlt  matters  not  to  me.  I  grant,  sir,  that  I 
know  the  Count  'di  Peschiera  ;  but  what  has  Dr.  Riccabocca  to 
do  with  the  kinsman  of  so  grand  a  personage  ?" 

"  Dr.  Riccabocca — nothing.  But — "  here  Randal  put  his  lip 
close  to  the  Italian's  ear,  and  whispered  a  brief  sentence.  Then 
retreating  a  step,  but  laying  his  hand  on  the  exile's  shoulder,  he 
added — "  Need  I  say  that  your  secret  is  safe  with  me  ? " 

Riccabocca  made  no  answer.  His  eyes  rested  on  the  ground 
musingly. 

Randal  c'ontinued— "  And  I  shall  esteem  it  the  highest  honor 
you  can  bestow  on  me,  to  be  permitted  to  assist  you  in  forestall- 
ing danger." 

RICCABOCCA  (slowly). — Sir,  I  thank  you  ;  ytfu  have  my  secret, 
and  I  feel  assured  it  is  safe,  for  I  speak  to  an  English  gentle- 
man. There  maybe  family1  reasons  why  I  should  avoid  the 
Count  di  Peschiera  ;  and,  indeed,  he  js  safest  from  shoals  who 
steers  clearest  of  his — relations. 

The  poor  Italian  regained  his  caustic  smile  as  he  uttered  that 
wise  villanous  Italian  maxim. 

RANDAL. — I  know  little  of  the  Count  of  Peschiera  save  from  the 
current  talk  of  the  world.  He  is  said  to  hold  the  estate  of  a  kins- 
man who  took  part  in  a  conspiracy  against  the  Austrian  power. 

RICCABOCCA. — It  is  true.  Let  that  content  him  ;  what  more 
does  he  desire  ?  You  spoke  of  forestalling  danger  ;  what  dan- 
ger ?  I  am  on  the  soil  of  England,  and  protected  by  its  laws. 

RANDAL. — Allow  me  to  inquire  if,  had  the  kinsman  np  child, 
the  Count  di  Peschiera  would  be  legitimate  and  natural  heir  to 
the  estates  he  holds  ? 

RiccABdccA—  He  would— What  then? 

RANDAL.— Does  that  thought  suggest  no  danger  to  the  child 
of  the  kinsman  ? 

Riccabocca  recoiled,  and  gasped  forth,  "  The  child  !  You 
do  not  mean  to  imply  that  this  man,  infamous  though  he  be, 
can  contemplate  the  crime  of  an  assassin  ? " 

Randal  paused,  perplexed.     His  ground  was  delicate.     He 


494  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

.knew  not  what  causes  of  resentment  the  exile  entertained  against 
the  Count.  He  knew  not  whether  Riccabocca  would  not  assent 
to  an  alliance  that  might  restore  him  to  his  country — and  he  re- 
solved to  feel  his  way  with  precaution. 

"I-  did  not,"  said  he,  smiling  gravely,  "mean  to  insinuate  so 
horrible  a  charge,  against  a  man  whom  I  have  never  seen.  He 
seeks  you — that  is  all  I  know.  I  imagine,  from  his  general 
character,  that  in  this  search  he  consults  his  interests.  Perhaps 
all  matters  might  be  conciliated  by  an  interview  !  " 

"  An  interview  !  "  exclaimed  Riccabopca  ;  "there  is  but  one 
way  we  should  meet— foot  to  foot,  .and  hand  to  hand." 

"  Is  it  so  ?  Then  you  would  not  listen  to  the  Count  if  he  pro- 
posed some  amicable  compromise — if,  for  instance,  he  was  a 
candidate  for  the  hand  of  your  daughter?  "  , 

The  poor  Italian,  so  wise  and  so  subtle  in  his  talk,  was  as  rash 
and  blind  when  it  came  to  action,  as;if  he  had  .been  born  in 
Ireland  and  nourished  on.potatoes  and  Repeal.  He  bare.d  his 
whole'  soul  to  the  merciless  eye  of  Randal. 

"  My  daughter  !  "  he  exclaimed. .  "  Sir,  yqur  veryvques.tion  is 
an  insult." 

Randal's  way  became  clear  at  once.  "  Forgive  me,"  he  said, 
mildly;  "I  will,  .tell  you,  frankly  all  that  I  know.  .  I  am  acquain- 
ted with: the,  Count's  sister.  I  have  some  little  influence  over 
her.  It  was  she  who  informed  me  that  the.  Count  had  come 
here,  bent  upon  discovering  your, refuge,  and  resolved  to  wed 
your  daughter.  This  is  the  danger  of  which  I  spoke.  Andwhen 
I  asked  yaur  opinion  to  aid  in  forestalling  it,  I  only  intended 
to  suggest  that  it  might  be  wise  to  find  some  securer  home,  and 
that. I,  if  permitted  to  know  that  home.,,  and  to  visit  you,  could  ap- 
prise you  from  time  to  time  of  the  Count's  plans  and  movements." 

"  Sir, .1  thank  you  sincerely,"  said  Riccabocca,  with  emotion; 
"  but  am  I  not  safe  here  ?  " 

"I  doubt  it.  Many  pepple  have  visited/the  Squire  in  the 
shooting. season,  who  Will  have  heard  of  you — perhaps  seen  you, 
and  who  are  likely  to  meet  the  Count  in  London.  And  Frank 
Hazeldean,  .too,  who  Jsftows  the  Count's  sister — " 

"  True,  true,"  interrupted  Riccabocca.  "I  see,  I  see.  I  will 
consider.  I  will  reflect,  j  Meanwhile  you  are  going  to  Hazel- 
dean.  Do  not  say  a  word  to  the  Squire.  He.  knows  not  the 
secret  you  have  discovered." 

With  these  words  Riccabocca  turned  slightly  away,  and  .Ran- 
dal took  the  hint  to  depart. 

"At  all  times  command  and  rely  on  me,"  said  the  young  traitor, 
he  regained  the  pal,e  to  which  he  .had  fastened  his  horse. 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  495 

As  he  remounted,  he  cast  his  eyes  toward  the  place  where  he 
had  left  Ricca.bocca.  The  Italian  was  stiU^standing  there.  Pres- 
ently the  form  of  Jackeymo  was  seen  emerging  from  the  shrubs. 
Riccabocca  turned  hastily  round,  recognized  his  servant,  uttered 
an  explanation  loud  enough  to  reach  .Randal's  ear,  and  then, 
catching  Jackeymo  by  the  arm,  disappeared  with  him  amidst 
the  deep  recesses  of  the  garden. 

"  It  wjll  be  indeed  in  my  favor,"  thought  Randal,  as  he  rode 
on,  "  if  I  ean  get  them  intoihe  neighborhood  of  London — an  oc- 
casion there  to  woo,  and  if  expedient,  to  win— the  heiress." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  BY  the  Lord  Harry  !  "  cried  the  Squire,  as  he  stood  with  his 
wife  in  the  park,  on  a  visit  of  inspection  to  some  first-rate  South- 
downs  just  added  to  his  stock — "By  the  Lord,  if  that  is  ncrt  Ran- 
dal Leslie  trying  to  .get  into  the  park  at  the  back  gate  !  Hollo, 
Randal  !  you  must  come  round  by  the  lodge,  my  boy,"  said  he. 
"  You  see  this  gate  is  locked  to  keep  out  trespassers." 

"  A  pity,"  said  Randal.  "  I  like  short  cuts,  and  -you  have  shut 
up  a  very  short  one." 

"  So. the  trespassers  said,"  quoth  the  Squire;  "  but  Stirn  in- 
sisted on  it; — valuable  man,  Stirn.  But  ride  round  to  the  lodge. 
Put  up  your  horse,and  you'll  joiaus  before wecan  get  tothe  house." 

Randal  nodded  and  smiled,  and  rode  briskly  on. 

The  Squire  rejoined  his  Harry. 

"Ah,  William,"  said  she,  anxiously,  "  though  certainly  Ran- 
dal Leslie  means  well,  I  always  dread  his  visits."  . 

"So  do  I,  in  one  sense,"  quoth  the  Squirey  "for  he  always 
carries  away  a  bank-note  for  Frank." 

"1  hope  he  is  really  Frank's  friend,"  said  Mrs.  Hazeldean; 

"  Who's  else  can  he  be  ?  Not  his  own,  poor  fellow,  for  he  will 
never  accept  a  shilling  from  me,  though;  his  grandmother  was  as 
good  a  Hazeldean  as  I  am.  But,  zounds,  I  like  his  pride,  and 
his  economy  too.  As  for  Frank — " 

"Hush,  William  !"  cried  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  and  put  her  fair 
hand  before  the  Squire's  mouth.  The  Squire  was  softened,  and 
kissed  the  fair  hand  gallantly — perhaps,  he  kissed  the  lips  too  ; 
at  all- events,  the  worthy  pair  were  walking  lovingly  arrti-in-arm 
when  Randal  joined  them. 

He  did  hot  affect  to  perceivera  certain  coldness  in  themaoner 
of  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  but  began  immediately  to  talk  to  her  about 
Erank;  praise  that  young  gentleman's  appearance  ;expatiateon  his 
health,  his  popularity,  and  his  go6d  gifts,  personal  and  mental — 


496  MY   NOVEL  ;   Oft, 

and  this  with  so  much  warmth,  that  any  dim  and  undeveloped 
suspicions  Mrs.  Hazeldean  might  have  formed  soon  melted  away. 

Randal  continued  to  make  himself  thus  agreeable  until  the 
Squire,  persuaded  that  his  young  kinsman  vas  a  first-rate  agricul- 
turist^nsisted  upon  carrying  him  off  to  the  home  farm ;  and  Harry 
turned  toward  the  house  to  order  Randal's  room  to  be  got  ready; 
"For,"  said  Randal,  "  knowing  that  you  will  excuse  my  morning 
dress,  I  venture  to  invite  myself  to  dine  and  sleep  at  the  Hall." 

On  approaching  the  farm-buildings,  Randal  was  seized  with 
the  terror  of  an  impostor;  for,  despite  all  the  theoretical  learning 
on  Bucolics  and  Georgics  with  which  he  had  dazzled  the  Squire, 
poor  Frank,  so  despised,  would  have  beat  him  hollow  when  it 
came  to  the  judging  of  the  points  of  an  ox,  or  the  show  of  a  crop. 

"  Ha,  ha !  "  cried  the  Squire,  chuckling,  "I  long  to  see  how 
you  will  astonish  Stirn.  Why,  you'll  guess  in  a  moment  where 
we  put  the  top-dressing;  and  when  you  have  come  to  handle 
my  short-horns,  I  dare  swear  you'll  know  to  a  pound  how  much 
oil-cake  has  gone  into  their  sides." 

"  Oh,  you  do  me  too  much  honor — indeed  you  do.  I  only  know 
the  general  principles  of  agriculture;  the  details  are  eminently 
interesting,  but  I  have  not  had  the  opportunity  to  acquire  them." 

"  Stuff !  "  cried  the  Squire.  "  How  can  a  man  know  general 
principles  unless  he  has  first  studied  the  details?  You  are  too 
modest,  my  boy.  Ho  !  there's  Stirn  looking  out  for  us!" 

Randal  saw  the  grim  visage  of  Stirn  peering  out  of  a  cattle- 
shed,  and  felt  undone.  He  made  a  desperate  rush  toward 
changing  the  Squire's  humor. 

"Well,  sir,  perhaps  Frank  may  soon  gratify  your  wish,  and 
turn  farmer  himself." 

"Eh!"  quoth  the  Squire,  stopping  short— "what  now?" 

'*  Suppose  he  were  to  marry?" 

:"I'd  give  him  the  two  best  farms  on  the  property  rent  free. 
Ha,  ha!  Has  he  seen  the  girl  yet?  I'd  leave  him  free  to  choose; 
sir,  I  chose  for  myself — every  man  should.  Not  but  MissStick- 
torights  is  an  heiress,  and,  I  hear,  a  very  decent  girl,  and  that 
would  join  the  two  properties,  and  put  an  end  to  that  lawsuit 
about  the  right  of  way,  which  began  in  the  reign  of  King  Charles 
the  Second,  and  is  likely  otherwise  to  last  until  the  day  of  judg- 
ment. But  never  mind  her;  let  Frank  choose  to  please  himself.'' 

"I'll  not  fail  to  tell  him  so,  sir.  I  did  fear  you  might  have 
some  prejudices.  But  here  we  are  at  the  farm-yard." 

"Burn  the  farm-yard!  How  can  I  think  of  farm-yards  when 
you  talk  of  Frank's  marriage  ?  Come  on — this  way.  What  were 
you  saying  about  prejudices?" 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE. 

"  Why,  you  might  wish  him  to  marry  an  Englishwoman,  for 
instance." 

"  English!  Good  heavens,  sir,  does  he  mean  to  marry  a  Hin- 
doo?'' 

"  Nay,  I  don't  know  that  he  means  to  marry  at  all;  I  am  only 
surmising;  but  if  he  did  fall  in  love  with  a  foreigner — " 

"A  foreigner!  Ah,  then  Harry  was — "  The  Squire  stopped 
short. 

"  Who  might,  perhaps,"  observed  Randal — not  .truly  if  he 
referred  to  Madame  di  Negra — "who  might,  perhaps,  speak 
very  little  English?" 

'Lord  ha'  mercy!" 

'And  a  Roman  Catholic — " 

'  Worshiping  idols,  and  roasting  people  who  don't  worship 
them." 

'Signor  RiccabocCa  is  not  so  bad  as  that." 

'  Rickeybockey  !  Well,  if  it  was  his  daughter !  But  not 
speak  English !  and  not  go  to  the  parish  church !  By  George,  if 
Frank  thought  of  such  a  thing,  I'd  cut  him  off  with  a  shilling. 
Don't  talk  to  me,  sir;  I  would.  I'm  a  mild  man,  and  an  easy 
man;  but  when  I  say  a  thing,  I  say  it,  Mr.  Leslie.  Oh,  but  it 
is  a  jest — you  are  laughing  at  me.  There's  no  such  painted 
good-for-nothing  creature  in  Frank's  eye — eh  ?" 

"  Indeed,  sir,  if  ever  I  find  there  is,  I  will  give  you  notice  in 
time.  At  present  I  was  only  trying  to  ascertain  what  you 
wished  for  a  daughter-in-law.  You  said  you  had  no  prejudice." 

'  No  more  I  have — not  a  bit  of  it." 

'You  don't  like  a  foreigner  and  a  Catholic  ?  '' 

'Who  the  devil  would  ?" 

'  But  if  she  had  rank  and  title  ?" 

'  Rank  and  title  !  Bubble  and  squeak  !  No,  not  half  so  good 
as  bubble  and  squeak.  English  beef  and  good  cabbage.  But 
foreign  rank  and  title  !— foreign  cabbage  and  beef  ! — foreign 
bubble  and  foreign  squeak  ! "  And  the  Squire  made  a  wry  face, 
and  spat  forth  his  disgust  and  indignation. 

'You  must  have  an  Englishwoman?" 

'Of  course." 

'Money?" 

'  Don't  care,  provided  she  is  a  tidy,  sensible,  active  lass,  with 
a  good. character  for  her  dower." 

'  Character — ah,  that,  is  indispensable  ? " 

'  I  should  think  so,  indeed.  A  Mrs.  Hazeldean  of  Hazel- 
dean — You  frighten  me.  He's  not  going  to  run  off  with  a 
divorced  woman,  or  a—" 


498  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

The  Squire  stopped,  and  looked  so  red  in  the  face  that  Ran« 
dal  feared  he  might  be  seized  with  apoplexy  before  Frank's 
crimes  had  made  him  alter  his  will. 

Therefore  he  hastened  to  relieve  Mr.  Hazeldean's  mind,  and 
assured  him  that  he  had  only  been  talking  at  random-;  that  Frank 
was  in  the  habit,  indeed,  of  seeing  foreign  ladies  occasionally, 
as  all  persons  in  the  London  world  were  ;  but  that  he  was  sure 
Frank  would  never  marry  without  the  full  consent  and  approval 
of  his  parents.  He.  ended  by  repeating  his  assurance,  that  he 
would  yvarri  the  Squire  if  ever  it  became  necessary.  Stillrhow- 
ever,  lie  left  Mr.  Hazeldean  so  disturbed  and  uneasy  that  that 
gentleman  forgot  all  about  the  farm,  and  went  moodily  on  in  the 
opposite  direction,  re-entering  the  park  at  its  farthest  extremity. 
As  soon  as  they  approached  the  hpuse,  the  Squire  hastened  to 
shut  himself  with  his  wife  in  full  paternal  consultation  ;  and 
Randal,  seated  upon  a  bench  on  the  terrace,  revolved  the  mis- 
chief he  had  done,  and  its  chances  of  success. 

While  Jhus  seate4,  and  thus  thinking,  a  footstep  approached 
cautiously,  and  a  low  voice  said,  in : broken,  English,  "Sare,  sare, 
let  me  speak  vid  you." 

;  Randal  turned  in  surprise,  and  beheld  a  swarthy  saturnine 
face,  with  grizzled  hair  and  marked  features.  He  recognized  the 
figure  that  had  joined  Riccabocca  in  the  Italian's  garden. 

"Speak-a  you  Italian  ?"  resumed  Jackeymo. 

Rand.a.1,  who  had  made  himself  an  excellent  linguist,  nodded 
•assent ;  and  Jackeymo,  rejoiced,  begged  him  to  withdraw  into 
a  more  private  part  of  the  grounds.  . 

Randal  obeyed,  and  the  two  gained  the  shade  of  a  stately  chest- 
nut avenue. 

"  Sir,"  then  said  Jackeymo,  speaking  in  his  native  tongue,  and 
expressing  himself  with  a. certain  simple  pathos,  "  I  am  but  a 
poor  man  ;  my  name  is  Giaeomo.  You  have  Heard  of  me  ; 
servant  to  the  Signore  whom  you  saw  to-day—only  a  servant  ; 
but  lie  honors  me  with  his  confidence.  We  have  known  danger 
together,  and  of  all  his  friends  .and  followers,  I  alone  came 
with  him  to  the  stranger's  land." 

"  Good  faithful  fellow,"  said  Randal,  exami-ning  the  man's 
face,  "say  on.  Your  master  confides  in  you  ?  He  has  confided 
that  which  I  told  him  this  day?" 

"  He  did.  Ah,  sir  !  the  Padrone  was  too  proud  to  ask  you  to 
explain  more — too  proud  to  show  fear  of  another. .  But:he  does 
fear — ;he  ought  to  .fear — he  shall  fear"  (continued  Jackeymo, 
working  himself  up  to  passion), — "for  the  Padrone  has  a  daugh^ 
ter,  and  his  "enemy  is  a  villain.  Oh,  sir,  tell  me  all  that  you  did  not 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  499 

rell  to  the  Padrone.  You  hinted  that  this  man  might  wish  to  marry 
the  Signorai    Marry  her  ! — I  could  cut  his  throat  at  the  altar  !  " 

" Indeed," said  Randal ; — "I  .believe  that  such  is  his  object." 

"  But  why  ?  He  is  rich — she  is  penniless  ; — no,  not  quite  that, 
for  we  have  saved — .but  penniless,  compared  to  him." 

"My  good  friend,!  know  not  yet  his  motives,  but  I  can  easily 
learn  them.  If,  however,  this  Count  be  your  master's  enemy,  it 
is  surely  well  to  guard  against  him,  whatever  his  designs  ;  and  to 
do  so,  you  should  move  into  London  or  its  neighborhood.  I  fear 
that,  \v4iile  we  speak,  the  Count  may  get  upon  his  track." 

"He  had  better  not  come  here  !  "  cried  the  servant,  men- 
acingly, and  putting  his  hand  where  the  knife  was  not. 

"Beware  of  your  own  anger, Giacomo.    One  act  o'f  violence, 
.and  you  would  be  .-transported  from  England,  and  your  master 
would  lose  a  friend." 
,     Jaekeymo  seemed  struck  by  this  caution. 

"  Andif  the  Padrone  were  to  meet  him,  do:you  think  the  Pad- 
rone would  m-eekly  say,  /  Come  sta  sa  Signoria  /'  The  Padrone 
would  strike  him  dead  ! " 

"  Hush — hush !  You  speak  of  what  in  England  is  called  murder, 
and  is  punished  by  the  gallows.  If  you  really  love  your  master,  for 
Heaven's  sake  get  him  from  this  place — get  him  from  all  chance 
of  such  passion  and  peril.  I  go  to  town  to-morrow  ;  I  will  find 
him  a  house  that  shall  be  safe  from  all  spies — all  discovery.  And 
there,  tqo,  my  f fiend,  I  can  do — what  I  cannot  at  this  distance — 
watch  over,  him,  and  keep  watch  also  an  his  enemy." 

Jaekeymo  seized  Randal's  hand,  and  lifted  it  toward  his  lip  ; 
then,  as  if  struck  by  a  sudden  suspicion,  dropped  the;hand,  and 
said  ^bluntly,  "  Signore,  I  think  you  have  seen  the  Padrone  twice. 
Why  do.  you  take  this  interest  in  him?." 

"  Is  it  so  uncommon  to  take  interest  even  in  a  stranger  who 
is  menaced  by  some  peril?" 

Jaekeymo,  who  believed  little  in  general  philanthropy,  shook 
his  head,  sceptically. 

"  Besides,"  continued  Randal,  suddenly  bethinking  himself  of 
a  more  plausible  reason — "besides,  I  am  a  friend  and  connection 
of  Mr.  Egerton  ;  and  Mr.  Egerton's  most  intimate  friend  is  Lord 
L'Estrange ;  and  I  have  heard  that  Lord  L'Estrange — " 

"The  good  lord  !  Oh,  now  I  understand,"  interrupted 
;  Jaekeymo,  and  his  brow  cleared.  "Ah,  if  he  were  in  England  ! 
But  you  will  let  us  know  when  he  comes  ? " 

"Certainly.  Now,  tell.me,  Giacomo,  is  this  Count  really  unprin- 
cipled and  dangerous  ?  Remember,  I  know  himnoi  personally." 

"  He  has  neither  heart  nor  conscience." 


500  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  Tliat  defect  makes  him  dangerous  to  men  ;  perhaps  not  less 
to  women.  Gould  it  be  possible,  if  he  obtained  any  interview 
with  the  Signora,  that  he  could  win  her  affections?" 

jackeymo  crossed  himself  rapidly  and  made  no  answer. 

"  I  have  heard  that  he  is  still  Very  handsome." 

Jackeymo  groaned. 

Randal  resumed — "Enough  ;  persuade  the  Padrone  to  come 
to  town." 

"  But  if  the  Count  is  in  town  ? " 

"  That  makes  no  difference ;  the  safest  place  is  always  the 
largest  city.  Everywhere  else,  a  foreigner  is  in  himself  an  ob- 
ject of  attention  and  curiosity." 

"True." 

"  Let  your  master,  then,  come  to  London,  or  rather,  into  its 
neighborhood.  He  can  reside  in  one  of  the  suburbs  most  re- 
mote from  the  Count's  haunts.  In  two  days  I  will  have  found 
him  a  lodging  and  write  to  him.  You  trust  to  me  now." 

"  I  do  indeed — I  do,  excellency.  Ah,  if  the  Signorina  were 
married,  we  would  not  care  ! " 

"  Married  ?     But  she  looks  so  high  ! " 

"Alas  !  not  now — not'here." 

Randal  sighed  heavily.  Jackeymo's  eyes  sparkled.  Rethought 
he  had  detected  a  new  motive  for  Randal's  interest — a  motive 
to  an  Italian  the  most  natural,  the  most  laudable  of  all. 

"  Find  the  house,  Signore — write  to  the  Padrone.  He  shall 
come.  I'll  talk  to  him.  I  can  manage  him.  Holy  San  Gia- 
como,  bestir  thyself  now — 'tis  long  since  I  troubled  thee  !" 

Jackeymo  strode  off  through  the  fading  trees,  smiling  and 
muttering  as  he  went. 

The  first  dinner-bell  rang,  and  on  entering  the  drawing-room, 
Randal  found  Pardon  Bale  and  his  wife,  who  had  been  invited 
in  haste  to  meet  the  unexpected  visitor. 

The  preliminary  greetings  over,  Mr.  Dale  took  the  oppor- 
tunity afforded  by  the  Squire's  absence,  to  inquire  after  the 
health  of  Mr.  Egerton. 

"  He  is  always  well,"  said  Randal.  "  I  believe  he  is  made  of 
iron." 

"  His  heart  is  of  gold,"  said  the  Parson. 

"  Ah,"  said  Randal,  inquisitively,  "  you  told  me  you  had  come 
in  contact  with  him  once,  respecting,  I  think,  some  of  your  ord 
parishioners  at  Lansmere  ?" 

The  Parson  nodded,  and  there  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"  Do  you  remember  your  battle  by  the  Stocks,  Mr.  Leslie  ?" 
said  Mr.  Dale,  with  a  good-humored  laugh. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  501 

"  Indeed,  yes.  By  the  way,  now  you  speak  of  it,  I  met  my 
old  opponent  in  London  the  first  year  I  went  up  to  it." 

"You  did  !— where?" 

"At  a  literary  scamp's — a  cleverish  man  called  Burley." 

"  Burley  !  I  have  seen  some  burlesque  verses  in  Greek  by  a 
Mr.  Burley." 

"  No  doubt,  the  same  person.  He  has  disappeared— gone  to 
the  dogs,  I  dare  say.  Burlesque  Greek  is  not  a  knowledge  very 
much  in  power  at  present." 

"Well,  but  Leonard  Fairfield  ? — you  have  seen  him  since  ?" 

"  No/' 

"  Nor  heard  of  him  ? " 

"  No ! — have  you  ? " 

"  Strange  to  say,  not  for  a  long  time.  But  I  have  reason  to 
believe  that  he  must  be  doing  well." 

"  You  surprise  me  !     Why  ? " 

"Because, twoyearsagohesentforhis mother,  Shewenttohim." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  It  is  enough  ;  for  he  could  not  have  sent  for  her  if  he  could 
not  maintain  her." 

Here  the  Hazeldeans  entered,  arm-in-arm,  and  the  fat  butler 
announced  dinner. 

The  Squire  was  unusually  taciturn — Mrs.  Hazeldean  thought- 
ful— Mrs.  Dale  languid  and  headachy.  The  Parson,  who  sel- 
dom enjoyed  the  luxury  of  converse  with  a  scholar,  save  when 
he  quarrelled  with  Dr.  Riccabocca,  was  animated  by  Randal's 
repute  for  ability,  into  a  great  desire  for  argument. 

"  A  glass  of  wine,  Mr.  Leslie.  You  were  saying  before  din- 
ner, that  burlesque  Greek  is  not  a  knowledge  very  much  in  power 
at  present.  Pray,  sir,  what  knowledge  is  in  power?" 

RANDAL  (laconically). — Practical  knowledge. 

PARSON.— What  of  ? 

RANDAL. — Men. 

PARSON  (candidly). — Well,  I  suppose  that  is  the  most  availa- 
ble sort  of  knowledge,  in  a  worldly  point  of  view.  How  does 
one  learn  it  ?  Do  books  help  ? 

RANDAL. — According  as  they  are  read,  they  help  or  injure. 

PARSON. — How  should  they  be  read  in  order  to  help  ? 

RANDAL. — Read  specially  to  apply  to  purposes  that  lead  to 
power. 

PARSON  (very  much  struck  with  Randal's  pithy  and  Spartan 
logic). — Upon  my  word,  sir,  you  express  yourself  very  well.  I 
must  own  that  I  began  to  ask  questions  in  the  hope  of  differing 
from  you  ;  for  I  like  argument. 


502  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"That  he  does,"  growled  the  Squire;  "the  most  contradic- 
tory creature  !" 

PARSON. — Argument  is  the  salt  of  talk.  But  now  I  am  afraid 
I  must  agree  with  you,  which  I  was  not  at  all  prepared  for. 

Randal  bowed  and  answered — "No  two  men  of  our  educa- 
tion should  dispute  upon  the  application  of  knowledge." 

PARSON  (pricking  up  his  ears). — Eh  ? — what  to  ? 

RANDAL.— Power,  of  course. 

PARSON  (overjoyed). — Power  ! — the  vulgarest  application  of 
it,  or  the  loftiest  ?  But  you  mean  the  loftiest  ? 

RANDAL  (in  his  turn  interested  and  interrogative). — What  do 
you  call  the  loftiest,  and  what  the  vulgarest1? 

PARSON. — The  vulgarest,  self-interest;  the  loftiest, beneficence. 

Randal  suppressed  the  half-disdainful  smile  that  rose  to  his  lip. 

"  You  speak,  sir,  as  a  clergyman  should  do.  I  admire  your  sen- 
timent, and  adopt  it  ;  but  I  fear  that  the  knowledge  which  aims 
only  at  beneficence  very  rarely  in  this  world  gets' any  power  at  all." 

SQUIRE  (seriously). — That's  true;  I  never  get  my  own  way 
when  I  want  to  do  a  kindness,  and  Stirn  always  gets  his  when 
he  insists  on  something  diabolically  brutal  and  harsh. 

PARSON. — Pray,  Mr.  Leslie,  what  does  intellectual  power  refined 
to  the  utmost,  but  entirely  stripped  of  beneficence,  most  resemble? 

RANDAL. — Resemble? — I  can  hardly  say.  Some  very  great 
men — almost  any  very  great  man — who  has  baffled  all  his  foes, 
and  attained  all  his  ends. 

PARSON. — I  doubt  if  any  man  has  ever  become  very  great  who 
has  not  meant  to  be  beneficent,  though  he  might  err  in  the  means. 
Caesar  was  naturally  beneficent, and  so  was  Alexander.  But  intel- 
lectual power  refined  to  the  utmost,  and  wholly  void  of  beneficence, 
resembles  only  one  being,  and  that,  sir,  is  the  Principle  of -Evil. 

RANDAL  (startled).— Do  you  mean  the  Devil  ? 

PARSON. — Yes,  sir — the  Devil ;  and  even  he,  sir,  did  not  suc- 
ceed I  Even  he,  sir,  is  what  your  great  men  would  call  a  most 
decided  failure. 

MRS.  DALE:— My  dear— my  dear-! 

PARSON. — Our  religion  proves  it,  my  love1;  he  was  an  angel, 
and  he  fell. 

There  Was  a  solemn  pause. :  Randal  was  more  impressed  than 
he  liked  to  own  to  himself.  '  By  this  time  the  dinner  was  over, 
and  the  servants  had  retired.  Harry  glanced  at  Carry.  Carry 
smoothed 'her  gown  and  rose.  The  gentlemen  remained  over 
their  wine  ;  and  the  Parson,  satisfied  'with  what  fie  deemed  a 
clencherupon  his  favorite  subject  of  discussion,  changed  the  sub- 
ject to  lighter  topics,  till,  happening  to  fall  upon  tithes,  the 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  503 

Squire  struck  in,  and  by  dint  of  loudness  of  voice,  and  tructlj 
lence  of  broNv,  fairly  overwhelmed  both  his  guests,  and  proved 
to  his  own  satisfaction  that  tithes  were  an  unjust  and  unchris- 
tianlike  usurpation  on  the  part  of  the  Church  generally,  and  a 
most  especial  and  iniquitous  infliction  upon  the  Hazeldean  es- 
tates in  particular. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

ON  entering  the  drawing-room,  Randal  found  the  two  ladies 
seated  close  together,  in  a  position  much  more  appropriate  to 
the  familiarity  of  their  school-days,  than  to  the  politeness  of  the 
friendship  now^  existing  between  them.  Mi's.  Hazeltdean's  hand 
hung  affectionately  over  Carry's  shoulder,  and  both  those  fair 
English  faces  were  bent  over  the  same  book.  :  It  w*as  pretty  to 
see  these  sober  matrons,  so  different  from  each  other  in  charac- 
ter and  aspect,  thus  Unconsciously  restored  to  the  intimacy  of 
happy  maiden  youth  by  the  golden  link  of  some  Magician  from 
the  still  land  of  Truth  or  Fancy — brought  together  in  heart,  as 
each  eye  rested  on  the  same  thought ;  closer  and  closer,  as  sym- 
pathy, lost  in  the-actttal  world,  grew  out  of  that  world  which 
unites  in  one  bond  of  feeling  the  readers  of.some  gentle  book. 

"And  what  work  interests  you  so  much?"  asked  Randal, 
pausing  by  the  table. 

"  One  you  have  read,  of  course,"  replied  Mrs.  Dale,  putting  a 
book-mark  embroidered  by  herself  into  the  pag6,  kni'd  handing 
thevolumeto  Randal.  "It  has  made  agreaf  sensation-  Ibelieve." 

Randal  glanced  at  the  title  of  the  work.  "  True,"  said  he, 
"  I  have  heard  much  of  it  in  London,  but  I  have;riot  yet  had 
time  to  read  it." 

MRS.'  DALE.— I  can  lend  it  to  you,  if  you  like  to  look  it  over 
to-night,  and  you  can  leave  it  for  me  with  Mrs  Hazeldean. 

PARSON  (approaching). — Oh  !  that  book  ! — yes,  you  must 
read  it.  I  do  not  know  a  work  more  instructive. 

RANDAL.-— Instructive  !  Certainly,  I  will  read  it  then.  But  I 
thought  it  was  a  mere  work  of  amusement— of  fancy.  It  seems 
so,  as  I  look  over  it.  ' 

PARSON'.— So  is  the  Vicar  of  Wakefieldj  yet  what  book  more 
instructive? 

RANDAL. — I  should  not  have  said  that  of  the  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field.  A  pretty'book  enough,  though  the  story  is  most  improb- 
able. But  how  is  it  instructive  ? 

PARSON.— By  its:  results  ;  it  leaves  us  happier  :arid  better. 
What  can  any  instruction  do  more  ?  Some  works  instruct  through 
the  head,  some  through  the  heart.  The  last  reach  the  widest  cir- 


504  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

cle,  and  often  produce  the  most  genial  influence  on  the  charac- 
ter. This  book  belongs  t®  the  last.  You  will  grant  my  propo- 
sition when  you  have  read  it. 

Randal  smiled,  and  took  the  volume. 

MRS.  DALE. — Is  the  author  known  yet  ? 

RANDAL. — I  have  heard  it  ascribed  to  many  writers,  but  I  be- 
lieve no  one  has  claimed  it. 

PARSON. — I  think  it  must  have  been  written  by  my  old  col- 
lege-friend, Professor  Moss,  the  naturalist — its  descriptions  of 
scenery  are  so  accurate.  . 

MRS.  DALE. — La, .Charles,  dear!  that  snuffy,  tiresome,  prosy 
professor  !  How  can  you  talk  such  nonsense  ?  I  am  sure  the  au- 
thor must  be  young, — there  is  so  much  freshness  of  feeling. 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN  (positively). — Yes,  certainly  young. 

PARSON  (no  less  positively). — I  should  say  just  the  contrary. 
Its  tone  is  too  serene,  and  its  style  too  simple,  for  a  young  man. 
Besides,!  don't  knpw  any  young  man  who  would  send  me  his  book, 
and  this  book  has  been  sent  me — very  handsomely  bound  too, you 
see.  Depend  upon  it,  Moss  is  the  man — quite  his  turn  of  mind. 

MRS.  DALE. — You  are  too  provoking,  Charles,  dear !  Mr. 
Moss  is  remarkably  plain,  too. 

RANdAL. — Must  an  author  be  handsome? 

PARSON. — Ha  !  ha  !     Answer  that  if  you  can,  Carry. 

Carry  remained  mute  and  disdainful. 

SQUIRE  (with  great  naivete). — Well,  I  don't  think  there's  much 
in  the  book,  whoever  wrote  it ;  for  I've  read  it  myself,  and  un- 
derstand every  word  of  it. 

MRS.  DALE. — I  don't  see  why  you  should  suppose  it  was  writ- 
ten by  a  man  at  all.  For  my  part,  I  think  it  must  be  a  woman. 

MRS.  H,AZELDEAN. — Yes,  there's  a  passage  about  maternal 
affection,,  which  only , a  woman  could  have  written. 

PARSON. — Pooh  !  pooh  !  I  should  like  to  see  a  woman  who 
could  have  written  that  description  of  an  August  evening  before 
a  thunder-storm  ;  every  wjld-flower  in  the  hedge-row  exactly  the 
flowers  of  August: — every  sign  in  the  air  exactly  those  of  the 
month.  Bless  you  !  a  woman  would  have  filled  the  hedge  with 
violets  and  cowslips.  Nobody  else  but  my  friend  Moss  could 
have  written  that  description. 

SQUIRE.— I  don't  know  ;  there's  a  simile  about  the  waste  of 
corn-seed  in  hand-sowing,  which  makes  me  think  he  must  be  a 
farmer. 

MRS.  DALE  (scornfully). — A  farmer!  In  hobnailed  shoes,  I 
suppose  !  I  say  it  is  a  woman  ! 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN, — A  WOMAN,  and  a  MOTHER  ! 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  505 

PARSON. — A  middle-aged  man,  and  a  naturalist. 

SQUIRE. — No,  no,  Parson — certainly  a  young  man  ;  for  that 
love-scene  puts  me  in  mind  of  my  own  young  days,  when  I  would 
have  given  my  ears  to  tell  Harry  how  handsome  I  thought  her; 
and  all  I  could  say  was,  "  Fine  weather  for  the  cropsj  miss." 
Yes,  a  young  man  and  a  farmer.  I  should  not  wonder  if  he 
had  held  the  plough  himself. 

RANDAL  (who  had  been  turning  over  the  pages). — This  sketch 
of  Night  in  London  comes  from  a  man  who  has  liv.ed  bhelifeof 
cities  and  looked  at  wealth  with  the  eyes  of  poverty.  Not  bad  ! 
I  will  read  the  book. 

"Strange,"  said  the  Parson,  smiling,  "that  this  little  work 
should  so  have  entered  into  our  minds,  suggested  to  all  of  us 
different  ideas,  yet  equally  charmed  all — given  a  new  and  fresh 
current  to  our  dull  country  life — animated  us  as  with  the  sight 
of  a  world  in  our  breasts  we  had  never  seen  before,  save  in  dreams  ; 
a  little  work  like  this,  by  a  man  we  don't  know,  and  never  may  ! 
Well,  that  knowledge  is  power,  and  a  noble  one  !  " 

"  A  sort  of  power,  certainly,  sir,"  said  Randal  candidly  ;  and 
that  night,  when  Randal  retired  to  his  own  room,  he  suspended 
his  schemes  and  projects,  and  read,  as  he  rarely  did,  without 
an  object  to  gain  by  the  reading. 

The  work  surprised  him  by  the  pleasure  it  gave.  Its  charm 
lay  in  the  writer's  calm  enjoyment  of  the  beautiful.  It  seemed 
like  some  happy  soul  sunning  itself  in  the  light  of  its  own  thoughts. 
Its  power  was  so  tranquil  and  even,  that  it  was  only  a  critic  who 
could  perceive  how  much  force  and  vigor  were  necessary  to 
sustain  the  wing  that  floated  aloft  with  so  imperceptible  an  effort. 
There  was  no  one  faculty  predominating  tyrannically  over  the 
others;  all  seemed  proportioned  in  the  felicitous  symmetry  of  a 
nature  rounded,  integral,  and  complete.  And  when  the  work  was 
closed,  it  left  behind  it  a  tender  warmth,  that  played  round  the 
heart  of  the  reader,  and  vivified  feelings  which  seemed  unknown 
before.  Randal  laid  down  the  book  softly;  and  for  five  minutes 
the  ignoble  and  base  purposes  to  which  his  own  knowledgewas 
applied  stood  before  him,  naked  and  unmasked. 

"  Tut !  "  said  he,  wrenching  himself  violently  away  from  the 
benign  influence,  "it  was  not  to  sympathize  with  Hector,  but  to 
conquer  with  Achilles,  that  Alexander  of  Macedon  kept  Homer 
under  his  pillow.  Such  should  be  the.  true1  use  of  books  to  him 
who  has  the  practical  world  to  subdue ;  let  parsons  and  women 
construe  it  otherwise,  as  they  may  ! " 

And  the  Principle  of  Evil  descended  again  upon  the  intellect, 
from  which  the  guide  of  Beneficence  was  gone. 


506  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 


CHAPTER  X. 

• 

RANDAL  rose  at  the  sound  of  the  first  breakfast-bell,  and  on 
thestaircase  met  Mrs.  Hazeldean.  He  gave  her  back  the  book  ; 
and  as  he  was  about  to  speak,  she  beckoned  to  him  to  follow  her 
into  a  little  morning-room  appropriated  to  herself.  No  boudoir 
of  white  and  gold,  with  pictures  by  Watteau,  but  lined  with  large 
walnut-tree  presses,  that  held  the  old  heir-loom  linen,  strewed  with 
lavender — stores  for  the  housekeeper,  and  medicines  for  the  poor. 

Seating  herself  on  a  large  chair  in  this  sanctum,  Mrs.  Hazel- 
dean  looked  formidably,  at  home. 

"Pray,"  said  the  lady,  coming  at  once  to  the  point,  with  her 
usual  straightforward-  candor^  "what  is  all  this  you  have  been 
saying  to  my  husband  as  to  the  possibility  of  Frank's  marrying 
a  foreigner?" 

RANDAL. — Would  you  be  as  averse  to  such  a  notion  as  Mr. 
Hazeldean  is  ? 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN. — You  ask  me  a  question,  instead  of  answer- 
ing mine.  -. 

Randalwas  greatly  put  out  in  his  fence  by  these  rude  thrusts. 
For  indeed  he  had  a  double  purpose  to  serve — first,  thoroughly 
to  know  if  Frank's  marriage  with  a  woman  like  Madame  di  Negra 
would  irritate  the  Squire  sufficiently:  to ;  endanger  the  son's 
inheritance  ;  and,  secondly,  to  prevent  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hazeldean 
believing  seriously  that  such  -a  marriage  was  to  be  apprehended, 
lest  they  should  prematurely  address  Frank  on  the  subject,  and 
frustrate  the  marriage  itself.  Yet,  withal,  he  must  so  express 
himself,  that  he  could  not  be  afterward  accused  by  the  parents 
of  disguising-matters.  In  his  talk  to  the  Squire  the  preceding 
day,  he  had  gone  a  little  too  far — farther  than  he  would  have 
done  but  for  his  desire  of  escaping  the  cattle-shed  and  short- 
horns. While  he  mused,  Mrs.  Hazeldean  observed  him  with  her 
honest,  sensible  eyes,  arid  finally  exclaimed— 

"Out  with  it,  Mr.  Leslie! " 

"Out  with  what,  my  dear  madam?  The  Squire  has  sadly 
exaggerated  the  importance  of  what  was  said  mainly  in  jest. 
But  I  will  own  to  you  plainly,  that  Frank  has  appeared  to  me 
a  little  smitten  with  .a  certain  fair  Italian." 

"  Italian*!  "  cried  Mrs.  Hazeldean.  "Well,  I  said  so  from  the 
first.  Italian!- — that's  all,  is  it?"  and  she  smiled. 

Randal  was  more  and  more- perplexed.  The  pupil  of  his  eye 
contracted,  as  it  does  when  we  retreat  into  ourselves,  and  think, 
watch,  and  keep. guard. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  507 

"And  perhaps,"  resumed  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  with  a  very  sunny 
expression  of  countenance,  "you  have  noticed  this  in  Frank 
since  he  was  here?" 

"it  is  true,"  murmured  Randal;  "but  I  think  his  heart  or  his 
fancy  was  touched  even  before."  .  , 

"'Very  natural,"  said  Mrs.  Hazeldean;  "how  could  he  help 
it? — such  a  beautiful  creature!  Well,  I  must  not  ask  you  to 
tell  Frank's  secrets;  but  I  guess  the  object  of  attraction;  and 
though  she  will  have  no  fortune  to  speak  of-^-and  it  is  not  such 
a  match  as  he  might  form— still  she  is  soamiablcj  and  has  been 
so  well  brought  up,  and  is  so  little  like  one's  general  notions  of 
a  Roman  Catholic,  that  I  think  I  could  persuade  Hazeldean 
into  giving  his  consent." 

"Ah,"  said  Randal,  drawing  a  long  breath,  and  beginning 
with  his  practised  acuteness  to  detect  Mrs.  Hazeldean's  error, 
"  J  am  very  much  relieved  and  rejoiced  to  hear  this;  and  I  may 
venture  to  give  Frank  some  hope,  if  I  find  him  .disheartened: 
and  desponding,  poor  fellow  !.'* 

"I. think  you  may,"  replied  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  laughing  pleas- 
antly. "  But  you  should  not  have  frightened  popr  Williatn  so, 
hinting  that  ;the  lady  knew  very  little  English. ,  She  has  an  accent, 
to  be  sure;  but  she/speaks  our  tongue  very  prettily.  I  always 
forget  that  she's  not  English  born  !  Ha,  ha,  poor  William!  " 

RANDAL. — Ha,  ha  ! 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN. — We  had  once  thought  of  another  match 
for  Frank — a  girl  of  good  English  family. 

RANDAL. — Miss  Sticktorights  ? 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN. — No;  that's  an  old  whim  of  Hazeldean's. 
But  I  doubt  if  the  Sticktorights  would  ever  merge  their  prop- 
erty into  ours.  Bless  you,  it  would  be  all  off,  the  moment  they 
came  to  settlements,  and  had  to  give  up  the  right  of  way.  We 
thought  of  a  very  different  match;  but  there's  no  dictating  to 
young  hearts,  Mr.  Leslie. 

RANDAL. — Indeed,  no,  Mrs.  Hazeldean.  But  since  we  now 
understand  each  other  so  well,  excuse  me  if  I  suggest  that  you 
had  better  leave  things  to  themselves,  and  not  write  to  Frank  on 
the  subject.  Young  hearts,  you  know,  are  often  stimulated  by 
apparent  difficulties,  and  grow  cool  when  the  obstacle  vanishes. 

MRS.  HAZELDEAN.— Very  possibly;  it  was  not  so  with  Hazel- 
dean  and  me;  But  I  shall  not  write  to  Frarik  on  the  subject,  for 
a  different  reason — though  I  would  consent  to  the  match,  and 
so  would  William ;  yet  we  both  would  rather,  after  all,  that  Frank . 
married  an  Englishwoman,  and  a  Protestant.  We  will  not,  there- 
fore, do  anything  to  encourage  the  idea.  But  if  Frank's  hap- 


508  MY    NOVEL  ;   OR, 

piness  becomes  really  at  stake,  then  we  will  step  in.  In  short, 
we  would  neither  encourage  nor  oppose.  You  understand  ? 

"  Perfectly." 

"And  in  the  meanwhile,  it  is  quite  right  that  Frank  should 
see  the  world,  and  try  to  distract  his  mind,  or  at  least  to  know  it. 
And  I  dare  say  it  has  been  some  thought  of  that  kind  which  has 
prevented  his  coming  here." 

Randal,  dreading  a  farther  and  plainer  Jclaircissement,  now 
rose,  and  saying  "  Pardon  me,  but  I  must  hurry  over  breakfast, 
and  be  back  in  time  to  catch  the  coach  " — :offered  his  arm  to 
his  hostess,  and  led  her  into  the  breakfast-parlor.  Devouring 
his  meal;  as  if  in  great  haste,  he  then  mounted  his  horse,  and, 
taking  cordial  leave  of  his  entertainers,  trotted  briskly  away. 

All  things  favored  his  project — even  chance  had  befriended 
him  in  Mrs.  Hazeldean's  mistake.  She  had,  not  unnaturally, 
supposed  Violante  to  have  captivated  Frank  on  his  last  visit  to 
the  Hall.  Thus,  while  Randal  had  certified  his  own  mind  that 
nothing  could  more  exasparate  the  Squire  than  an  alliance  with 
Madame  di  Negra,  he  could  yet  assure  Frank  that  Mrs.  Hazel- 
dean  was  all  on  his  side.  And  when  the  error  was  discovered, 
Mrs.  Hazeldean  would  only  have  to  blame  herself  for  it.  Still 
more  successful  had  his  diplomacy  proved  with  the  Riccaboc- 
cas;  he  had  ascertained  the  secret  he  had  come  to  discover;  he 
should  induce  the  Italian  to  remove  to  the  neighborhood  of  Lon- 
don; and  if  Violante  were  the  great  heiress  he  suspected  her  to 
prove,  whom  else  of  her  own  age  would  she  see  but  him?  And 
the  old  Leslie  domains,  to  be  sold  in  two  years — a  portion  of  the 
dowry  might  purchase  them!  Flushed  by  the  triumph  of  his 
craft,  all  former  vacillations  of  his  conscience  ceased.  In  high 
and  fervent  spirits  he  passed  the  Casino,  the  garden  of  which  was 
solitary  and  deserted,  reached  his  home,  and,  telling  Oliver  to  be 
studious,and  Juliet  to  be  patient,  walked  thence  to  meet  the  coach 
and  regain  the  capital. 

CHAPTER  XI. 

VIOLANTE  was  seated  in  her  own  little  room,  and  looking  from 
the  window  on  the  terrace  that  stretched  below.  The  day  was 
warm  for  the  time  of  year.  The  orange-trees  had  been  removed 
under  shelter  for  the  approach  of  winter;  but  where  they  had 
stood  sat  Mrs.  Riccabocca  at  work.  In  the  belvidere,  Ricca- 
bocca  himself  was  conversing  with  his  favorite  servant.  But  the 
casements  and  the  door  of  the  belvidere  were  open;  and  where 
they  sat,  both  wife  and  daughter  could  seethe  Padrone  leaning 
against  the  wall,  with  his  arms  folded,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  509 

floor;  while  Jackeymo,  with  one  finger  on  his  master's  arm,  was 
talking  to  him  with  visible  earnestness.  And  the  daughter  from 
the  window,  and  the  wife  from  her  work,  directed  tender,  anx- 
ious eyes  toward  the  still  thoughtful  form  so  dear  to  both.  For 
the  last  day  or  two,  Riccabocca  had  been  peculiarly  abstracted, 
even  to  gloom.  Each  felt  there  was  something  stirring  at  his 
heart — neither,  as  yet,  knew  what. 

Violante's  room  silently  revealed  the  nature  of  the  education 
by  which  her  character  had  been  formed.  Save  a  sketch-book, 
which  lay  open  on  a  desk  at  hand,  and  which  showed  talent 
exquisitely  taught  (for  in  this  Riccabocca  had  been  her  teacher), 
there  was  nothing  that  spoke  of  the  ordinary  female  accomplish- 
ments. No  piano  stood  open,  no  harp  occupied  yon  nook,  which 
seemed  made  for  one;  no  broidery- frame,  nor  implements  of 
work,  betrayed  the  usual  and  graceful  resources  of  a  girl ;  but 
ranged  on  shelves  against  the  wall  \vere  the  best  writers  in  Eng- 
lish, Italian,  and  French;  and  these  betokened  an  extent  of  read- 
ing, that  he  who  wishes  for  a  companion  to  his  min^d  in  the  sweet 
commune  of  a  woman,  which  softens  and  refines  all  it  gives  and 
takes  in  interchange,  will  never  condemn  as  masculine.  You 
had  but  to  look  into  Violante's  face  to  see  how  noble  was  the 
intelligence  that  brought  soul  to  those  lovely  features.  Noth- 
ing hard,  nothing  dry  and  stern,  was  there.  Even  as  you  de- 
tected knowledge,  it  was  lost  in  the  gentleness  of  grace.  In 
fact,  whatever  she  gained  in  the  graver  kinds  of  information 
became  transmuted,  through  her  heart  and  her  fancy,  into  spir- 
itual golden  stores.  Give  her  some  tedious  and  arid  history,  her 
imagination  seized  upon  beauties  other  readers  had  passed  by, 
and,  like  the  eye  of  the  artist,  detected  everywhere  the  Pictur- 
esque. Something  in  her  mind  seemed  to  reject  all  that  was  mean 
and  commonplace,  and  to  bring  out  all  that  was  rare  and  elevated 
in  whatever  it  received.  Living  so  apart  from  all  companions  of 
her  age,  she  scarcely  belonged  to  the  Present  time.  She  dwelt  in 
the  Past,  as  Sabrina  in  her  crystal  well.  Images  of  chivalry — 
of  the  Beautiful  and  the  Heroic — such  as,  in  reading  the  silvery 
line  of  Tasso,  rise  before  us,  softening  force  and  valor  into  love 
and  song — haunted  the  reveries  of  the  fair  Italian  maid. 

Tell  us  not  that  the  Past,  examined  by  cold  Philosophy,  was 
no  better  and  no  loftier  than  the  Present;  it  is  not  thus  seen  by 
pure  and  generous  eyes.  Let  the  Past  perish,  when  it  ceases  to 
reflect  on  its  magic  mirror  the  beautiful  Romance  which  is  its 
noblest  Reality,  though  perchance  but  the  shadow  of  Delusion. 

Yet  Violante  was  not  merely  the  dreamer.  In  her,  life  was  so 
puissant  and  rich,  that  action  seemed  necessary  to  its  glorious 


5  10  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

development — action,  but  still  in  the  woman's  sphere— action  to 
bless,  and  to  refine,  and  to  exalt  all  around  her,  ami  to  pour 
whatever  else  of  ambition  was  left  unsatisfied  into  sympathy 
with  the  aspirations  of  man.  Despite  her  father's  fears' of  the 
bleak  air  of  England,  in  that  air  she  had  strengthened  the  delicate 
health  of  her  childhood.  Her  elastic  step— her  eyes  full  Of  sweet- 
ness and  light — her  bloom,  at  once  soft  and  luxuriant— ^-all  spoke 
of  the  vital  powers  fit  to  sustain  a  mind  of  such  exquisite  mould, 
and  the  emotions  of  a  heart  that,  once  aroused,  could  ennoble  the 
passions  of 'the  South  with  the  purity  land  devotion  of  the  North. 

Solitude  makes  some  natures  more  timid,  some  more  bold. 
Violahte  was  fearless.  When  she  spoke,  her  eyes  frankly  met 
your  oAvn;  and  she  was  so  ignorant  of  evil,  that  as  yet  she  seemed 
nearly  unacquainted  with  shame.  From  this  courage,  combined 
with  affluence  of  idea,  there  came  -a  delightful  flow  of  happy  con- 
verse. Though  possessing  so  imperfectly  the  accomplishments 
ordinarily  taught  to  young  women,  and  which  may  be  cultured 
to  the  utmost,  and  yet  leave  the  thoughts  so  barren,  and  the  talk 
so  vapid — she  had  that  accomplishment  which  most  pleases  the 
taste,  and  commands  the  love,  of  the  man  of  talent,  especially  if 
his  talent  be  not  so  actively  employed  as  to  make  him  desire  only 
relaxation  where  he  seeks  companionship — the  accomplishment 
of  facility  in  intellectual  interchange — the  charm  that  clothes  in 
musical  words  beautiful  womanly  ideas. 

"  I  hear  him  sigh  at  this'distance,"  said  Violante,  softly,  as  she 
still  watched  her  father  ;  "and  methinks  this  is  a'new  grief ;  and 
not  for  his  country.  He  spoke  twice  yesterday  of  that  dear 
English  friend,  and  wished  that  he  were  here." 

As  she  said  this,  unconsciously  the  virgin  blushed,  her  hand 
:  drooped  oh  her  knee,  and  she  fell  herself  into  thought  as  profound 
as  her  father's,  but  less  gloomy.  From  her  arrival  in' England, 
Violante  had  been  taught  a  grateful  interest  in  the  name  of 
Harley  L'Estrange.  Her  father,  preserving  a  silence  that  seemed 
disdain  of  all  his  old  Italian  intimates,  had  been  pleased  to  con- 
verse with  open  heart  of  the  Englishman  who  had  saved  where 
countrymen  had  betrayed.  He  spoke  of  the  soldier,  then  in  the 
full  bloom  of  youth,  who,  unconsoled  by  fame,  had  nursed  the 
memory  of  some  hidden  sorrow  amidst  the  pine-trees,  that  cast 
their  shadow  over  the  sunny  Italian  lake  ;  how  Riccabocca,  then 
honored  and  happy,  had  courted  from  his  seclusion  the  English 
Signore,  then  the  mourner  and  the  voluntaryexile  ;  how  they 
had  grown  friends  amidst  the  landscapes  in  which  her  eyes  had 
opened  to  the  day  ;  how  Harle'y  had  vainly  warned  him  from 
the  rash  schemes  in  which  he  had  sought  to  reconstruct  in  an 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  511 

hour  the  ruins  of  weary  ages;  how,  when  abaridoned,  deserted, 
proscribed,  pursued,  he  had  fled  for  life — the  infant  Violante 
clasped  to  hisbosom-r-the  English  soldier  had  given  him '-refuge, 
baffled  the  pursuers,  armed  his  servants,  accompanied  the  fugi- 
tive at  night  toward  the  defile  in  the  Apennines,  and,  when  the 
emissaries  of  .a  perfidious  enemy,  hot  in  the  chase,  came  near, 
had  said,  "You  have  your  child  to  save  !  Fly  on  !  Another 
league,  and  you  are  beyond  the  borders.  We  will  delay  the  foes 
with  parley  ;  they  will  not  harm  us."  And  not  till  escape  was 
gained  did  the  father  know  that  the  English  friend  had  delayed  the 
foe,  not  by  parley, but  by  the  sword,  holding  the  pass  against  num- 
bers, with  a  breast  as  dauntless  as  Bayard's  on  the  glorious  bridge. 

And  since  then,  the  same  Englishman  had  never  ceased  revin- 
dicate his  name,  to  urge  his  cause  ;  and  if  hope  yet  remained  of 
restoration  to  land  and  honors,  it  was  in  that  untiring  zeal. 

Hence,  naturally  and  insensibly,  this  secluded  and  musing  girl 
had  associated  all  that  she  read  in  tales  of  romance  and  chivalry 
with  the  image  of  the  brave  and  loyal  stranger.  He  it  was  who 
animated  her  dreams  of  the  Past,  and  seemed  born  to  be,  in  the 
destined  hour,  the  deliverer  of  the  Future.  Around  this  image 
grouped  all  the  charms  that  the  fancy  of  virgin  woman  can  raise 
from  the  enchanted  lore  of  old  Heroic  Fable.  Once  in  her  early 
girlhood,  her  father  (to  satisfy  her  curiosity,  eager  for"  general 
description)  had  drawn  from  memory  a  sketch  of  the  features  of 
the  Englishman — drawn  Harley  as  he  was  in  that  first  youth, 
flattered  and  idealized,  no  doubt,  by  art,  and  by  partial  grati- 
tude— rbut  still  resembling  him  as  he  was  then  ;  while  the  deep 
mournfulness  of  recent  sorrow  yet  shadowed  and  concentrate'd 
all  the  varying  expressions  of  his  countenance  ;  and  to  look  on 
him  was  to  say — "  So  sad,  yet  so  young  !  "  Never  did  Violante 
pause  to  remember  that  the  same  years  which  ripened  herself 
from  infancy  into  woman,  were  passing  less  gently  over  that 
smooth  cheek  and  dreamy  brow — that  the  world  might  be  alter- 
ing the  nature  as  time  the  aspect.  To  herthe  hero  of  the  Ideal 
remained  immortal  in  bloom  and  youth.  Bright  illusion,  com- 
mon to  us  all,  where  Poetry  once  hallows  the  human  form  ! 
Who  ever^thinks  of  Petrarch  as  the  old  time-worn  man?  Who 
does  not  see  him  as  when  he  first  gazed  on  Laura? — 
"  Ogni  altra  cosa  ogni  pensier  va  fore  ; 
E  sol  ivi  con  voi  rimanfei  Araore  ! " 

'  '•'         -       '  '    ' 

,  CHAPTER  XII. 

AND  Violante,  thus  absorbed  in  reverie,  forgot  to  keep  watch 
on  the  belvidere.  And  the  belvidere  was  not  deserted.  The 


512  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

wife,  who  had  no  other  ideal  to  distract  her  thoughts,  saw  Ric- 
cabocca  pass  into  the  house. 

The  exile  entered  his  daughter's  room,  and  she  started  to 
feel  his'hand  upon  her  locks  and  his  kiss  upon  her  brow. 

"  My  child  !  "  cried  Riccabocca,  seating  himself.  "  I  have 
resolved  to  leave  for  a  time  this  retreat,  and  to  seek  the  neigh- 
borhood of  London." 

"  Ah,  dear  father,  that,  then,  was  your  thought !  But  what 
can  be  your  reason  ?  Do  not  turn  away  ;  you  know  how  care- 
fully I  have  obeyed  your  command,  and  kept  your  secret.  Ah, 
you  will  confide  in  me." 

"  I  do,  indeed,"  returned  Riccabocca,  with  emotion.  "  I  leave 
this  place,  in  the  fear  lest  my  enemies  discover  me.  I  shall  say  to 
others  that  you  are  of  an  age  to  require  teachers,  not  to  be 
obtained  here.  But  I  should  like  none  to  know  where  we  go." 

The  Italian  said  these  last  words  through  his  teeth,  and  hang- 
ing his  head.  He  said  them  in  shame. 

"  My  mother  " — (so  Violante  always  called  Jemima) — "  my 
mother — you  have  spoken  to  her  ?  " 

"  Not  yet.     There  is  the  difficulty." 

"  No  difficulty,  for  she  loves  you  so  well,"  replied  Violante, 
with  soft  reproach.  "  Ah,  why  not  also  confide  in  her?  Who 
so  true  ?  so  good  ?" 

"  Good — I  grant  it,"  exclaimed  Riccabocca.  "  What  then  ? 
' Da  catiiva  Don>ia  guardati,  ed  alia  buona  non  fidar  niente ' 
(from  the  bad  woman,  guard  thyself  ;  to  the  good  woman  trust 
nothing).  And  if  you  must  trust,"  added  the  abominable  man, 
"  trust  her  with  anything  but  a  secret !  " 

"'Fie,"  said  Violante,  with  arch  reproach,  for  she  knew  her 
father's  huinors  too  well  to  interpret  his  horrible  sentiments 
literally — "  fie  on  your  consistency,  Padre  carissimo.  Do  you 
not  trust  your  secret  to  me  ? " 

"You!  A  kitten  is  not  a  cat,  and  a  girl  is  not  a  woman. 
Besides,  the  secret  was  already  known  to  you,  and  I  had  no 
choice.  Peace,  Jemima  will  stay  here  for  the  present.  See  to 
what  you  wish  to  take  with  you  ;  we  shall  leave  to-night." 

Not  waiting  for  an  answer,  Riccabocca  hurried  away,  and 
with  firm  step  strode  the  terrace,  and  approached  his  wife. 

"  Anima  mt'a," . said  -the  pupil  of  Machiavelli,  disguising  in  the 
tenderest  words  the  cruellest  intentions — for  one  of  his  most 
cherished  Italian  proverbs  was  to  the  effect,  that  there  is  no 
getting  on  with  a  mule  or  a  woman  unless  you  coax  them. — 
"Anima  mia,  soul  of  my  being,  you  have  already  seen  that  Vio- 
lante mopes  herself  to  death  here." 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  513 

"She,  poor  child  !  Oh  no!" 

"She  does,  core  of  my  heart — she  does — and  is  as  ignorant 
Of  music  as  I  am  of  tent-stitch." 

"  She  sings  beautifully." 

"Just  as  birds  do,  against  all  the  rules,  and  in  defiance  of 
gamut.  Therefore,  to  come  to  the  point,  O  treasure  of.  my 
soul !  I  am  going  to  take  her  with  me  for  a  short  time,  perhaps 
to  Cheltenham  or  Brighton.  We  shall  see." 

"  All  places  with  you  are  the  same  to  me,  Alphonso.  When 
shall  we  go? " 

"  We  shall  go  to-night ;  but  terrible  as  it  is  to  part  from 
you— you— ' 

"Ah!  "interrupted  his  wife,and  covered  her  facewith  her  hands. 

Riccabocca,  the  wiliest  and  most  relentless  of  men  in  his  max- 
ims, melted  into  absolute  uxorial  imbecility  at  the  sight  of  that 
mute  distress.  He  put  his  arm  round  his  wife's  waist,  with 
genuine  affection,  and  without  a  single  proverb  at  his  heart — 
"  Carissima,  do  not  grieve  so  ;  we  shall  be  back  soon,  and  travel- 
ling is  expensive  -/rolling  stones  gather  no  moss,  and  there  is  so 
much  to  see  to  at  home." 

Mrs.  Riccabocca  gently  escaped  from  her  husband's  arm. 
She  withdrew  her  hands  from  her  face  and  brushed  away  the 
tears  that  stood  in  her  eyes.  -. 

"Alphonso,"  she  said  touchingly,  "hear  me!  What  you 
think  good,  that  shall  ever  be  good  to  me.  But  do  not  think 
that  I  grieve  solely  because  of  our  parting.  No  ;  I  grieve  to 
think  that,  despite  all  these  years  in  which  I  have  been  the  part- 
ner of  your  hearth,  and  slept  on  your  breast — all  these  years  in 
which  I  had  no  thought  but,  however  humbly,  to  do  my  duty  to 
you  and  yours,  and  could  have  wished  that  you  had  read  my 
heart,  and  seen  there  but  yourself  and  your  child — I  grieve  to 
think  that  you  still  deem  me  as  unworthy  your  trust  as  when 
you  stood  by  my  side  at  the  altar." 

"Trust!"  repeated  Riccabocca,  startled  and  conscience 
stricken  ;  "why  do  you  say  'trust  ?'  In  what  have  I  distrusted 
you  ?  I  am  sure,"  he  continued,  with  the  artful  volubility  of 
guilt,  "that  I  never  doubted  your  fidelity — hook-nosed,  long- 
visaged  foreigner  though  I  be  ;  never  pryed  into  your  letters  ; 
never  inquired  into  your  solitary  walks  ;  never  heeded  your  flir- 
tations with  that  good-looking  Parson  Dale ;  never  kept  the 
money  ;  and  never  looked  into  the  account-books  !  "  Mrs.  Ric- 
cabocca refused  even  a  smile  of  contempt  at  these  revolting  eva- 
sions ;  nay,  she  seemed  scarcely  to  hear  them. 

"Can  you  think,"  she  resumed,  pressing  her  hand  on  her  heart 


514  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

to  still  its  struggles  for  relief  in  sobs — "can  you  think  that  I 
could  have  watched,  and  thought,  and  taxed  my  poor  mind  so 
constantly,  to  conjecture  what  might  best  soothe  or  please  you, 
and  not  seen,  long  since,  that  you  have  secrets  known  to  your 
daughter — your  servant — not  to  me  ?  Fear  not — the  secrets  can- 
not be  evil,  or  you  would  not  tell  them  to  your  innocent  child. 
Besides,  do  I  not  know  your  nature  ?  and  do  I  not  love  you  be- 
cause I  know  it  ? — it  is  for  something  connected  with  those  se- 
crets that  you  leave  your  home.  You  think  that  I  should  be  in- 
cautious— imprudent.  You  will  not  take  me  with  you.  Be  it 
so.  I  go  to  prepare  for  your  departure.  Forgive  me  if  I  have 
displeased  you,  husband." 

Mrs.  Riccabocca  turned  away  ;  but  a  soft  hand  touched  the 
Italian's  arm.  "  O  father,  can  you  resist  this  ?  Trust  her  !  trust 
her  ! — I  am  a  woman  like  her  !  I  answer  for  her  woman's  faith. 
Be  yourself — ever  nobler  than  all  others,  my  own  father." 

"  Diavolo  !  Never  one  door  shuts  but  another  opens,"  groaned 
Riccabocca.  "Are  you  a  fool,  child  ?  Don't  you  see  that  it 
was  for  your  sake  only  I  feared — and  would  be  cautious? " 

"  For  mine  !  O  then  do  not  make  me  deem  myself  mean,  and 
the  cause  of  meanness.  For  mine  !  Am  I  not  your  daughter — 
the. descendant  of  men  who  never  feared?" 

Violante  looked  sublime  while  she  spoke ;  and  as  she  ended 
she  led  her  father  gently  on  toward  the  door,  which  his  wife 
had  now  gained. 

" Jemima-^Avife  mine! — pardon,  pardon,"  cried  the  Italian, 
whose  heart  had  been  yearning  to  repay  such  tenderness  and 
devotion,—"  come  back  to  my  breast— it  has  been  long  closed — 
it  shall  be  open  to  you  now  and  forever.'-' 

In  another  moment  the  wife  was  in  her  right  place — on  her 
husband's  bosom  ;  and  Violante,  beautiful  peacemaker,  stood 
smiling  awhile  at  both,  and  then  lifted  her  eyes  gratefully  to 
Heaven,  and  stole  away. 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

ON  Randal's  return  to  town,  he  heard  mixed  and  contra- 
dictory rumors  in  the  streets,  and  at  the  clubs,  of  the  probable 
downfall  of  the  government  at  the  approaching  session  of  Par- 
liament. These  rumors  had  sprung  up  suddenly,  as  if  in  an 
hour.  True  that,  for  some  time,  the  sagacious  had  shaken  their 
heads  and  said  "  Ministers  could  not  last."  True;  that  certain 
changes  in  policy,  a  year  or  two  before,  had  divided  the  party 
on  which  the  government  depended,  and  strengthened  that 
Which  opposed  it.  But  still  the  more  important  members  of  that 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  515 

government  had  been  so  long  identified  with  official  station,  and 
there  seemed  so  little  power  in  the  Opposition  to  form  a  cabinet  of 
names  familiar  to  official  ears,  that  the  general  public  had  antici- 
pated, at  most,  a  few  partial  changes.  Rumor  now  went  far  be- 
yond this.  Randal, whose  whole  prospects  at  present  were  but 
reflections  from  the  greatness  of  his  patron,  was  alarmed.  He 
fought  Egerton,  but  the  minister  was  impenetrable,  and  seemed 
calm,  confident,  and  imperturbed.  Somewhat  relieved,  Randal 
then  set  himself  to  work  to  find  a  safe  home  for  Riccabocca  ; 
for  the  greater  need  to  succeed  in  obtaining  fortune  there,  if  he 
failed  in  getting  it  through  Egerton.  He  found  a  quiet  house, 
detached  and  secluded,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Norwood.  No 
vicinity  more  secure  from  espionage  and  remark.  He  wrote  to 
Riccabocca,  and  communicated  the  address,  adding  fresh  assur- 
ances of  his  own  power  to  be  of  use.  The  next  morning  he  was 
seated  in  his  office,  thinking  very  little  of  the  details,  that  he 
mastered,  however,  with  mechanical  precision,  when  the  minis- 
ter who  presided  over  that  department  of  the  public  service,  sent 
for  him  into  his  private  room,  and  begged  him  to  take  a  letter 
to  Egerton,  with  whom  he  wished  to  consult  relative  to  a  very 
important  point  to  be  decided  in  the  Cabinet  that  day.  "  I  want 
you  to  take  it,"  said  the  minister  smiling  (the  minister  was  a  frank 
homely  man),  "because  you  are  in  Mr.  Egerton's  confidence, 
and  he  may  give  you  some  verbal  message  besides  a  written  re- 
ply. Egerton  is  often  over  cautious  and  brief  in  the  litera  scripta." 

Randal  went  first  to  Egerton's  neighboring  office — Egerton 
had  not  been  there  that  day.  He  then  took  a  cabriolet  and  drove 
to  Grosvenor  Square.  A  quiet-looking  chariot  was  at  the  door, 
Mr.  Egerton  was  at  home  ;  but  the  servant  said,  "Dr.  F.  is  with 
him,  sir  ;  and  perhaps  he  may  not  like  to  be  disturbed." 

"What — is  your  master  ill?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of,  sir.  He  never  says  he  is  ill.  But  he 
has  looked  poorly  the  last  day  or  two." 

Randal  hesitated  a  moment ;  but  his  commission  might  be 
important,  and  Egerton  was  a  man  who  so  held  the  maxim,  that 
health  and  all  else  must  give  way  to  business,  that  he  resolved 
to  enter  ;  and  unannounced  and  unceremoniously,  as  was  his 
wont,  he  opened  the  door  of  the  library.  He  started  as  he  did 
so.  Audley  Egerton  was  leaning  back  on  the  sofa,  and  the  doc- 
tor, on  his  knees  before  him,  was  applying  the  stethoscope  to  his 
breast.  Egerton's  eyes  were  partially  closed  as  the  door  opened. 
But  at  the  noise  he  sprang  up,  nearly  Oversetting  the  doctor. 
"  Who's  that  ? — how  dare  you  !  "  he  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  of  great 
anger.  Then  recognizing  Randal,  he  changed  color,  bit  his  lip, 


516  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

and  muttered  dryly,  "  I  beg  pardon  for  my  abruptness  ;  what 
do  you  want,  Mr.  Leslie?"  ,j 

"This  letter  from  Lord ;  I  was  told  to  deliver  it  imme- 
diately into  your  own  hands.  I  beg  pardon — " 

"  There  is  no  cause,"  said  Egerton,  coldly.  "I  have  had  a 
slight  attack  of  bronchitis  ;  and  as  Parliament  meets  so  soon,  I 
must  take  advice  from  my  doctor,  if  I  would  be  heard  by  the 
reporters.  Lay  the  letter  on  the  table,  and  be  kind  enough  to 
wait  for  my  reply." 

Randal  withdrew.  He  had  never  seen  a  physician  in  that 
house  before,  and  it  seemed  surprising  that  Egerton  should  even 
take  a  medical  opinion  upon  a  slight  attack.  While  waiting  in 
the  ante-room  there  was  a  knock  at  the  street  door,  and  presently 
a  gentleman,  exceedingly  well-dressed,  was  shown  in, and  honored 
Randal  with  an  easy  and  half- familiar  bow.  Randal  remembered 
to  have  met  this  personage  at  dinner,  and  af  the  house  of  a  young 
nobleman  of  high  fashion, but  had  not  been  introduced  to  him, and 
did  not  even  know  him  by  name.  The  visitor  was  better  informed. 

"Our  friend  Egerton  is  busy,. I  hear,  Mr.  Leslie,"  said  he, 
arranging  the  camelia  in  his  button-hole. 

"  Our  friend  Egerton  !  "  It  must  be  a  very  great  man  to  say, 
"Our  friend  Egerton." 

"He  will  not  be  engaged  long, I  dare  say,"  returned  Randal, 
glancing  his  shrewd  inquiring  eye  over  the  stranger's  person. 

"  I  trust  not ;  my  time  is  almost  as  precious  as  his  own.  I  was 
not  so  fortunate  as  to  be  presented  to  you  when  we  met  at  Lord 
Spendquick's.  Goodfellow,Spendquick;  and  decidedly  clever." 

Lord  Spendquick  was  usually  esteemed  a  gentleman  without 
three  ideas. 

Randal  smiled. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  visitor  had  taken  out  a  card  from  an 
embossed' morocco  case,  and  now  presented  it  to  Randal,  who 
read  thereon,  "Baron  Levy,  No.  — ,  Bruton  St." 

The  name  was  not  unknown  to  Randal.  It  was  a  name  too 
often  on  the  lips  of  men  of  fashion  not  to  have  reached  the  ears 
of  an  habiiitd  of  good  society. 

Mr.  Levy  had  been  a  solicitor  by  profession.  He  had  of  late 
years  relinquished  his  ostensible  calling  ;  and  not  long  since,  in 
consequence  of  some  services  toward  the  negotiation  of  a  loan, 
had  been  created  a  baron  by  one  of  the  German  kings.  The 
wealth  of  Mr.  Levy  was  said  to  be  only  equalled  by  his  good- 
nature to  all  who  were  in  want  of  a  temporary  loan,  and  with 
sound  expectations  of  repaying  it  some  day  or  other. 
.  You  seldom  saw  a  finer-looking  man  than  Baron  Levy— about 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  517 

the  same  age  as  Egerton,but  looking  younger;  so  well  preserved — 
such  magnificent  black  whiskers — such  superb  teeth  !  Despite 
his  name  and  his  dark  complexion,  he  did  not,  however,  resem- 
ble a  Jew — at  least  externally  ;  and  in  fact,  he  was  not  a  Jew 
on  the  father's  side,  but  the  natural  son  of  a  rich  EtiglUhjw/fcf 
stigncur,\>y  a  Hebrew  lady  of  distinction — in  the  opera.  After 
his  birth,  this  lady  had  married  a  German  trader  of  her  own  per- 
suasion, and  her  husband  had  been  prevailed  upon,  for  the  con- 
venience of  all  parties,  to  adopt  his  wife's  son,  arid  accord  to  him 
his  own  Hebrew  name.  Mr.  Levy,  senior,  was  soon  left  a  wid- 
ower, and  then  the  real"  father,  thtfugh  never  actually  owning  the 
boy,  had  shown  him  great  attention- — had  him  frequently  at  his 
houses-initiated  him  betimes  into  his  own  high-born  society,  for 
which  the  boy  showed  great  taste.  But  when  my  lord  died, 
and  left  but  a  moderate  legacy  to  the  younger  Levy,  who  was 
then  about  eighteen,  that  ambiguous  person  was  articled  to  an 
attorney  by  his  putative  sire,  who  shortly  afterward  returned  to 
his  native  land,  and  was  buried  at  Prague,  where  his  tombstone 
may  yet  be  seen.  Young  Levy,  however,  contrived  to  do  very 
well  without  him.  His  real  birth  was  generally  known, and  rather 
advantageous  to  him  in  alittle  social  point  of  view.  His  legacy 
enabled  him  to  become  a  partner  where  he  had  been  a  clerk,  and 
his  practice  became  great  amongst  the  fashionableclassesof  socie- 
ty. Indeed  he  was  so  useful,  so  pleasant,  so  much  a  man  of  the 
world,  that  he  grew  intimatewith  his  clients — chiefly  young  men  of 
rank;  was  on  good  terms  with  both  Jew  and  Christian;  and  being 
neither  one  nor  the  other  resembled  (to  useSheridan's  incompara- 
ble simile)  the  blank  page  between  the  Old  and  the  New  Testament. 

Vulgar,  some  might  call  Mr.  Levy,  from  his  assurance,  but  it 
was  not  the  vulgarity  of  a  man  accustomed  to  low  and  coarse 
society — rather  the  mauvais  ton  of  a  person  not  sure  of  his  own 
position,  but  who  has  resolved  to  swagger  into  the  best  one  he 
can  get.  When  it  is  remembered  that  he  has  made  his  way  in 
the  world,  and  gleaned  together  an  immense  fortune,  it  is  need- 
less to  add  that  he  was  as  sharp  as  a  needle,  and  as  hard  as  a 
flint.  No  man  had  had  more  friends,  and  no  man  had  stuck  by 
them  more 'firmly — so  long  as  there  was  a  pound  in  their  pockets  ! 

Something  of  this  character  had  Randal  heard  of  theBaron,  and 
he  now  gazed,  first  at  his  card,  and  then  at  him,  with — admiration. 

"I  met  a  friend  of  yours  at  Borrowell's  the  other  day,"  re- 
sumed the. Baron — "Young  Hazeldean.  Careful  fellow — quite 
a  man  of  the  world." 

As  this  was  the  last  praise  poor  Frank  deserved,  Randal 
again  smiled. 


518  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

The  Baron  then  went  on — "I  hear,  Mr.  Leslie,  that  you  have 
much  influence  over  this  same  Hazeldean.  His  affairs  are  in  a 
sad  state.  I  should  be  very  happy  to  be  of  use  to  him,  as  a  re- 
lation of  my  friend  Egerton's  ;  but  he  understands  business  so 
well,  that  he  despises  my  advice." 

"I  am  sure  you  do  him  injustice." 

"  Injustice  !  I  honor  his  caution.  I  say  to  every  man, '  Don't 
come  to  me — I  can  get  you  money  on  much  easier  terms  than 
any  one  else  ;  and  what's  the  result !  You  come  so  often  that 
you  ruin  yourself ;  whereas  a  regular  usurer  without  conscience 
frightens  you.  "Cent,  per  cent,"  you  say;  "oh,  I  must  pull 
in."  '  If  you  have  influence  over  your  friend,  tell  him  to  stick 
to  his  bill-brokers,  and  have  nothing  to  do  .with  Baron  Levy." 

Here  the  minister's  bell  rang,  and  Randal,  looking  through  the 
window,  saw  Dr.  F.  walking  to  his  carriage,  which  had  made  way 
for  Baron'sLevy's  splendid  cabriolet — a  cabriolet  in  the  most  per- 
fect taste — Baron'scoronet  on  thedarkbrown  panels — horseblack, 
with  such  action! — harness  just  relieved  with  plating.  The  servant 
now  entered,  and  requested  Randal  to  step  in  ;  and  addressing 
the  Baron,  assured  him  that  he  would  not  be  detained  a  minute. 

"Leslie,"  said  the  minister,  sealing  a  note,  "  take  this  back  to 
Lord ,  and  say  that  I  shall  be  with  him  in  an  hour." 

"  No  other  message  ? — he  seemed  to  expect  one." 

"I  dare  say  he  did.  Well,  my  letter  is  official,  my  message 
is  not ;  beg  him  to  see  Mr. ;  before  we  meet — he  will  under- 
stand— all  rests  upon  that  interview." 

Egerton  then,  extending  the  letter,  resumed  gravely — "Of 
course,  you  will  not  mention  to  any  one  that.  Dr.  F.  was  with 
me  ;  the  health  of  public  men  is  not  to  be  suspected.  Hum — 
were  you  in  your  own  room  or  the  ante-room  ? " 

"  The  ante-room,  sir." 

Egerton's  brow  contracted,  slightly.  "And  Mr.  Levy  was 
there,  eh  ?" 

"Yes— the  Baron." 

"Baron  !  true.  Come  to  plague  me  about  the  Mexican  loan, 
I.  suppose.  I  will  keep  you  no  longer." 

Randal,  much  meditating,  left  the  house,  and  re-entered  his 
hack  cab.  The  Baron  was  admitted  to  the  statesman's  presence. 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

• 

EGERTON  had  thrown  himself  at  full  length  on  the  sofa,  a 
position  exceedingly  rare  with  him;  and  about  his  whole  air  and 
manner,  as  Levy  entered,  there  was  something  singularly  differ- 
ent from  that  stateliness  of  port  common  to  the  austere  legislator. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  519 

The  very  tone  of  his  voice  was  different.  It  was  as  if  the  states- 
man— the  man  of  business— had  vanished;  it  was  rather  the 
man  of  fashion  and  the  idler,  who,  nodding  languidly  to  his 
visitor,  said,  "  Levy,  what  money  can  I  have  for  a  year  ? " 

"  The  estate  will  bear  very  little  more.  My  dear  fellow,  that  last 
election  was  the  very  devil.  You  cannot  go  on  thus  much  longer." 

"My  dear  fellow  !  "  Baron  Levy  hailed  Audley  Egerton  as 
"  my  dear  fellow."  And  Audley  Egerton,  perhaps,  saw  nothing 
strange  in  the  words,  though  his  lip  curled. 

"  I  shall  not  want  to  go  on  thus  much  longer,"  answered 
Egerton,  as  the  curl  on  his  lip  changed  to  a  gloomy  smile. 
"The  estate  must,  meanwhile,  bear  ^5000  more." 

"A  hard  pull  on'  it.     You  had  really  better  sell." 

"  I  cannot  afford  to  sell  at  present.  I  cannot  afford  men  to 
say  '  Audley  Egerton  is  done  up — his  property  is  for  sale.' " 

"  It  is  very  sad  when  one  thinks  what  a  rich  man  you  have 
been — and  may  be  yet !  •" 

"  Be  yet !     How  ?  " 

Baron  Levy  glanced  toward  the  thick  mahogany  doors— rthick 
and  impervious  as  should  be  the"  doors  of  statesmen.  "Why, 
you  know  that,  with  three  words  from  you,  I  could  produce  an 
effect  upon  the  stocks  of  three  nations,  that  might  give  us  each 
a  hundred  thousand  pounds.  We  would  go  shares." 

"  Levy,"  said  :Egerton,  coldly,  though  a  deep  blush  over- 
spread his  face,  "you  are  a  scoundrel;  that  is  your  lookout.  I 
interfere  with  no  man's  tastes  and  conscience.  I  don't  intend 
to  be  a  scoundrel  myself.  I  have  told  you  that  long  ago." 

The  usurer's  brows  darkened,  but  he  dispelled  the  cloud  with 
an  easy  laugh. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "you  are  neither  wise  nor  complimentary, 
but  you  shall  have  the  money.  But  yet,  would  it  not  be  better," 
added  Levy,  with  emphasis,  "  to  borrow  it  without  interest,  of 
your  friend  L'Estrange  ?  " 

Egerton  started  as  if  stung. 

"  You  mean  to  taunt  me,  sir  !  "  he  exclaimed,  passionately. 
"  I  accept  pecuniary  favors  from  Lord  L'Estrange  ! — I !  " 

"  Tut,  my  dear  Egerton,  I  dare  say  my  lord  would  not  think 
so  ill  now  of  that  act  in  your  life  which — " 

"  Hold  !  "  exclaimed  Egerton,  writhing.     "  Hold  !  " 

He  stopped  and  paced  the  room,  muttering  in  broken  sen- 
tences, "To  blush  before  this  man!  Chastisement,  chastisement!" 

Levy  gazed  on  him  with  hard  and  sinister  eyes.  The  minis- 
ter turned  abruptly. 

"Look  you,  Levy,"  said  he,  with  forced  composure — "you 
hate  me — why,  I  know  not."  _  _ 


520  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  Hate  you  !  How  have  I  shown  hatred  ?  Would  you  ever 
have  lived  in  this  palace,  and  ruled  this  country  as  one  of  the 
most  influential  of  its  ministers,  but  for  my  management — my 
whispers  to  the  wealthy  Miss  Leslie  ?  Come,  but  for  me  what 
would  you  have  been — perhaps  a  beggar  ?  " 

"  What  shall  I  be  now,  if  I  live  ?  And  this  fortune  which 
my  marriage  brought  to  me — it  has  passed  for  the  main  part  into 
your  hands.  Be  patient,  you  will  have  it  all  ere  long.  But 
there  is  one  man  in  the  world  who  has  loved  me  from  a  boy,  and 
woe  to  you  if  ever  he  learn  that  he  has  a  right  to  despise  me!  " 

"  Egerton,  my  good  fellow,"  said  Levy,  with  great  composure, 
"  you  need  not  threaten  me,  for  what  interest  can  I  possibly 
have  in  tale-telling  to  Lord  L'Estrange  ?  Again,  dismiss  from 
your  mind  the  absurd  thought  that  I'hate  you.  True,  you  snub  me 
in  private,  you  cut  me  in  public,  you  refuse  to  come'to  my  dinners, 
you'll  not  ask  me  to  your  own;  still  there  is  no  man  I  like  better, 
nor  would  more  willingly  serve.  When  do  you  want  the  -^"5000?" 

"  Perhaps  in  one  month,  perhaps  not  for  three  or  four.  Let 
it  be  ready  when  required." 

"  Enough;  depend  on  it.     Have  you  any  other  commands  ?" 

"  None."  :  •  ,:• 

"  I  will  take  my  leave,  then.  By-the-bye,  what  do  you  sup- 
pose the  Hazeldean  rental  is  worth— net  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  nor  care.  You  have  no  designs  upon  that  tool  " 

"Weil,  I  like  keeping  up  family  connections.  Mr.  Frank 
seems  ajiberal  young  gentleman." 

Before  Egerton  could  answer,  the  Baron  had  glided  to  the 
door,  and,  nodding  pleasantly,  vanished  with  that  nod. 

Egerton  remained  standing  on  his  solitary  hearth.  A  drear, 
single  man's  room  it  was,  from  wall  to  wall,  despite  its  fretted 
ceilings  and  official  pomp  of  Bramah  escritoires  and  red  boxes. 
Drear  and  cheerless— no  trace  of  woman's  habitation — no  ves- 
tige of  intruding,  happy  children.  There  stood  the  austere 
man  alone.  And  then,  with  a  deep  sigh,  he  muttered,  "Thank 
Heaven,  not  for  long — it  will  hot  last  long." 

Repeating  those  words,  he  mechanically  locked  up  his  papers, 
and  pressed  his  hand  to  his  heart  for  an  instant,  as  if  a  spasm 
had  shot  through  it. 

"So — I  must  shun  all  emotion !"  said  he.shakihghisheadgently. 

In  five  minutes  more,  Audley  Egerton  was  in  the  streets,  his 
mien  erect,  and  his  step  firm  as  ever. 

"That  man  is  made  of  bronze,"  said  a  leader  of  the  Opposi- 
tion to  a  friend  as  they  rode  past  the  minister.  "What  would 
I  not  give  for  his  nerves  !  " 


MY   NOVEL. 

BOOK  NINTH— INITIAL  CHAPTER. 

ON   PUBLIC    LIFE. 

Now  that  I  am  fairly  in  the  heart  of  my  story,  these  prelimin- 
ary chapters  must  shrink  into  comparatively  small  dimensions, 
and  not  encroach  upon  the  space  required  by  the  various  per- 
sonages whose  acquaintance  I  have  picked  up  here  and.  there, 
and  who  are  now  all  crowding  upon  me  like  poor  relations  to 
wh6m  one  has  unadvisedly  given  a  general  invitation,  arid  who 
descend  upon  one  simultaneously  about  Christmas  time.  Where 
they  are  to  be  stowed,  and  what  is  to  become  of  them  all,  Heaven 
knows;  in  the  meanwhile,  the  reader  will  have  already  observed 
that  the  Caxton  Family  themselves  are  turned  out  of  their  own 
rooms,  sent  a-packing,  in  order  to  make  way  for  the  new  comers. 

But  to  proceed. — Note  the  heading  to  the. present  chapter, 
"  PUBLIC  LIFE,"— a  thesis  pertinent  to  this  portion  of  my  narra- 
tive, and  if  somewhat  trite  in  itself,  the  greater  is  the  stimulus 
to  suggest  thereon  some  original  hints  for  reflection. 

Were  you  ever  in  public  life,  my  dear  reader  ?,  I  don't  mean, 
by  that  question,  to  ask  whether  you  were  ever  Lord  Chancellor, 
Prime  Minister,  Leader  of  the  Opposition,  or  even  a  member  of 
the  House  of  Commons.  An  author  hopes  to  find  readers  far 
beyond  that  very  egregious  but  very  limited  segment  of  the  Great 
Circle.  Were  you  ever  a  busy  man  in  your  vestry,  active  in  a, 
municipal  corporation,  one  of  a  committee  for  furthering  the 
interests  of  an  enlightened  candidate  for  your  native  burgh,  town, 
or  shire  ? — in  a  word,  did  you  ever  resign  your  private  comforts 
as  men  in  order  to  share  the  public  troubles  of  mankind  ?  If 
ever  you  have  so  far  departed  from  the  Lucretian  philosophy, 
just  look  back — was  it  life  at  all  that  you  lived  ? — were  you  an 
individual  distinct  existence — a  passenger  in  the  railway? — or 
were  you  merely  an  indistinct  portion  of  that  common  flame  which 
heated  the  boiler  and  generated  the  steam,  that  set  off  the  mon- 
ster train  ? — .very  hot,  very  active,  veryuseful,  no  doubt;  but  all 
your  identity  fused  in  flame  and  all  your  forces  vanishing  in  gas.' 

And  do  you  think  the  people  in  the  railway  carriages  care  for 
you  ? — do  you  think  that  the  gentleman  in  the  worsted  wrapper 
is  saying  to  his  neighbor  with  the  striped  rug  on  his  comfortable 
knees,  "  How  grateful  we  ought  to  be  for  that  fiery  particle  which 

is  cracking  and  hissing  under  the  boiler !     It  helps  us  on  "  ^ac- 

r 

Vol.  * 


4  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

tion  of  an  inch  from  Vauxhall  to  Putney  !  "  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Ten 
to  one  but  he  is  saying1 — "  Not  sixteen  miles  an  hour  !  What  the 
deuce  is  the  matter  with  the  stoker?" 

Look  at  our  friend,  Audley  Egerton.  You  have  just  had  a 
glimpse  of  the  real  being  that  struggles  under  the  huge  copper ; 
you  have  heard  the  hollow  sound  of  the  rich  man's  coffers  under 
the  tap  of  Baron  Levy's  friendly  knuckle — heard  the  strong  man's 
heart  give  out  its  dull  warning  sound  to  trie  scientific  ear  of  Dr. 

F- .  And  away  once  more  vanishes  the  separate  existence, 

lost  again  in  the  flame  that  heats  the  boiler,  and  the  smoke  that 
curls  into  air  from  the  grimy  furnace. 

Look  to  it,  O  Public  Man,  whoever  thou  art,  and  whatsoever 
thy  degree— see  if  thou  canst  not  compound  matters,  so  as  to 
keep  a  little  nook  apart  for  tlhy  private  life ;  that  is  for  thyself ! 
Let  the  great  Popkins  Question  not  absorb  wholly  the  individ- 
ual soul  of  thee,  as  Smith  or  Johnson.  Don't  so  entirely  con- 
sume thyself  under  that  insatiable  boiler,  that  when  thy  poor 
little  monad  rushes  out  from  the  sooty  furnace,  and  arrives  at  the 
stars,  thou  mayest  find  no  vocation  for  thee  there,  and  feel  as  if 
thou  hadst  nothing  to  do  amidst  the  still  splendors  of  the  In- 
finite. I  don't  deny  to  thee  the  uses  of  "  Public  Life  ";  I  grant 
that  it  is  much  to  have  helped  to  carry  that  great  Popkins  Ques- 
tion ;  but  Private  Life,  my  friend,  is  the  life  of  thy  private  soul; 
and  there  may  be  matters  concerned  with  that  which,  on  con- 
sideration, thou  mayest  allow,  cannot  be  wholly  mixed  up  with 
the  great  Popkins  Question — and  were  not  finally  settled  when 
thou  didst  exclaim— "I  have  not  lived  in  vain — the  Popkins 
Question  is  carried  at  last !  "  Oh  immortal  soul,  for  one  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  per  diem — de-Popkinise  thine  immortality ' 

CHAPTER  II. 

IT  had  not  been  without  much  persuasion  on  the  part  of  Jack- 
eymo,  that  Riccabocca  had  consented  to  settle  himself  in  the 
house  which  Randal  had  recommended  to  him.  Not  that  the  ex- 
ile conceived  any  suspicion  of  the  young  man  beyond  that  which 
he  might  have  shared  with  Jackeymo,  viz.,  that  Randal's  inter- 
est in  the  father  was  increased  by  a  very  natural  and  excusable 
admiration  of 'the  daughter.  But  the  Italian  had  the  pride  com- 
mon to  misfortune — he  did  not  like  to  be  indebted  to  others, 
and  he  shrank  from  the  pity  of  those  to  whom  it  was  known  that 
he  had  held  a  higher  station  in  his  own  land.  These  scruples 
gave  way  to  the  strength  of  his  affection  for  his  daughter  and  his 
dread  of  his  foe.  Good  men,  however  able  and  brave,  who  have 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  5 

suffered  from  the  wicked,  are  apt  to  form  exaggerated  notions 
of  the  power  that  has  prevailed  against  them.  Jackeymo  had 
conceived  a  superstitious  terror  of  Peschiera  ;  and  Riccabocca, 
though  by  no  means  addicted  to  superstition,  still  had  a  certain 
creep  of  the  flesh  whenever  he  thought  of  his  foe. 

But  Riccabocca — than  whom  no  man  was  more  physically 
brave,  and  no  man  in  some  respects  more  morally  timid — feared 
the  Count  less  as  a  foe  than  as  a  gallant.  He  remembered  his 
kinsman's  surpassing  beauty — the  power  he  had  obtained  over 
women.  He  knew  him  versed  in  every  art  that  corrupts-  and 
wholly  void  of  the  conscience  that  deters.  And  Riccabocca  had 
unhappily  nursed  himself  into  so  poor  an  estimate  of  the  female 
character,  that  even  the  pure  and  lofty  nature  of  Violante  did 
not  seem  to  him  a  sufficient  safeguard  against  the  craft  and 
determination  of  a  practised  and  remorseless  intriguer.  But  of  all 
the  precautions  he  could  take,  none  appeared  more  likely  to  con- 
duce to  safety,  than  his  establishing  a  friendly  communication 
with  one  who  professed  to  be  able  to  get  at  all  the  Count's  plans 
and  movements,  and  who  could  apprise  Riccabocca  at  once  should 
his  retreat  be  discovered.  "Forewarned  is  forearmed,"  said  hfe 
to  himself,  in  one  of  the  proverbs  common  to  all  nations. :  How- 
ever, as  with  his  usual  sagacity  he  came  to  reflect  upon  the 
alarming  intelligence  conveyed  to  him  by  Randal,  viz.,  that  the 
Count  sought  his  daughter's  hand,  he  divined  that  there  was  some 
strong  personal  interest  under  such  ambition  ;  and  what  could 
be  that  interest  save  the  probability  of  Riccabocca's  ultimate  ad- 
mission to  the  Imperial  grace,  and  the  Count's  desire  to  assure 
himself  of  the  heritage  to  an  estate  that  he  might  be  permitted 
to  retain  no  more  ?  Riccabocca  was  not  indeed  aware  of  the 
condition  (not  according  to  usual  customs  in  Austria)  on  which 
the  Count  held  the  forfeited  domains.  He  knew  riot  that  they 
had  been  granted  merely  on  pleasure  ;  but  he  was  too  well  aware 
of  Peschiera's  nature  to  suppose  that  he  would  woo  a  bride 
without  a  dower,  or  be  moved  by  remorse  in  any  overture  of  recon- 
ciliation. He  felt  assured  too — and  this  increased  all  his  fears — 
that  Peschiera  would  'never  venture  to  seek  an  interview  with 
himself  ;  all  the  Count's  designs  on  Violante  would  be  dark,  se- 
cret, and  clandestine.  He  was  perplexed  and  tormented  by  the 
doubt,,  whether  or  not  to  express  openly  to  Violante  his  appre- 
hensions of  the  nature  of  the  danger  to  be  apprehended.  He  had 
told  her  vaguely  that  it  was  for  her  sake  that  he  desired  secrecy 
and  concealment.  But  that  might  mean  anything  ;  what  danger 
to  himself  would  not  menace  her?  Yet  to  say  more  was  so  con- 
Vary  to  a  man  of  his  Italian  notions  and  Machiavellian  maxims? 


6  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

To  say  to  a  young  girl,  "  There  is  a  man  come  over  to  England 
on  purpose  to  woo  and  win  you.  For  Heaven's  sake  take  care 
of  him  ;  he  is  diabolically  handsome  ;  he  never  fails  where  he  sets 
his  heart." — "  Cospe tto!"  cried  the  Doctor,  aloud,  as  these  ad- 
monitions shaped  themselves  to  speech  in  the  camera-obscura  of 
his  brain  ;  "  such  a  warning  would  have  undone  a  Cornelia  while 
she  was  yet  an  innocent  spinster."  No,  he  resolved  to  say  noth- 
ing to  Violante  of  the  Count's  intention,  only  to  keep  guard,  and 
make  himself  and  Jackeymo  all  eyes  and  ears. 

The  house  Randal  had  selected  pleased  Riccaboccaat  the  first 
glance.  It  stood  alone,  upon  a  little  eminence  ;  its  upper  win- 
dows commanded  the  high  road.  It  had  been  a  school,  and  was 
surrounded  by  high  walls,  which  contained  a  garden  and  a  lawn, 
sufficiently  large  for  exercise.  The  garden  doors  were  thick,  for- 
tified by  strong  bolts,  and  had  a  little  wicket  lattice,  shut  and 
opened  at  pleasure,  from  which  Jackeymo  could  inspect  all  vis- 
itors before  he  permitted  them  to  enter. 

An  old  female  servant  from  the  neighborhood  was  cautiously 
hired  ;  Riccabocca  renounced  his  Italian  name,  and  abjured  his 
origin.  He  spoke  English  sufficiently  well  to  think  he  could  pass 
as  an  Englishman.  He  called  himself  Mr.  Richmouth  (a  liberal 
translation  of  Riccabocca).  He  bought  a  blunderbuss,  two  pairs 
of  pistols,  and  a  huge  house-dog.  Thus  provided  for,  he  allowed 
Jackeymo  to  write  a  line  to  Randal  and  communicate  his  arrival. 

Randal  lost  no  time  in  calling.  With  his  usual  adaptability,  and 
his  power  of  dissimulation,  he  contrived  easily  to  please  Mrs.  Ric- 
cabocca, and  to  increase  the  good  opinion  the  exile  was  disposed 
to  form  of  him.  He  engaged  Violante  in  conversation  on  Italy 
and  its  poets.  He  promised  to  bring  her  books.  He  began,  though 
more  distantly  than  he  could  have  desired — 'for  her  sweet  stateli- 
ness  awed  him — the  preliminaries  of  courtship*.  He  established 
himself  at  once  as  a  familiar  guest,  riding  down  daily. in  the  dusk 
of  evening  after  the  toils  of  office,  and  retiring  at  night.  In  four 
or  five  days  he  thought  he  had  made  great  progress  with  all.  Ric- 
cabocca watched  him  narrowly,  and  grew  absorbed  in  thought 
after  every  visit.  At  length  one  night,  when  he  and  Mrs.  Ric- 
cabocca were  alone  in  the  drawing-room,  Violante  having  retired 
to  rest,  he  thus  spoke  as  he  filled  his  pipe  : — 

"Happy  is  the  man  who  has  no  children  !  Thrice  happy  he 
who  has  no  girls  !  " 

"  My  dear  Alphonso  ! "  said  the  wife,  looking  up  from  the  wrist- 
band to  which  she  was  attaching  a  neat  mother-o'-pearl  button. 
She  said  no  more  ;  it  was  the  sharpest  rebuke  she  was  in  the  cus- 
tom of  administering  to  her  husband's  cynical  and  odious  obser- 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  7 

rations.  Riccabocca  lighted  his  pipe  with  a  thread-paper,  gave 
three  great  puffs,  and  resumed, — 

"One  blunderbuss,  four  pistols,  and  a  house-dog  called  Pom- 
pey,  who  would  have  made  mincemeat  of  Julius  Caesar ! " 

"  He  certainly  eats  a  great  deal,  does  Pompey! "  said  Mrs,  Ric- 
cabocca, simply.  "But  if  he  relieves  your  mind  !" 

"  He  does  not  relieve  it  in  the  least,  ma'am,"  groaned  Ricca- 
bocca ;  "  and  that  is  the  point  I  was  coming  to.  This  is  a  most 
harassing  life,  and  a  most  undignified  life.  And  I  who  have  only 
asked  from  Heaven  dignity  and  repose  !  But  if  Violante  were 
once  married,  I  should  want  neither  blunderbuss,  pistol,  nor  Pom- 
pey. And  it  is  that  which  would  relieve  my  mind,  cara  mia — 
Pompey  only  relieves  my  larder  !  " 

Now  Riccabocca  had  been  more  communicative  to  Jemima 
than  he  had  been  to  Violante.  Having  once  trusted  her  with 
one  secret,  he  had  every  motive  to  trust  her  with  another;  and 
he  had'  accordingly  spoken  out  his  fears  of  the  Count  di  Pes- 
chiera.  Therefore  she  answered,  laying  down  the  work,  and 
taking  her  husband's  hand  tenderly — 

"  Indeed,  my  lovej  since  you  dread  so  much  (though  I  own 
that  I  must  think  unreasonably)  this  wicked,  dangerous  man,  it 
would  be  the  happiest  thing  in  the  world  to  see  dear  Violante 
well  married;  because,  you  see,  if  she  is  married  to  one  person 
she  cannot  be  married  to  another;  and  all  fear  of  this  Count, 
as  you  say,  would  be  at  an  end." 

"  You  cannot  express  yourself  better.  It  is  a  great  comfort 
to  unbosom  one's-self  to  a  wife,  after  all  ! "  quoth  Riccabocca. 

"  But,"  said  the  wife,  after  a  grateful  kiss — "but,  where  and 
how  can  we  find  a  husband  suitable  to  the  rank  of  your 
daughter  ? " 

"  There— there — there,"  cried  Riccabocca,  pushing  back  his 
chair  to  the  farther  end  of  the  room—"  that  comes  of  unbosom- 
ing one's-self  I  Out  flies  one's  secret;  it  is  opening  the  lid  of 
Pandora's  box;  one  is  betrayed,  ruined,  undone  !  " 

"Why,  there's  not  a  sour  that  can  hear  us!"  said  Mrs. 
Riccabocca,  soothingly. 

"  That's  chance,  ma'am  !  If  you  once  contract  the  habit  of 
blabbing  out  a  secret  when  nobody's  by,  how  on  earth  can  you 
resist  it  when  you  have  the  pleasurable  excitement  of  telling  it 
to  all  the  world  ?  Vanity,  vanity — woman's  vanity-!  Woman 
never  could  withstand  rank — never  !  "  The  doctor  went  on 
railing  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  was  very  reluctantly  ap- 
peased by  Mrs.  Riccabocca's  repeated  and  tearful  assurances, 
that  she  would  never  even  whisper  to  herself  that  her  husband 


8  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR 

had  ever  held  any  other  rank  than  that  of  Doctor.     Riccabocca, 
with  a  dubious  shake  of  the  head,  renewed — 

"I  have  done  with -all  pomp  and  pretension.  Besides,  the 
young  man  is  a  born  gentleman  ;  he  seems  in  good  circum- 
stances; he  has  energy  and  latent  ambition;  he  is  akin  to  L'Es- 
trange's  intimate  friend;  he  seems  attached  to  Violante.  I 
don't  think  it  probable  that  we  could  do  better.  Nay,  if  Pes- 
chiera  fears  that  I  shall  be  restored  to  my  country,  and  I  learn 
the  wherefore,  and  the  ground  to  take,  through  this  young  man — 
why,  gratitude  is  the  first  virtue  of  the  noble  ! " 

"You  speak,  then,  of  Mr.  Leslie?" 

"  To  be  sure — of  whom  else  ?  " 

Mrs.  Riccabocca  leaned  her  cheek  on  her  hand  thoughtfully. 
"  Npw  you  have  told  me  that,  I  will  observe  him  with  different 
eyes." 

" \Anima  mt'a,  I  don't  see  how  the  difference  of  your  eyes  will 
alter  the  object  they  look  upon  J  "  grumbled  Riccabocca,  shak- 
ing the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe. 

"The  object  alters  when  we  see  it  in  a  different  point  of 
view  !  "  -replied  Jemima,  modestly.  "  This  thread  does  very 
well  when  I  look  at  it  in  order  to  sew  on  a  button,  but  1  should 
say  it  would  never  do  to  tie  up  Pompey  in  his  kennel." 

"Reasoning  by  illustration,  upon  my  soul!"  ejaculated 
Riccabocca,  amazed. 

And,  continued  Jemima,  "when  I  am  to  regard  one  who 
is  to  constitute  the  happiness  of  that  dear  child,  arid  for  life, 
can  I  regard  him  as  I  would  the  pleasant  guest  of  an  evening  ? 
Ah,  trust  me,  Alphonso;  I  don't  pretend  to  be  wise  like  you; 
but  when  a  woman  considers  what  a  man  Is  Jikely  to  prove  to 
woman — his  sincerity — his  honor — his  heart— oh,  trust  me,  she 
is  wiser  than  the  wisest  man.!  "  *,.. 

Ricqabocca  continued  to  gaze  on  Jemima  with  unaffected 
admiration  and  surprise.  And,  certainly,  to  use  his  phrase, 
since  he  had  unbosomed  himself  to  his  better  half — since  he 
had  confided  in  her,  consulted  with  her,  her  sense  had  seemed 
to  quicken,  her  whole  mind  to  expand. 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  sage,  "  I,  vow  and  declare  that  Machia- 
velli  was  a  fool  to  you.  And  I  have  been  as  dull  as  the  chair  I 
sit  upon,  to  deny  myself  so  many  years  the  comfort  and  counsel 
of  such  a-'-but,  corpo  di  Bacco  !  forget  all  about  rank;  and  so 
now  to  bed. — One  must  not  holloa  till  one's  out  of  the  wood," 
muttered  the  ungrateful,  suspicious  villain,  as  he  lighted  the 
chamber-candle. 

. 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE. 


CHAPTER  III. 

RICCABOCCA  could  not  confine  himself  to  the  precincts  within 
the  walls  to  which  he  condemned  Violante.  Resuming  his 
spectacles,  and  wrapped  in  his  cloak,  he  occasionally  sallied 
forth  upon  a  kind  of  out-watch  or  reconnoitring  expedition, — • 
restricting  himself,  however,  to  the  immediate  neighborhood, 
and  never  going  quite  out  of  sight  of  his  house.  His  favorite 
walk  was  to  the  summit  of  a  hillock  overgrown  with  stunted 
brushwood.  Here  he  would  sit  himself  musingly,  often  till  the 
hoofs  of  Randal's  horse  rang  on  the  winding  road,  as  the  sun 
set  over  fading  herbage,  red  and  vaporous,  in  autumnal  skies. 
Just  below  the  hillock,  and  not  two  hundred  yards  from  his  own 
house,  was  the  only  other  habitation  in  view — a  charming, 
thoroughly  English  cottage,  though  somewhat  imitated  from 
the  Swiss, — with  gable-ends,  thatched  roof,  and  pretty  project- 
ing casements,  opening  through  creepers  and  climbing  roses. 
From  his  height  he  commanded  the  gardens  of  this  cottage,  and. 
his  eye  of  artist  was  pleased,  from  the  first  sight,  with  the  beauty 
which  some  exquisite  taste  had  given  to  the  ground.  Even  in 
that  cheerless  season  of  the  year,  the  garden  wore  a  summer 
smile;  the  evergreens  were  so  bright  and  various,  and  the  few 
flowers  still  left,  so  hardy  and  so  healthful.  Facing  the  south, 
a  colonnade,  or  covered  gallery,  of  rustic  wood-work  had  been 
formed,  and  creeping  plants,  lately  set,  were  already  beginning 
to  clothe  its  columns.  Opposite  to  the  colonnade  there  was  a 
fountain,  which1  reminded  Riccabocca  of  his  own  at  the  de- 
serted Casino.  It  was  indeed  singularly  like  it;  the  same  cir- 
cular shape,  the  same  girdle  of  flowers  around  it  But  the  jet 
from.it  varied  everyday — fantastic  and  multiform,  like  the 
sports  of  a  Naiad,— ^sometimes  shooting  up  like  a  tree,  some- 
times shaped  as  a  convolvulus,  sometimes  tossing  from  its  silver 
spray  a  flower  of  vermilion,  or  a  fruit  of  gold,  as  if  at  play  with 
its  toy,  like  a  happy  child.  And  near  the  fountain  was  a  large 
aviary,  large  enough  to  enclose  a  tree.  The  Italian  could  just 
catch  a  gleam  of  rich  color  from  the  wings  of  the  birds,  as  they 
glanced  to  and  fro  within  the  network,  and  could  hear  their 
songs,  contrasting  the  silence  of  the  freer  populace  of  air,  whom 
the  coming  winter  had  already  stilled. 

Riccabocca's  eye,  so  alive  to  all  aspects  of  beauty,  luxuriated 
in  the  view  of  this  garden.  Its  pleasantness  had  a  charm  that 
stole  him  from  his  anxious  fear  and  melancholy  memories. 

He  never  saw  but  two  forms  within  the  demesnes,  and  he 


16  MY    NOVEL  ;   OR, 

could  not  distinguish  their  features.  One  was  a  woman,  who 
seemed  to  him  of  staid  manner  and  homely  appearance;  she 
was  seen  but  rarely.  The  other  a  man,  often  pacing  to  and  fro 
the  colonnade,  with  frequent  pauses  before  the  playful  fountain, 
or  the  birds  that  sang  louder  as  he  approached.  This;  latter 
form  would  then  disappear  within  a  room,  the  glass  door  of 
which  was  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  colonnade;  and  if  the  door 
were  left  open,  Riccabocca  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  figure 
bending  over  a  table  covered  with  books. 

Always,  however,  before  the  sun  set,  the-man  would  step  forth 
more  briskly,  and  occupy  himself  with  the  garden,  often  work- 
ing at  it  with  good  heart,  as  if  at  a  task  of  delight;  and  then, 
too,  the  woman  would  come  out,  and  stand  by,  as  if  talking  to 
her  companion.  Riccabocca's  curiosity  grew  aroused.  He 
bade  Jemima  inquire  of  the  old  maid-servant  who  lived  at  the 
cottage,  and. heard  that  its  owner  was  a  Mr.  Oran — 'a  quiet  gen- 
tleman, and  fond  of  his  book. 

While  Riccabocca  thus  amused  himself,  Randal  had  not  been 
prevented,  either  by  his  official  cares  or  his  schemes  on  Violante's 
heart  and  fortune,  from  furthering  the  project  that  was  to  unite 
Frank  Hazeldean  and  Beatrice  di  Negra.  Indeed,  as  to  the 
first,  a  ray  of  hope  was  sufficient  to  fire  the  ardent  and  unsus- 
pecting lover.  And  Randal's  artful  misrepresentation  of  his 
conference  with  Mrs.  Hazeldean  removed  all  fear,  of  parental 
displeasure  from:  a  mind  always  too  disposed  to  give  itself  up 
to  the  temptation  of  the  moment.  Beatrice,  though  her  feelings 
for  Frank  were  not  those  of  love,,  became  more  and  more  influ- 
enced by  Randal's  arguments  and  representations,  the  more 
especially  as  her  brother  :grew  morose,  and  even  menacing,  as 
days  slipped  on,  and  she  could  give  no  clue  to  the  retreat  of 
those  whom  he  sought  for.  Her  debts,  too,  were  really  urgent. 
As  Randal's;  profound  knowledge  of  human  infirmity  had 
shrewdly  conjectured,  the  scruples  of  honor  and  pride,  that  had 
made  her  declare  she  would  not  bring  to  a  husband  her  own 
encumbrances,  began  to  yield  to  the  pressure  of  necessity.  She 
listened  already,  with  but  faint  objections,  when  Randal  urged 
her  not  to  wait  for  the  uncertain  discovery  that  was  to  secure 
her  dowry,  but  by  a  private  marriage  with. Frank  escape  at  once 
into  freedom  and  security.  While,  though  he  had  first  held  out 
to  young  Hazeldean  the  inducement  of  Beatrice's  dowry  as  a 
reason  of  self-justification  in  the  eyes  of  the  Squire,  it  was  still 
easier  to  drop  that  inducement,  which  had  always  rather  damped 
than  fired  the  high  spirit  and  generous  heart  of  the  poor  Guards- 
man, And  Randal  could  conscientiously  say,  that  when  he  had 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  II 

asked  the  Squire  if  he  expected  fortune  with  Frank's  bride,  the 
Squire  had  replied, — "I  don't  care."  Thus  encouraged  by  his 
friend  and  his  own  heart,  and  the  softening  manner  of  a  woman 
who  might  have  charmed  many  a  colder,  and  fooled  many  a 
wiser  man,  Frank  rapidly  yielded  to  the  snares  held  out  for  his 
perdition.  And  though,  as  yet,  he  honestly  shrank  from  pro- 
posing to  Beatrice  or  himself  a  marriage  without  the  consent, 
and  even  the  knowledge,  of  his  parents,  yet  Randal  was  quite 
content  to  -leave  a  nature,  however  good,  so  thoroughly  impul- 
sive and  undisciplined,  to  the  influences  of  the  first  strong  pas- 
sion it  had -ever  known.  Meanwhile,  it  was  so  easy  to  dissuade 
Frank  from  ever  giving  a  hint  to  the  folks  at  home.  "For," 
said  the  wily  and  able  traitor,  "  though  we  may  be  sure  of  Mrs. 
Hazeldean's  consent,  and  her  power  over  your  father,  when  the 
step,  is  once  taken,  yet  we  cannot  count  for  certain  on  the 
Squire,  he  is  so  choleric  and  hasty.  He  might  hurry  to  town, 
see  Madame  di  Negra,  blurt  out  some  passionate,  rude  expres- 
sions" which  would  wake  her  resentment,  and  cause  her  instant 
rejection;  and  it  might  be  too  late  if  he  repented  afterward, — 
as  he  would  be  sure  to  do." 

Meanwhile,  Randal  Leslie  gave  a  dinner  at  the  Clarendon 
Hotel  (an  extravagance  most  contrary  to  his  habits)  and  invited 
Frank,  Mr.  Borrovvell,  ahd:  Baron  Levy. : 

But  this  house-spider,  which  glided  with  so  much  ease  after 
its  flies,  through  webs  so  numerous  and  mazy,  had  yet  to  amuse 
Madame  di  Negra  with  assurances  that  the  fugitives  sought 
for  would  sooner  or  later  be  discovered.  Though  Randal 
baffled  and  eluded  her  suspicion  that  he  was  already  acquainted 
with  the  exile's  ("  the  persons  he  had  thought  of  were,"  he  said, 
"quite  different  from  her  description  ;  "  and  he  even  presented 
to  heran  old  singing-master,  and  a  sallow-faced  daughter,  as 
the  Italians  who  had  caused  his  mistake),  it  was  necessary  for 
Beatrice  to  prove  the  sincerity  of  the  aid  she  had  promised  to 
her  brother,  and  to  introduce  Randal  to  the  Count.  It  was  no 
less  desirable  to  Randal  to  know,  and  even  win  the  confidence 
of,  this  man — his  rival. 

The  two  met  at  Madame  di  Negra's  house.  There  is  some- 
thing very  strange,  and  almost  mesmerical,  in  the  rapport 
between  two  evil  natures.  Bring  two  honest  men  together, 
and  it  is  ten  to  one  if  they  recognize  each  other  as  honest  ; 
differences  in  temper,  manner,  even  politics,  may  make  each 
misjudge  the  other.  But  bring  together  two  men,  Unprincipled 
and  perverted — men  who,  if  born  in  a  cellar,  would  have  been 
food  for  the  hulks  or  gallows — and  they  understand  each  other 


12  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

by  instant  sympathy.  The  eyes  of  Franzini,  Count  di  Peschiera, 
and  .Randal  Leslie  no  sooner  met,  than  a  gleam  of  intelligence 
shot  from  both.  They  talked  on  different  subjects — weather, 
gossip,  politics — what  not.  They  bowed  and  they  smiled  ;  but, 
all  the  while,  each  was  watching,  plumbing  the  other's  heart, 
each  measuring  his  strength  with  his  companion ;  each  inly 
saying,  "This  is  a  very  remarkable  rascal ;  am  I  a  match  for 
him  ? "  It  was  at  dinner  they  met ;  and  following  the  English 
fashion,  Madame  di  Negra  left  them  alone  with  their  wine. 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  Count  di  Peschiera  cautiously  and 
adroitly  made  a  covered  push  toward  the  object  of  the  meeting. 

"You  have  never  been  abroad,  my  dear  sir?  You  must  con- 
trive to  visit  me  at  Vienna.  I  grant  the  splendor  of  your  Lon- 
don world  ;  but,  honestly  speaking,  it  wants  the  freedom  of 
ours — -a  freedom  which  unites  gaiety  with  polish.  For,  as  your 
society  is  mixed,  there  are  pretension  and  effort  with  those  who 
have  no  right  to  be  in  it,  and  artificial  condescension  and  chill- 
ing arrogance  with  those  who  have  to  keep  their  inferiors  at  a 
certain  distance.  With  us,  all  being  of  fixed  rank  and  acknowl- 
edged birth,  familiarity  is  at  once  established.  Hence,"  added  the 
Count,  with  his  French  lively  smile — "hence  there  is  no  place  like 
Vienna  for  ayoungman — noplacelikeViennafor&7««<?,r/0r/#tf<f.y." 

"  Those  make  the  paradise  of  the  idle,"  replied  Randal,  "but 
the  purgatory  of  the  busy.  I  confess  frankly  to  you,  my  dear 
Count,  that  I  have  as  little  of  the  leisure  which  becomes  the 
aspirer  to  bonnes  fortunes  as  I  have  the  personal  graces  which 
obtain  them  without  an  effort ";  and  he  inclined  his  head  as  in 
compliment. 

"So,"  thought  the  Count,  "woman  is  not  his  weak  side. 
What  is?" 

"  Morbleu  !  my  dear  Mr.  Leslie — had  I  thought  as  you  do 
some  years  since,  I  had  saved  myself  from  many  a  trouble. 
After  all,  Ambition  is  the  best  mistress  to  woo ;  for  with  her 
there  is  always  the  hope,  and  never  the  possession." 

"  Ambition,  Count,"  replied  Randal,  still  guarding  himself 
in  dry  sententiousness,  "  is  the  luxury  of  the  rich,  and  the 
necessity  of  the  poor." 

"Aha,"  thought  the  Count,  "it  comes  as  I  anticipated  from 
the  first — comes  to  the  bribe."  He  passed  the  wine  to  Randall, 
filling  his  own  glass,  and  draining  it  carelessly  ;  "  Sur  man 
dme,  mon  cher"  said  the  Count,  "  luxury  is  ever  pleasanter  than 
necessity ;  and  I  am  resolved  at  least  to  give  ambition  a  trial 
— -je  vais  me  rtfugier  dans  le  sein  du  bonheur  domestique — a  mar- 
ried life  and  a  settled  home.  Peste!  If  it  were  not  for  am- 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  13 

bition,  one  would  die  of  ennui.  Apropos,  my  dear  sir,  I  have 
to  thank  you  for  promising  my  sister  your  aid  in  finding  a  near 
and  dear  kinsman  of  mine,  who  has  taken  refuge  in  your 
country,  and  hides  himself  even  from  me." 

"  I  should  be  most  happy  to  assist  in  your  search.  As  yet, 
however,  I  have  only  to  regret  that  all  my  good  wishes  are 
fruitless.  I  should  have  thought,  however,  that  a  man  of  such 
rank  had  been  easily  found,  even  through  the  medium  of  your 
own  ambassador." 

"  Cur  own  ambassador  is  no  very  warm  friend  of  mine  ;  and 
the  rank  would  be  no  clue,  for  it  is  clear  that  my  kinsman  has 
never  assumed  it  since  he  quitted  his  country." 

"  He,  quitted  it,  I  understand,  not  exactly  from  choice,"  said 
Randal, smiling.  "Pardon  my  freedom  and  curiosity, but  will  you 
explain  to  me  a  little  more  than  I  learn  from  English  rumor  (which 
never  accurately  reports  upon  foreign  matters  still  more  notori- 
ous), how  a  person  who  had  so  much  to  lose,  and  so  little  to  win,  by 
revolutipn,  could  put  himself  into  the  same  crazy  boat  with  a 
crew  of  hare-brained  adventurers  and  visionary  professors?" 

"Professors  !  "  repeated  the  Count ;  "  I  think  you  have  hit 
on  the  very  answer  to  your  question  ;  not  but  what  men  of 
high  birth  were  as  mad  as  the  canaille.  I  am  the  more  willing 
to  gratify  your  curiosity,  since  it  will  perhaps  serve  to  guide 
your  kind  search  in  my  favor.  You  must  know  then,  that  my 
kinsman  was  not  born  the  heir  to  the  rank  he  obtained.  He 
was  but  a  distant  relation  to  the  head  of  the  house  which  he 
afterward  represented.  Brought  up  in  an  Italian  university, 
he  was  distinguished  for  his  learning  and  his  eccentricities. 
There  too,  I  suppose,  brooding  over  old  wives'  tales  about 
freedom,  and  so  forth,  he  contracted  his  carbonaro,  chimerical 
notions  for  the  independence  of  Italy.  Suddenly,  by  three 
deaths,  he  was  elevated,  while  yet  young,  to  a  station  and 
.honors  which  might  have  satisfied  any  man  in  his  senses.  Que 
diable!  what  could  the  independence  of  Italy  do  for  him!  He 
and  I  were  cousins  ;  we  had  played  together  as  boys  ;  but  our 
lives  had  been  separated  till  his  succession  to  rank  brought  us 
necessarily  together.  We  became  exceedingly  intimate^  And 
you  may  judge  how  I  loved  him,"  said  the  Count,  averting  his 
eyes  slightly  from  Randal's  quiet,  watchful  gaze,  "when  I  add 
that  I  forgave  him  for  enjoying  a  heritage  that,  but  for  him, 
had  been  mine." 

"  Ah,  you  were  next  heir  ? " 

"And  it  is  a  hard  trial  to  be  very  near  a  great  fortune,  and 
yet  just  to  miss  it." 


14  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

•  ••  "Trite,"  cried  Randal,  almost  impetuously.  The  Count  now 
raised  his  eyes,  and  again  the  two  men  looked  into  each  other's 
souls. 

"  Harder  still,  perhaps,"  resumed  the  Count,  after  a  short 
pause — "  harder  still  might  it  have  been  to  some:men  to  forgive 
the  rival  as  well  as  the  heir." 

"Rival!  how?" 

"  A  lady,  who  had  been  destined  by  her  parents  to  myself, 
though  we  had  never,  I  own,  been  formally  betrothed,  became 
the  wife  of  my  kinsman." 

"  Did  he  know  of  your  pretensions?" 

"I  do  him  the  justice  to  say  he  did  not.  He  saw  and  fell  in 
love  with  the  young  lady  I  speak  of.  Her  parents  were  daz- 
zled. Her  father  sent  for  me.  He  apologized — he  explained  ; 
he  set  before- me,  mildly  enough,  certain  youthful  imprudences 
or  errors  of  my  own,  as  an  excuse  for  his  change  of  mind  ;  and 
he  asked  me  not  only  to  resign  all  hope  of  his  daughter,  but  to 
conceal  from  her  new  suitor  that  I  had  ever  ventured  to  hope." 

"  And  you  consented  ? " 
'    "I  consented." 

"That  was  generous.  You  must,  indeed,  have  been  much 
attached  to  your  kinsman.  As  a  lover,  I  cannot  comprehend 
it ;  perhaps,  my  dear  Count,  you  may  enable  me  to  understand 
it  better-*-as  a  man  of  the  world." 

"Well,"  said  the  Count,  with  his  most  ra//air,  "I  suppose  we 
are  both  men  of  the  world." 

"jBoth!  certainly,"  replied  Randal,  just  in  the  tone  which 
Peachum  might  have  used  in  courting  the  confidence  of  Lockit. 

"  As  a  man  of  the  world,  then,  I  own,''  said  the  Count,  playing 
with  the  rings  on  his  fingers,  "that  if  I  could  not  marry  the  lady 
myself  (and  that  seemed  to  me  clear),  it  was  very  natural  that 
I  should  wish  to  see' her  married  to  my  wealthy  kinsman." 

"  Very  natural;  it  might  bring  your  wealthy  kinsman  and  your- 
self still  closer  together." 

"  This  is  really  a  very  clever  fellow  !  "  thought  the  Count,  but 
he  made  no  direct  reply. 

"  En 'fin,  to  cut  short  a  long  story,  my  cousin  afterward  got 
entangled  in  attempts,  the  failure  of  which  is  historically  known. 
His  projects  were  detected — himself  denounced.  He  fled,  and 
the  Emperor,  in  sequestering  his  estates,  was  pleased,  with  rare 
and  singular  clemency,  to  permit  me,  as  his  nearest  kinsman,  to 
enjoy  the  revenues  of  half  those  estates  during  the  royal  pleas- 
ure; nor  was  the  other  half  formally  confiscated.  It  was,  no 
doubt,  his  Majesty's  desire  not  to  extinguish  a  great  Italian  name; 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  15 

and  if  my  cousin  and  his  child  died  in  exile,  why,  of  that  name, 
I,  a  loyal  subject  of  Austria — I,  Franzini,  Count  di  Peschiera, 
would  become  the  representative.  Such,  in  a  similar  case,  has 
been  sometimes  the  Russian  policy  toward  Polish  insurgents." 

"  I  comprehend  perfectly;  and  I  can  also  conceive  that  you, 
in  profiting  so  largely,  though  so  justly,  by  the  fall  of  your  kins- 
man, may  have  been  exposed  to  much  unpopularity— even  to 
painful  suspicion." 

"  Entre  nous,  mon  cher,  I  care  not  a  stiver  for  popularity;  and 
as  to  suspicion,  who  is  he  that  can  escape  from  the  calumny  of 
the  envious  ?  But,  unquestionably,  it  would  be  most  desirable 
to  unite  the  divided  members  of  our  house;  and  this  union  I  can 
now  effect,  by  the  consent  of  the  Emperor  to  my  marriage  with 
my  kinsman's  daughter. — You  see,  therefore,  why  I  have  so  great 
an  interest  in  this  research  ?" 

"By  the  marriage-articles  you  could,  no  doubt,  secure  the 
retention  of  the  half  you  hold;  and  if  you  survive  your  kinsman, 
you  would, enjoy  the  whole.  A  most  desirable  marriage;  and,  if 
made,  I  suppose  that  would  suffice  to  obtain  your  cousin's  am- 
nesty and  grace  ?'* 

"  You  say  it." 

"  But  even  without  such  marriage,  since  the  Emperor's  clem- 
ency has  been  extended  to  so  many  of  the  proscribed,  it  is,  per- 
haps, probable  that  your  cousin  might  be  restored?" 

"  It  once  seemed  to  me  possible,"  said  the  Count,:  reluctantly; 
"but  since  I  have  been  in  England,  I  think  not.  The  recent 
revolution  in  France,  the  democratic  spirit  rising  in  Europe,  tend 
to  throw  back  the  cause  of  a  proscribed  rebel.  England  swarms 
with  revolutionists;  my  cousin's  residence  in  this  country  is  in  itself 
suspicious.  The  suspicion  is  increased  by  his  strange  seclusion. 
There  are  many  Italians  here  who  would  aver  that  they  have  met 
with  him,  and  that  he  was  still  engaged  in  revolutionary  projects." 

"Aver — untruly?" 

"Ma  foi—  it  comes  to  the  same  thing;  les  absents  onttoujours 
tort.  I  speak  to  a  man  of  the  world.  No  ;  without  some  such 
guarantee  for  his  faith  as  his  daughter's  marriage  with  myself 
would  give,  his  recall  is  improbable.  By  the  heaven  above  us, 
it  shall  be  impossible  !  "  The  Count  rose  as  he  said  this — rose  as 
if  the  mask  of  simulation  had  fairly  fallen  from  the  visage  of 
crime — rose  tall  and  towering,  a  very  image  of  masculine  power 
and  strength,  beside  the  slight,  bended  form,  and  sickly  face  of 
the  intellectual  schemer.  And  had  you  seen  them  thus  con- 
fronted and, contrasted,  you  would  have  felt  that  if  ever  the  time 
did  come  when  the  interest  of  one  would  compel  him  openly  to 


1 6  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

denounce  Or  boldly  to  expose  the  other,  the  odds  were  that  the 
brilliant  and  audacious  reprobate  would  master  the  weaker  nerve 
but  superior  wit  of  the  furtive  traitor.  Randal  was  startled;  but 
rising  also,  he  said  carelessly— 

"What  if  this  guarantee  can  no  longer  be  given  ? — what  if,  in 
despair  of  return,  and  in  resignation-to  his  altered  fortunes,  your 
cousin  has  already  married  his  daughter  to  some  English  suitor?" 

"  Ah,  that  would  indeed  be,  next  to  my  own  marriage  with 
her,  the  most  fortunate  thing  that  could  happen  to  myself." 

"  How  ? •  I  don't  understand  !  " 

"Why,  if  my  cousin  has  so  abjured  his  birthright,  and  for- 
sworn his  rank — if  this  heritage,  which  is  so  dangerous  from  its 
grandeur,  pass,  in  case  of  his  pardon,  to  some  obscure  English- 
man— a  foreigner — a  native  of  a  country  that  has  no  ties  with 
ours — a  country  that  is  the  very  refuge  of  levellers  and  Carbo- 
nari— mort  de  ma  vie!  do  you  think  that  such  would  not  anni- 
hilate all  chance  of  my  cousin's  restoration,  and  be  an  excuse 
even  in  the  eyes  of  Italy  for  formally  conferring  the  sequestrated 
estates  on  an  Italian?  No  ;  unless,  indeed,  the  girl  were  to  marry 
an  Englishman  of  such  name  and  birth  and  connection  as  would 
in  themselves  be  a  guarantee  (and  how  in  poverty  is  this  likely  ?) 
I  should  go  back  to  Vienna  with  a  light  heart,  if  I  could  say, 
*  My  kinswoman  is  an  Englishman's  wife — shall  her  children  be 
heirs  to  a  house  so  renowned  for  its  lineage,  and  so  formidable 
for  its  wealth  ? '  Parbleu  !  if  my  cousin  were  but  an  adventu- 
rer, or  merely  a  professor,  he  had  been  pardoned  long  ago. 
The  great  enjoy  the  honor  not  to  be  pardoned  easily." 

Randal  fell  into  deep  but  brief  thought.  The  Count  observed 
him,  not  face  to  face,  but  by  the  reflection  of  an  opposite  mir- 
ror. "This  man  knows  something  ;  this  man  is  deliberating  ; 
this  man  can  help  me,"  thought  the  Count. 

But  Randal  said  nothing  to  confirm  these  hypotheses.  Recov- 
ering from  his  abstraction,  he  expressed  courteously  his  satis- 
faction at  the  Count's  prospects,  either  way.  "  And  since, -after 
all,"  he  added,  "  you  mean  so  well  to  your  cousin^  it  occurs  to 
me  that  you  might  discover  him  by  a  very  simple  English  process." 

"  How  ? " 

"Advertise  that,  if  he  will  come  to  someplace  appointed,  he 
will  hear  of  something  to  his  advantage." 

The  Count  shook  his  head.  "  He  would  suspect  me,  and  not 
come." 

"  But  he  was  intimate  with  you.  He  joined  an  insurrection  ;~ 
you  were  more  prudent.  You  did  not  injure  him,  though  you 
may  have  benefited  yourself.  Why  should  he  shun  you  ?" 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  17 

"The  conspirators  forgive  none  who  do  not  conspire;  besides, 
to  speak  frankly,  he  thought  I  injured  him." 

"Could  you  not  conciliate  him  through  his  wife — whom — you 
resigned  to  him  ?" 

"  She  is  dead — died  before  he  left  the  country." 

"  Oh,  that  is  unlucky!  Still  I  think  an  advertisement  might 
do  good.  Allow  me  to  reflect  on  that  subject.  Shall  we  now 
join  Madame  la  Marquise?" 

On  re-entering  the  drawing-room,  the  gentlemen  found  Bea- 
trice in  full  dress,  seated  by  the  fire;,  and  reading  so  intently  that 
she  did  not  remark  them  enter. 

"What  so  interests  you,  ma  sceur? — the  last  novel  by  Balzac, 
no  doubt  ?" 

Beatrice  started,  and  looking  up,  showed  eyes  that  were  full 
of  tears.  "Oh,  no!  no  picture  of  miserable,  vicious  Parisian 
life.  This  is  beautiful;  there  is  soul  here." 

Randal  took  up  the  book  which  the  Marchesa  laid  down  ;  it 
was  the  same  which  had  charmed  the  circle  at  Hazeldean — 
charmed  the  innocent  and  fresh-hearted—charmed  now  the 
wearied  and  tempted  votaress  of  the  world. 

"  Hum,"  murmured  Randal;  "  the  Parson  was  right.  This  is 
power — a  sort  of  a  power." 

"  How  I  should  like  to  know  the  author!  Who  can  he  be — 
can  you  guess  ?  " 

"  Not  I.     Some  old  pedant  in  spectacles." 

"  I  think  not — I  am  sure  not. — Here  beats  a  heart  I  have  ever 
sighed  to  find,  and  never  found." 

"  Oh,  la  naive  enfant !  "  cried  the  Count;  "comme  son  imagina- 
tion s'Jgare  en  r$ves  enchants.  And  to  think  that,  while  you  talk 
like  an  Arcadian,  you  are  dressed  like  a  princess." 

"Ah,  I  forgot — the  Austrian  ambassador's.  I  shall  not  go 
to-night.  This  book  unfits  me  for  the  artificial  world." 

"Just  as  you  will,  my  sister.  I  shall  go.  I  dislike  the  man, 
and  he  me;  but  ceremonies  before  men!  " 

"You  are  going  to  the  Austrian  embassy  ? "  said  Randal;  "  I, 
too,  shall  be  there.  We  shall  meet."  And  he  took  his  leave. 

"  I  like  your  young  friend  prodigiously,"  said  the  Count,  yawn- 
ing. "I  am  sure  that  he  knows  of  the  lost  birds,  and  will  stand 
to  them  like  a  pointer,  if  I  can  but  make  it  his  interest  to  do  so. 
We  shall  see." 

CHAPTER  IV. 

RANDAL  arrived  at  the  ambassador's  before  the  Count,  and 
contrived  to  mix  with  the  young  noblemen  attached  to  the  em- 


1 8  MY    NOVEL  J    Ok, 

bassy,  and  to  whom  he  was  known.  Standing  among  these  was 
a  young  Austrian,  on  his  travels,  of  very  high  birth,  and  with  an 
air  of  noble  grace  that  suited  the  ideal  of  the  old  German  chiv- 
alry. Randal  was  presented  to  him,  and,  after  some  talk  on 
general  topics,  observed,  "  By  the  way,  Prince,  there  is  now  in 
London  a  countryman  of  yours,  with  whom  you  are,  doubtless, 
familiarly  acquainted — the  Count  di  Peschiera." 

"  He  is  no  countryman  of  mine.  He  is  an  Italian.  I  know 
him  but  by  sight  and  by  name,"  said  the  Prince,  stiffly. 

"He  is  of  very  ancient  birth,  I  believe." 

"Unquestionably.     His  ancestors  were  gentlemen." 

"  And  very  rich." 

"  Indeed  !  I  have  understood  the  contrary.  He  enjoys,  it 
is  true,  a  large  revenue." 

A  young  attach^  less  discreet  than  the  Prince,  here  observed, 
"  Oh,  Peschiera ! — poor  fellow,  he  is;too  fond  of  play  to  be  rich," 

"And  there  is  some  chance  that  the  kinsman  whose  revenue 
he  holds  may  obtain- his  pardon,  and  re-enter  into  possession  of 
his  fortunes — so  I  hear,  at  least,"  said  Randal,  artfully. 

"I  shall  be  glad  if  it  be  true,"  said  the  Prince,  with  decision; 
"•and  I  speak  the  common  sentiment  at  Vienna.  That  kinsman 
had  a  noble  spirit,  and  was,  I  believe,  equally  duped  and  betrayed. 
Pardon  me,  sir;  but  we  Austrians  are  not  so  bad  as  we  are  painted. 
Have  you  ever  met  in  England  the  kinsman  you  speak  of  ?  " 

"  Never,  though  he  is  supposed  to  reside  here  ;  and  the  Count 
tells  me  that  he  has  a  daughter." 

"  The  Count — ha  !  I  heard  something  of  a  scheme — a  wager 
of  that — that  Count's  ; — a  daughter!  Poor  girl !  I  hope  she 
will  escape  his  pursuit ;  for,  no  doubt,  he  pursues  her." 

"Possibly  she  may  have  already  married  an  Englishman." 

"  I  trust  not,"  said  the  Prince,  seriously  ;  "  that  might  at  pres« 
ent  be  a  serious  obstacle  to  her  father's  return." 

"You  think  so?" 

"There  can  be  no  doubt  of  it,"  interposed  the  attache  vf'\t\\  a 
grand  and  positive  air;  "unless,  indeed,  the  Englishman  were 
of  a  rank  equal  to  her  own." 

Here  there  was  a  slight,  well-bred  murmur  and  buzz  at  the 
door;  for  the  Count  di  Peschiera  himself  was  announced  ;  and 
as  he  entered,  hi*  presence  was  so  striking,  and  his.beauty  so 
dazzling,  that  whatever  there  might  be  to  the  prejudice  of  his 
character,  it  seemed  instantly  effaced  or  forgotten  in  that  irre- 
sistible admiration  which  it  is  the  prerogative  of  personal  attri- 
butes alone  to  create. 

The  Prince,  with  a  slight  curve  of  his  lip  at  the  groups  that 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  19 

collected  round  the  Count,  turned  to  Randal  and  said,  "  Can  you 
tell  me  if  a  distinguished  countryman  of  yours  is  in  England — 
Lord  L'Estrange  ? " 

"  No,  Prince— he  is  not.     You  know  him?" 

"Well." 

"  He  is  acquainted  with  the  Count's  kinsman ;  and  perhaps  from 
him  you  have  learned  to  think  so  highly  of  that  kinsman?" 

The  Prince  bowed,  and  answered  as  he  moved  away,  "  When 
one  man  of  high  honor  vouches  for  another,  he  commands  the 
belief  of  all."- 

"  Certainly,"  soliloquized  Randal,  "I  must  not  be  precipitate. 
Iwas  very  near  falling  into  a  terrible  trap.  If  I  were  to  marry  the 
girl,  and  only,  by  so  doing,  settle  away  her  inheritance  on  Pes- 
chiera  ! — How  hard  it  is  to  be  sufficiently  cautious  in  this  world !" 

While  thus  meditating,  a  member  of  Parliament  tapped  him 
on  the  shoulder. 

'  Melancholy,  Leslie  !     I  lay  a  wager  I  guess  your  thoughts." 

'  Guess,"  answered  Randal. 

'You  were  thinking  of  the  place  you  are  so  soon  to  lose." 

'  Soon  to  lose  !  " 

'  Why,  if  ministers  go  out,  you  could  hardly  keep  it, I  suppose." 

This  ominous  and  horrid  member  of  Parliament,  Squire  Hazel- 
dean's  favorite  county  member,  Sir  John,  was  one  of  those  legisla- 
tors especially  odious  to  officials — an  independent,  "large-acred  " 
member,  who  would  no  more  take  office  himself  than  he  would  cut 
down  the  oaks  in  his  park,  and  who  had  no  bowels  of  human  feeling 
for  those  who  had  opposite  tastes  and  less  magnificent  means. 

' '  Hem  ! "  said  Randal,  rather  surlily.  "  In  the  first  place,  Sir 
John,  ministers  are  not  going  out." 

"  Oh,  yes,  they  will  go.  You  know  I  vote  with  them  generally, 
and  would  willingly  keep  them  in ;  but  they  are  men  of  honor  and 
spirit  ;  and  if  they  can't  carry  their  measures,  they  must  resign; 
otherwise,byjove,  I  would  turn  round  and  vote  them  out  myself !" 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  would,  Sir  John  ;  you  are  quite  capa- 
ble of  it ;  that  rests  with  you  and  your  constituents.  But  even 
if  ministers  did  go  out,  I  am  but  a  poor  subaltern  in  a  public 
office.  I  am  no  minister— why  should  I  go  out  too  ? " 

"  Why  ?  Hang  it,  Leslie,  you  are  laughing  at  me.  A  young 
fellow  like  you  could  never  be  mean  enough  to  stay  in,  under 
the  very  men  who  drove  out  your  friend  Egerton  !  " 

"It  is  not  usual  for  those  in  the  public  offices  to  retire  with 
every  change  of  government." 

"  Certainly  not  ;  but  always  those  who  are  the  relations  of  a 
retiring  minister — always  those  who  have  been  regarded  as  poll- 


2O  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

ticians,  and  who  mean  to  enter  Paliament,  as  of  course  you  will 
do  at  the  next  election.  But  you  know  that  as  well  as  I  do — 
you  who  are  so  decided  a  politician — the  writer  of  that  admir- 
able pamphlet!  I  should  not  like  to  tell  my  friend  Hazeldean, 
who  has  a  sincere  interest  in  you,  that  you  ever  doubted  on  a 
question  of  honor  as  plain  as  your  A,  B,  C." 

"  Indeed,  ,Sir  John,"  said  Randal,  recovering  his  suavity,  while 
he  only  breathed  a  dire  anathema  on  his  county  member,  "  I  am 
so  new  to  these  things,  that  what  you  say  never  struck  me  before. 
No  doubt  you  must  be  right ;  at  all  events  I  cannot  have  a  better 
guide  .and  adviser  than  Mr.  Egerton  himself." 

SIR  JOHN. — No,  certainly — perfect  gentleman,  Egerton  !  I 
wish  we  could  make  it  up  with  him  and  Hazeldean. 

RANDAL  (sighing). — Ah,  I  wish  we  could  ! 

SIR  JOHN.— And  some  chance  of  it  .now  ;  for  the  time  is  com- 
ing when  all  true  men  of  the  old  school  must  stick  together. 

RANDAL. — Wisely,  admirably  said,  my  dear  Sir  John.  But, 
pardon  me,  I  must  pay  my  respects  to  the  ambassador. 

Randal  escaped,  and  passing  on,  .saw  the  ambassador  himself 
in  the  next  room,  conferring  in  a  corner  with  Audley  Egerton. 
The  ambassador  seemed  very  grave— Egerton  calm  and  impene- 
trable, as  usual.  Presently  the  Count  passed  by,  and  the  am- 
bassador bowed  to  hi.m  very  stiffly. 

As  Randal,  some  time  later,  was  searching  for  his  cloak  be- 
low, Audley  Egerton  unexpectedly  joined  him. 

"  Ah,  Leslie,"  said  the  minister,  with  more  kindness  than  usual, 
"If  you  don't  think  the  night  air  too  cold  for  you,  let  us  walk 
home  together.  I  have  sent  away  the  carriage." 

This  condescension  in  his  patron  was  so  singular,  that  it  quite 
startled  Randal,  and  gave  him  a  presentiment  of  some  evil. 
When  they  were  in  the  street,  Egerton  after  a  pause,  began — 

"My  dear  Mr.  Leslie,  it  was  my  hope  and  belief  that  I  had 
provided  for  you  at  least  a  competence  ;  and  that  I  might  open 
to  you,  later,  a  career  more  brilliant.  Hush!  I  don't  doubt 
your  gratitude;  let  me  proceed..  There  is  a  possible  chance, 
after  certain  decisions  that  the  Government  have  come  to,  that 
we  may  be  beaten  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  of  course  re- 
sign. I  tell  you  this  beforehand,  for  I  wish  you  to  have  time  to 
consider  what,in  that  case,would  be  your  best  course.  My  power 
of  serving  you  may  then  probably  be  over.  It  would,  no  doubt 
(seeing  our  close  connection,  and  my  views  with  regard  to  your 
future  being  so  well  known) — no  doubt,  be  expected  that  you 
should  give  up  the  pla.ce  you  hold,  and  follow  my  fortunes  for 
good  or  ill.  But  as  I  have  no  personal  enemies  with  the  oppo- 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  21 

site  party — and  as  I  have  sufficient  position  in  the  world  to  up- 
hold and  sanction  your  choice,  whatever  it  may  be,  if  you  think 
it  more  prudent  to  retain  your  place,  tell  me  so  openly,  and  I 
think  I  can  contrive  that  you  may  do  it  without  loss  of  char- 
acter and  credit.  In  that  case,  confine  your  ambition  merely  to 
rising  gradually  in  your  office,  without  mixing  in  politics.  If,  on 
the  other  hand,  you  should  prefer  to  take  your  chance  of  my  re- 
turn to  office,  and  so  resign  your  present  place ;  and,  further- 
more, should  commit  yourself  to  a  policy  that  may  then  be  not 
only  in  opposition,  but  unpopular,  I  will  do  my  best  to  introduce 
you  into  parliamentary  life.  I  cannot  say  that  I  advise  the  latter." 

Randal  felt  as  a  man  feels  after  a  severe  fall — he  was  liter- 
ally stunned.  At  length  he  faltered  out — 

"  Can  you  think,  sir,  that  I  should  ever  desert  your  fortunes — 
your  party-^-your  cause?"  . 

"My dear  Leslie,"  replied  the  minister,  "you  are  too  young 
to  have  committed  yourself  to  any  men  or  to  any  party,  except, 
indeed,  in  that  unlucky  pamphlet.  This  must  not  be  an  affair  of 
sentiment,  but  of  sense  and  reflection.  Let  us  say  no  more  on  the 
point  now ;  but  by  considering  i\\zpros  and  the  cons,yo\i  can  better 
judge  what  to  do,  should  the  time  for  option  suddenly  arrive." 

"But  I  hope  that  time  may  not  come." 

"  I  hope  so  too,  and  most  sincerely,"  said  the  minister,  with 
deliberate  and  genuine  emphasis. 

"What  could  be  so. bad  for  the  country?"  ejaculated  Randal. 
"It  does  not  seem  to  me  possible,  in  the  nature  of  things,  that 
you  and  your  party  should  ever  go  out !  " 

"And  when  we  are  once  out,  there  will  be  plenty  of  wiseacres 
tosay  it  is  out  of  the  nature  of  things  that  we  should  ever  come 
in  again.     Here  we  are  at  the  door." 
. 

CHAPTER  V. 

• 

RANDAL  passed  a  sleepless  night ;  but,  indeed,  he  was  one  of 
those  persons  who  neither  need,  nor  are  accustomed  to,  much 
sleep.  However,  toward  morning,  when  dreams  are  said  to:be 
prophetic,  he  \;11  into  a  most  delightful  slumber— a  slumber 
peopled  by  visions  fitted  to  lure  on,  through  labyrinths  of  law, 
predestined  chancellors,  or  wreck  upon  the  rocks  of  glory  the 
inebriate  souls  of  youthful  ensigns- — dreams  from  which  Rood 
Hall  emerged  crowned  with  the  towers  of  Belvoir  or  Raby,  and 
looking  over  subject  lands  and  manors  wrestled  fromthenefarious 
usurpation  of  Thornhills  and  .Hazeldeans — dreams  in  which 
Audley  Egerton's;gold  and  power — rooms  in  Downing  Street, 


22  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

and  saloons  in  Grosvenor  Square — had  passed  away  to  the  smil- 
ing dreamer,  as  the  empire  of  Chaldaea  passed  to  Darius  the 
Median.  Why  visions  so  belying  the  gloomy  and  anxious  thoughts 
that  preceded  them  should  visit  the  pillow  of  Randal  Leslie,  sur- 
passes my  philosophy  to  conjecture.  He  yielded,  however,  pas- 
sively-to  their  spell,  and  was  startled  to  hear  the  clock  strike 
eleven  as  he  descended  the  stairs  to  breakfast.  He  was  vexed  at 
tke  lateness  of  the  hour,  for  he  had  meant  to  have  taken  advant- 
age of  the  unwonted  softness  of  Egerton,  and  drawn  therefrom 
some  promises  or  proffers  to  cheer  the  prospects  which  theminister 
had  so  chillingly  expanded  before  him  the  preceding  night;  and 
it  was  only  at  breakfast  that. he  usually  found  the  opportunity 
of  private  conference  with  his  busy  patron.  But  Audley  Egerton 
would  be  sure  to  have  sallied  forth — and  sohehad — only  Randal 
was  surprised  to  hear  that  he  had  gone  out  in  his  carriage,  instead 
of  on  foot,  as  was  his  habit.  Randal  soon  despatched  his  solitary 
meal,  and  with  a  new  and  sudden  affection  for  his  office,  thither- 
ward bent  his  way.  As  he  passed  through  Piccadilly,  he  heard 
behind  a  voice  that  had  lately  become  familiar  to  him,  and  turning 
round,  saw  Baron  Levy  walking  side  by  side,  though  not  arm-in- 
arm, with  a  gentleman  almost  as  smart  as  himself,  but  with  a 
iauntier  step  and  a  brisker  air — a  step  that,  like  Diomed's  as 
described  by  Shakspeare — 

"  Rises  on  the  toe  ;— that  spirit  of  his 
In  aspiration  lifts  him  from  the  earth." 

Indeed,  one  may  judge  of  the  spirits  and  disposition  of  a  man 
by  his  ordinary  gait  and  mien  in  walking.  He  who  habitually 
pursues  abstract  thought,  looks  down  on  the  ground.  He  who  is 
accustomed  to  sudden  impulses,  or  is  trying  to  seize  upon  some 
necessary  recollection,  looks  up  with  a  kind  of  jerk.  He  who  is  a 
steady,  cautious,  merely  practical  man,  walks  on  deliberately, 
his  eyes  straight  before  him  ;  and  even  in  his  most  musing  moods, 
observes  things  around  sufficiently  to  avoid  a  porter's  knot  or  a 
butcher's  tray.  But  the  man  with  strong  ganglions — of  pushing, 
lively  temperament,  who,  though  practical,  is  yet  speculative — 
the  man  who  is  emulous  and  active,  and  ever  trying  to  rise  in 
life — -sanguine,  alert,  bold— walks  with  a  spring — looks  rather 
above  the  heads  of  his  fellow-passengers— but  with  a  quick,  easy 
turn  of  his  own,  which  is  lightly  set  on  his  shoulders;  his  mouth 
is  a  little  open — his  eye  is  bright,  rather  restless,  but  penetrative — 
his  port  has  something  of  defiance-^his  form  is  erect,  but  without 
stiffness.  Such  was  the  appearance  of  the  Baron's  companion. 
And  as  Randal  turned  round  at  Levy's  voice,  the  Baron  said  to 
his  companion,  "A  young  man  in  the  first  circles — you  should 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  23 

book  him  for  your  fair  lady's  parties.  Ho\v  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Leslie  ? 
Let  me  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Richard  Avenel."  Then,  as  he 
hooked  his  arm  into  Randal's  he  whispered,  "Man  of  first-rate 
talent — monstrous  rich — has  two  or  three  parliamentary  seats 
in  his  pocket — wife  gives  parties — her  foible." 

"Proud  to  make  your  acquaintance,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Avenel, 
lifting  his  hat.  "  Fine  day." 

"  Rather  cold  too,"  said  Leslie,  who,  like  all  thin  persons  with 
weak  digestions,  was  chilly  by  temperament ;  besides,  he  had 
enough  on  his  mind  to  chill  his  body. 

"  So  much  the  healthier — braces  the  nerves,"  said  Mr.  Avenel ; 
"but  you  young  fellows  relax  the  system  by  hot  rooms  and  late 
hours.  Fond  of  dancing,  of  course,  sir?"  Then,  without  waiting 
for  Randal's  negative,  Mr.  Richard  continued  rapidly,  "  Mrs. 
Avenel  has  a  soiree  dansanU  on  Thursday — shall  be  very  happy 
to  see  you  in  Eaton  Square.  Stop,  I  have  a  card";  and  he  drew 
out  a  dozen  large  invitation  cards,  from  which  he  selected  one, 
and  presented  it  to  Randal.  The  Baron  pressed  that  young 
gentleman's  arm,  and  Randal  replied  courteously  that  it  would 
give  him  great  pleasure  to  be  introduced  to  Mrs.  Avenel.  Then, 
as  he  was  not  desirous  to  be  seen  under  the  wing  of  Baron  Levy, 
like  a  pigeon  under  that  of  a  hawk,  he  gently  extricated  himself, 
and  pleading  great  haste,  walked  quickly  on  toward  his  office. 

"  That  young  man  will  make  a  figure  some  day,"  said  the 
Baron.  "  I  don't  know  any  one  of  his  age  with  so  few  prejudices. 
He  is  a  connection  by  marriage  to  Audley  Egerton,  who — " 

"Audley  Egerton!  "exclaimed  Mr.  Avenel ;  "ad — d  haughty, 
aristocratic,  disagreeable,  ungrateful  fellow  !" 

"  Why,  what  do  you  know  of  him  ? " 

"  He  owed  his  first  seat  in  Parliament  to  the  votes  of  two  near 
relations  of  mine,  and  when  I  called  upon  him  some  time  ago, 
in  his  office,  he  absolutely  ordered  me  out  of  the  room.  Hang 
his  impertinence  ;  if  ever  I  can  pay  him  off,  I  guess  I  shan't 
fail  for  want  of  good  will ! " 

"Ordered  you  out  of  the  room  ?  That's  not  like  Egerton, 
who  is  so  civil,  if  formal: — at  least  to  most  men.  You  must 
have  offended  him  in  his  weak  point." 

"A  man  whom  the1  public  pays  so  handsomely  should  have 
no  weak  point.  What  is  Egerton's?" 

"  Oh,  he  values  himself  on  being  a  thorough  gen tlemaij— a 
man  of  the  nicest  honor,"  said  Levy  with  a  sneer.  "  You  must 
have  ruffled  his  plumes  there.  How  was  if?" 

"  I  forget,"  answered  Mr.  Avenel,  who  was  far  too  well  versed 
in  the  London  scale  o*  human  dignities  since  hjs 


24  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

to  look  back  with  a  blush  at  his  desire  of  knighthood.  "No 
use  bothering  our  heads  now  about  the  plumes  of  an  arrogant 
popinjay.  To  return  to  the  subject  we  were  discussing.  You 
must  be  sure  to  let  me  have  this  money  next  week." 

"  Rely  on  it." 

"And  you'll  not  let  my  bills  get  into  the  market ;  keep  them 
under  lock  and  key." 

"  So  we  agreed."  ; 

"  It  is  but  a  temporary  difficulty— royal  mourning,  such  non- 
sense— panic  in  trade,  lest  these  precious  ministers  go  out.  I 
shall  soon  float  over  the  troubled  waters." 

"  By  the  help  of  a  paper  boat,"  said  the  Baron,  laughing  ;  and 
the  two  gentlemen  shook  hands  and  parted. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

MEANWHILE  Audley  Egertori's  carriage  had  deposited  him  at 
the  door  of  Lord  Lansmere's  house,  at  Knightsbridgei  He 
asked  for  the  Countess,  and  was  shown  into  the  drawing-room, 
which  was  deserted.  Egerton  was  paler  than  usual ;  and  as 
the  door  opened,  he  wiped  the  unwonted  moisture  from  hisfore- 
head,  and  there  was  a  quiver  on  his  firm  lip.  The  Countess  too, 
on  entering,  showed  an  emotion  almost  equally  unusual  to  her  self- 
control.  She  pressed  Audley's  hand  in  silence,  and  seating  herself 
by  his  side,  seemed  to  collect  her  thoughts.  At  length  she  said — 

"  It  is  rarely  indeed  that  we  meet,  Mr.  Egerton,  in  spite  of 
your  intimacy  with  Lansmere  and  Harley.  I  go  so  little  into 
your  world,  and  you  will  not  voluntarily  come  to  me." 

"Madam,"  replied  Egerton,  "I  might  evade  your  kind  reproach 
by  stating  that  my  hours  are  not  at  my  disposal ;  but  I  answer 
you  with  plain  truth, — it  must  be  painful  to  both  of  us  to  meet." 

The  Countess  colored  and  sighedy  but  did  not  dispute  the 
assertion. 

Audley  resumed.  "  And  therefore  I  presume  that,  in  sending 
for  me,  you  have  something  of  moment  to  communicate?" 

"  It  relates  to  Harley,"  said  the  Countess,  as  if  in  apology ; 
"and  I  would  take  your  advice." 

"To  Harley!     Speak  on,  I  beseech  you." 

"My  son  has  probably  told  you  that  he  has  educated  and 
reared  a  young  girl,  with  the  intention  to  make  her  Lady  L'Es- 
trange,  and  hereafter  Countess  of  Lansmere." 

"  Harley  has  no  secrets  from  me,"  said  Egerton,  mournfully. 

"This  youngladyhasarrived  inEngland— is  here  in  this  house." 

"And  Harley  too?" 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  25 

"  No,  she  came  over  with  Lady  N— and  her  daughters.  Har- 
ley  was  to  follow  shortly,  and  I  expect  him  daily.  Here  is  his 
letter.  Observe,  he  has  never  yet  communicated  his  intentions 
to  this  young  person,  now  intrusted  to  my  care — never  spoken 
to  her  as  a  lover." 

Egertontooktheletterandreaditrapidly,thoughwithattention. 

"True,"  saidhe,ashe  returned  the  letter:  "and  before  he  does 
so,  he  wishes  you  to  see  MissDigbyand  tojudgeof  heryourself — 
wishes  to  know  if  you  will  approve  and  sanction  his  choice." 

"  It  is  on  this  that  I  would  consult  you — a  girl  without  rank  ; — 
the  father,  it  is  true,  a,  gentleman,  though  almost  equivocally 
one, — but  the  mother,  I  know  not  what.  And  Harley,  for  whom 
I  had  hoped  an  alliance  with  the  first  houses  in  England  ! " 
The  Countess  pressed  her  hands  convulsively  together. 

EGERTON. — He  is  no  more  a  boy.  His  talents  have  been 
wasted — his  life  a  wanderer's.  He  presents  to  you  a  chance  of 
resettling  his  mind,  of  re-arousing  his  native  powers,  of  a  home 
beside  your  own.  Lady  Lansmere,  you  cannot  hesitate  ! 

LADY  LANSME*E. — I  do,  I  do  !  After  all  that  I  have  hoped, 
after  all  that  I  did  to  prevent — 

EGERTON  (interrupting  her). — You  owe  him  now  an  atone- 
ment ;  that  is  in  your  power — it  is  not  in  mine. 

The  Countess  again  pressed  Audley's  hand,  and  the  tears 
gushed  from  her  eyes. 

"  It  shall  be  so.  I  consent — I  consent.  I  will  silence,  I  will 
crush  back  this  proud  heart.  Alas!  it  well-nigh  broke  his  own  ! 
I  am  glad  you  speak  thus.  I  like  to  think  he  Owes  my  consent 
to  you.  In  that  there  is  atonement  for  both." 

"You  are  too  generous,  madam,"  said  Egerton,  evidently 
moved,  though  still,  as  ever,  striving  to  repress  emotion.  "  And 
now  may  I  see  the  young  lady?  This  conference  pains  me;  you 
see  even  my  strong  nerves  quiver  ;  and  at  this  time  I  have  much 
to  go  through — need  all  my  strength  and  firmness." 

"I  hear,  indeed,  that  the  Government  will  probably  retire.  But  it 
iswithhonor:  it  will  be  soon  called  back  by  thevoice  of  the  nation." 

"  Let  me  see  the  future  wife  of  Harley  L'Estrange,"  said 
Egerton,  without  heed  of  the  consolatory  exclamation. 

The  Countess  rose  and  left  the  room.  In  a  few  minutes  she 
returned  with  Helen  Digby. 

Helen  was  wondrously  improved  from  the  pale,  delicate  child, 
with  the  soft  smile  and  intelligent  eyes,  who  had  sate  by  the  side  of 
Leonard  in  his  garret.  She  was  about  the  middle  height,  still 
slight,  but  beautifully  formed;  that  exquisite  roundness  of  pro- 
portion which  conveys  so  well  the  idea  of  woman,  in  its  undulat- 


26  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

ing,  pliant  grace — formed  to  embellish  life,  and  soften  away 
its  rude  angles — formed  to  embellish,  not  to  protect.  Her  face 
might  not  have  satisfied  the  critical  eye  of  an  artist — it  was 
not  without  defects  in  regularity  ;  but  its  expression  was  emi- 
nently gentle  and  prepossessing ;  and  there  were  few  who  would 
not  have  exclaimed,  "  What  a  lovely  countenance!"  The  mild- 
ness of  her  brow  was  touched  with  melancholy — her  childhood 
had  left  its  traces  on  her  youth.  Her  step  was  slow,  and  her 
manner  shy,  subdued,  and  timid. 

Audley  gazed  on  her  with  earnestness  as  she  approached  him  ; 
and  then  coming  forward,  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"I  am  your  guardian's  constant  friend,"  said  he,  and  he  drew 
her  gently  to  a  seat  beside  him,  in  the  recess  of  a  window.  With  a 
quick  glance  of  his  eye  toward  the  Countess,  he  seemed  to  imply 
the  wish  .to  converse  with  Helen  somewhat  apart.  So  the  Coun- 
tess interpreted  the  glance  ;  and  though  she  remained  in  the 
room,  she  seated  herself  at  a  distance,  and  bent  over  a  book. 

It  was  touching  to  see  ihowthe  austere  man  of  business  lent 
himself  to  draw  forth  themindoffthis  quiet,  shrinking  girl ;  and  if 
you  had  listened,  you  would  have  comprehended  howhecameto 
possess  such  social  influence,  and  how  well,  some  timeor  other  in 
the  course  of  his  life,  he  had  learned  to  adapt  himself  to  worn  en. 

Hespoke  first  of  Harley  L'Estrange — spoke  with  tact  and  deli- 
cacy. Helen  at  first  answered  by  monosyllables,  and  then,  by 
degrees,  with  grateful  and  open  affection.  Audley's  brow  grew 
shaded.  He  then  spoke  of  Italy,  and  though  no  man  had  less  of 
the  poet  in  his  nature,  yet,  with  the  dexterity  of  one  long  versed 
in  the  world,  and  who  has  been  accustomed  to  extract  evidences 
from  characters  most  opposed  to  his  own,  he  suggested  such  topics 
as  might  serve  to  arouse  poetry  in  others.  Helen's  replies  be- 
trayed a  cultivated  taste,  and  a  charming  womanly  mind  ;  but 
they  betrayed,  also,  one  accustomed  to  take  its  colorings  from 
another's — to  appreciate,  admire,  revere  the  Lofty  and  the  Beau- 
tiful, but  humbly  and  meekly.  There  was  no  vivid  enthusiasm, 
no  remark  of  striking  originality,no  flash  of  the  self -kindling,  crea- 
tive faculty.  Lastly,  Egerton  turned  to  England — to  the  critical 
nature  of  the  times — to  the  claims  which  the  country  possessed 
upon  all  who  had  the  ability  to  serve  and  guide  its  troubled  des- 
tinies. He  enlarged  warmly  on  Harley's  natural  talents,  and 
rejoiced  that  he  had  returned  to  England,  perhaps  to  commence 
some  great  career.  Helen  looked  surprised,  but  her  face  caught 
ho  correspondent  glow  from  Audley's  eloquence.  He  rose,  and 
an  expression  of  disappointment  passed  over  his  grave,  hand- 
some features,  and  as  quickly  vanished 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  27 

"  Adieu  !  my  dear  Miss  Digby  ;  I  fear  I  have  wearied  you, 
especially  with  my  politics.  Adieu,  Lady  Lansmere  ;  no  doubt 
I  shall  see  Harley  as  soon  as  he  returns." 

Then  he  hastened  from  the  ro'om,  gained  his  carriage,  and  or- 
dered the  coachman  to  drive  to  Downing  Street.  He  drew  down 
the  blinds, and  leant  back.  A  certain  languor  became  visible  in  his 
face,  and  once  or  twice  he  mechanically  put  his  hand  to  his  heart. 

"  She  is  good,  amiable,  docile — will  make  an  excelent  wife, 
no  doubt,"  said:  he,  murmuringly.  "But  does  she  love  Harley 
as  he  has  dreamed  of  love  ?  No  !  Has  she  the  power  and  energy 
to  rouse  his  faculties,  and  restore  to  the  world  the  Harley  of  old  ? 
No  !  Meant  by  Heaven  to  be  the  shadow  of  another's  sun^ — not 
herself  the  sun — this  child  is  not  the  one  who  can  atone  for  the 
Past  and  illume  the  Future." 

CHAPTER  VII. 

THAT  evening  Harley  L'Estrange  arrived  at  his  father's  house. 
The  fe\v  years  that  had  passed  since  we  saw  him  last  had  made 
no  perceptible  change  in  his  appearance.  He  still  preserved  his 
'elastic  youthfnlness  of  form,  and' singular  activity  and  play  of 
countenance.  He 'seemed  unaffectedly  rejoiced  to  greet  his  par- 
ents, and  had  something  of  the  gaiety  and  the  tenderness  of  a  boy 
returned  from  school.  His  manner  to  Helen  bespoke  the  chiv- 
alry that  pervaded  all  the  complexities,  and  curves  of  his  charac- 
ter. It  was  affectionate,  but  respectful.  Hers  to  him,  subdued — 
but  innocently  sweet:and  gently 'Cordial.  Harley  was  the  chief 
talker.  The  aspect  of  the  times  was  s6  critical,  that  lie  could 
not  avoid  questions  on  politics  ;  and,  indeed,  he  showed  an  in- 
terest in  them  which  he  had  never  evinced  before.  Lord  Lans- 
mere was  delighted. 

"  Why,  Harley,  you  love  your  country*  after  all  ?  " 

"  The  moment  she  seems  in  danger— yes  !  "  replied  the  Pa- 
trician ;  and  the  Sybarite  seemed  to  rise  into  the  Athenian. 

Then  he  asked  with  eagerness  about  his  old  friend,  Audley  ; 
and,  his  curiosity  satisfied -here,  he  inquired  the  last  literary  news. 
He  had  heard  much  of  a  book  lately  published.  :  He  named  the 
one  ascribed  by  Parson  Dale  to  Professor  Moss  :  none  of  his 
listeners  had  read  it. 

Harley  pished  at  this,  and  accused  them  all  of  indolence  and 
stupidity,  in  his  own  quaint,  metaphorical  style.  Then  he 
said — "  And  town  gossip  ?  " 

"  We  never  hear  it,"  said  Lady  Lansmere. 

"  There  is  a  new  plough  much  talked  of  at  Boodle's,"  said 
Lord  Lansmere. 


28  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  God  speed  it.  But  is  there  not  a  new  man  much  talked  of  at 
White's?" 

"  I  don't  belong  to  White's." 

"  Nevertheless,  you  may  have  heard  of  him — a  foreigner,  a 
Count  di  Peschiera." 

"Yes,"  said  Lord  Lansmere  ;  "  he  was  pointed  out  to  me  in 
the  Park — a  handsome  man  for  a  foreigner  ;  wears  his  hair 
properly  cut  ;  looks  gentlemanlike  and  English/' 

"Ah,  ah  !    He  is  here  then  !  "   And  Harley  rubbed  his  hands. 

"  Which  road  did  you  take  ?  did  you  pass  the  Simplon  ? " 

"  No  ;  I  came  straight  from  Vienna." 

Then,  relating  with  lively  vein  his  adventures  by  the  way,  he 
continued  to  delight  Lord  Lansmere  by  his  gaiety  till  the  time 
came  to  retire  to  rest.  As  soon  as  Harley  was  in  his  own  room, 
his  mother  joined  him. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  I  need  not  ask  if  you  like  Miss  Digby. 
Who  would  not  ?  " 

"  Harley,  my  own  son,"  said  the  mother,  bursting  into  tears, 
"be  happy  your  own  way  ;  only  be  happy,  that  is  all  I  ask." 

Harley,  much  affected,  replied  gratefully  and  soothingly  to 
this  fond  injunction.  And  then  gradually  leading  his  mother  on 
to  converse  of  Helen,  asked  abruptly — "And  of  the  chance  of 
our  happiness — her  happiness  as  well  as  mine— what  is  your 
opinion  ?  Speak  frankly." 

"Of  /*<?/- happiness  there  can  be  no  doubt,"  replied  the  mother, 
proudly.  "  Of  yours,  how  can  you  ask  me  ?  Have  you  not  de- 
cided on'  that  yourself  ? " 

"  But  still  it  cheers  and  encourages  one  in  any  experiment, 
however  well  considered,  to  hear  the  approval  of  another. 
Helen  has  certainly  a  most  gentle  temper." 

'  I  should  conjecture  so.     But  her  mind' — " 

'  Is  very  well  stored." 

'  She  speaks  so  little — " 

'  Yes.     I  wonder  why  ?     She's  surely  a  woman  !  " 

'  Pshaw  !  "  said  the  Countess,  smiling  in  spite  of  herself. 
"  But  tell  me  more  of  the  process  of  your  experiment.  You 
took  her  as  a  child,  and  resolved  to  train  her  according  to  your 
own  ideal.  Was  that  easy  ? " 

"It  seemed  so.  I  desired  to  instil  habits  of  truth  ;  she  was 
already  by  nature,  truthful  as  the  day  ;  a  taste  for  nature  and  all 
things  natural — that  seemed  inborn  ;  perceptions  of  Art  as  the 
interpreter  of  Nature — those  were  more  difficult  to  teach.  I 
think  they  may  come.  You  have  heard  her  play  and  sing  ? " 

"  No." 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  29 

"  She  will  surprise  you.  She  has  less  talent  for  drawing  ;  still, 
all  that  teaching  could  do  has  been  done — in  a  word,  she  is  ac- 
complished. Temper,  heart,  mind — these  are  all  excellent."  Har- 
ley  stopped  and  suppressed  a  sigh.  "Certainly  I  ought  to  be 
very  happy,"  said  he  ;  and  he  began  to  wind  up  his  watch. 

"  Of  course  she  must  love  you  ?  "  said  the  Countess,  after  a 
pause.  "  How  could  she  fail  ?  " 

"  Love  me !  My  dear  mother,  that  is  the  very  question  I 
shall  have  to  ask." 

"Ask!  Love  is  discovered  by  aglance;  it  has  no  need  of  asking." 

"I  have  never  discovered  it,  then,  I  assure ypu.  The  fact  is, 
that  before  her  childhood  was  passed,  I  removed  her,  as  you  may 
suppose,  from  my  roof.  She  resided  with  an  Italian  family, 
near  my  usual  abode.  I  visited  her  often,  directed  her  studies, 
watched  her  improvement — " 

"And  fell  in  love  with  her?" 

"  Fall  is  such  a  very  violent  word.  No  ;  I  don't  remember 
to  have  had  a  fall.  It  was  all  a  smooth  inclined  plane  from  the 
first  step,  until  at  last  I  said  to  myself,  'HarleyL'Estrange,  thy 
time  has  come.  The  bud  has  blossomed  into  flower.  Take  it  to 
thy  breast.'  And  myself  replied  to  myself,  meekly,  '  So  be  it.' 
Then  I  found  that  Lady  N — ,  with  her  daughters,  was  coming 
to  England.  I  asked  her  ladyship  to  take  my  ward  to  your 
house.  I  wrote  to  you,  and  prayed  your  assent ;  and,  that 
granted,  I  knew  you  would  obtain  my  father's.  I  am  here — 
you  give  me  the  approval  I  sought  for.  I  will  speak  to  Helen 
to-morrow.  Perhaps,  after  all,  she  may  reject  me." 

"Strange,  strange — you  speak  thus  coldly,  thus  lightly  ;  you, 
so  capable  of  ardent  love  ! " 

"  Mother,"  said  Harley,  earnestly, "  be  satisfied;!  /  am !  Love, 
as  of  old,  I  feel,  alas !  too  well,  can  visit  me  no  more.  But  gen- 
tle companionship,  tender  friendship,  the  relief  and  the  sunlight 
of  woman's  smile — hereafter  the  voices  of  children — music  that, 
striking  on  the  hearts  of  both  parents,  wakens  the  most  lasting 
and  the  purest  of  all  sympathies  :  these  are  my  hope.  Is  the 
hope  so  mean,  my  fond  mother  ? " 

Again  the  Countess  wept,  and  her  tears  were  not  dried  when 
she  left  the  room. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

OH  !  Helen,  fair  Helen — type  of  the  quiet,  serene,  unnoticed, 
deep-felt  excellence  of  woman.  Woman,  less  as  the  ideal  that  a 
poet  conjures  from  the  air,  than  as  the  companion  of  a  poet  on 
the  earth  !  Woman,  who,  with  her  clear  sunny  vision  of  things 


30  MY    NOVEl,  ;    OR, 

actual,  and  the  exquisite  fibre  of  her  delicate  sense,  supplies  the 
deficiencies  of  him  whose  foot  stumbles  on  the  soil,  because  his 
eye  is  too  intent  upon  the  stars  !  Woman,  the  provident — the 
comforting — angel  whose  pinions  are  folded  round  the  heart, 
guarding  there  a  divine  spring  unmarred  by  the  winter  of 'the 
world  !  Helen,  soft  Helen,  is  it  indeed  in  thee  that  the  wild  and 
brilliant  "lord  of  wantonness  and  ease"  is  to  find  the  regenera- 
tion of  his  life — the  re-baptism  of  his  soul?  Of  what  avail  thy 
meek  prudent  household  virtues  to  one  whom  Fortune  screens 
from  rough  trial ! — whose  sorrows  lie  remote  from  thy  ken  ? — 
whose  spirit,  erratic  and  perturbed,  now  rising,  now  falling,  needs 
a  vision  more  subtle  than  thine  to  pursue,  and  a  strength  that 
can  sustain  the  reason,  when  it  droops,  on  the  wings  of  enthu- 
siasm and  -passion  ? 

And  thou,  thyself,  Oh  Nature,  shrinking  and  humble,  thatneed- 
est  to  be  courted  forth  from  the  shelter,  and  developed  under  the 
calm  and  genial  atmosphere  of  holy,  happy  tove— can  such  af- 
fection as  Harley  LJ Estrange  may  proffer  suffice  to  thee  ?  Will 
not  the  blossoms,  yet  folded  in  the  petal,  wither  away  beneath 
the  shade  that  may  protect  them  from  the  storm,  and  yet  shut 
them  from  the  sun?  Thou  who,  where  thou  givest  love,  seek- 
est,  though  -tneekly,  for  love  in  return,  to  be  the  soul's  sweet 
necessity;  the  life's  household  partner  to  him  who  receives  all 
thy  faith  and  devotion— canst  thou  influence  the  sources  of  joy 
and  of  sorrow  in  the  heart  that  d6es  not  heave  at  thy  name? 
Hast  thou  the  charm  and  the  force  of  the  moon,  that  the  tides 
of  that  wayward  sea  shall  ebb  and  flow  at  thy  will?  Yet  who 
shall  say — who  conjecture  how  near  two  hearts  can  become,  when 
no  guilt  lies  between  them,  and  time  brings  the  ties  all  its  own? 
Rarest  of  all  things  on  earth  is  the  union  in  which  both,  by  their 
contrasts,  mak'e  harmonious  their  blending;  each  supplying  the 
defects  of  the  helpmate,  and  completing,  by  fusion,  one  strong 
human  soul  !  Happiness  enough,  where  even  Peace  does  but 
seldom  preside,  when  each  cari  bring  to  the  altar,  if  not  the  flame, 
still  the  incense.  Where  man's  thoughts  are  all  noble  and  gen- 
erous, woman's  feelings  all  gentle  and  pure,  love  may  follow,  if 
it  does  not  precede; — and  if  not, — if  the  roses  be  missed  from  the 
garland,  one  may  sigh  for  the  rose,  but  one  is  safe  from  the  thorn. 
The  morning  was  mild,  yet  somewhat  overcast  by  the  mist 
which  announces  coming  winter  in  London,  and  Helen  walked 
musingly  beneath  the  trees  that  surrounded  the  garden  of  Lord 
Lansmere's  house.  Many  leaves  were  yet  left  on  the  boughs; 
but  they  were  sere  and  withered.  And  the  birds  chirped  at 
-times;  but  their  note  was  mournful  and  complaining.  All  \vitiiin 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  31 

this  house,  until  Harley's  arrival,  had  been  strange  and  sadden- 
ing to  Helen's  timid  and  subdued  spirits.  Lady  Lansmerehad 
received  her  kindly,  but  with  a  certain  restraint;  and  the  loftiness 
of  manner,  common  to  the  Countess  with  all  but  Harley,  had  awed 
and  chilled  the  diffident  orphan.  Lady  Lansmere's  very  interest 
in  Harley's  choice — her  attempts  to  draw  Helen  out  of  her  re- 
serve— her  watchful  eyes  whenever  Helen  shyly  spoke,  or  shyly 
moved,  frightened  the  poor  child,  and  made  her  unjust  to  herself. 

The  very  servants,  though  staid,  grave,  and  respectful,  as  suited 
a  dignified,  old-fashioned  household,  painfully  contrasted  the 
bright  welcoming  smiles  and  free  talk  of  Italian  domestics. 
Her  recollections  of  the  happy  warm  Continental  manner,  which 
so  sets  the  bashful  at  their  ease,  made  the  stately  and  cold  pre- 
cision of  all  around  her  doubly  awful  and  dispiriting.  Lord 
Lansmere  himself,  who  did  not  as  yet  know  the  views  of  Harley, 
and  little  dreamed  that  he  was  to  anticipate  a  daughter  in-law  in 
the  ward,  whom  he  understood  Harley,  in  a  freak  of  generous 
romance,  had  adopted,  was  familiar  and  courteous,  as  became  a 
host.  But  he  looked  upon  Helen  as  a  mere  child,  and  naturally 
left  her  to  the  Countess.  The  dim  sense  of  her  equivocal  posi- 
tion—of  ;her  comparative  humbleness  of  birth  and  fortunes, 
oppressed  and  pained  her;  and  even  her  gratitude  to  Harley  was 
made  burthensorne  by  a  sentiment  of  helplessness.  The  grate- 
ful long  to  requite.  And  what  could  she  ever  do  for  him  ? 

Thus'musing,  she  wandered  alone  through  the  curving  walks; 
and  this  sort  of  mock  country  landscape — London  loud,  and 
even  visible,  beyond  the  high  gloomy  walls,  and  no  escape  from  the 
windows  of  the  square  formal  house — seemed  a  type  of  the  prison 
bounds  of  Rank  to  one  whose  soul  yearns  for  simple  loving  Nature. 

Helen's  reverie  was  interrupted  by  Nero's  joyous  bark.  He  had 
caught  sight  of  her,  and  came  bounding  up,  and  thrust  his  large 
head  into  her  hand.  As  she  stooped  to  caress  the  dog,  happy  at 
his  honest  greeting,  and  tears  that  had  been  long  gathering  to  the 
lids  fell  silently  on  his  face  (for  I  know  nothing  that  more  moves 
us  to  tears  than  the  hearty  kindness  of  a  dog,  when  something  in 
human  beings  has  pained  or  chilled  us),  sheheardbehindthemusi- 
cal  voice  of  Harley.  Hastily  she  dried  or  repressed  her  tears,  as 
her  guardian  came  up,  and  drew  her  arm  within  his  own. 

"  I  had  so  little  of  your  conversation  last  evening,  my  dear  ward, 
that  I  may  well  monopolize  you  now,  even  to  the  privation  of 
Nero.  And  so  you  are  once  more  in  your  native  land  ?  " 

Helen  sighed  softly. 

"  May  I  not  hope  that  you  return  under  fairer  auspices  than 
those  which  your  childhood  knew  ?  " 


32  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Helen  turned  hereyes  with  ingenuous  thankfulness  to  her  guard- 
ian, and  the  memory  of  all  she  owed  to  him  rushed  upon  her  heart. 

Harley  renewed,  and  with  earnest,  though  melancholy  sweet- 
ness—" Helen,  your  eyes  thank  me;  but  hear  me  before  your 
words  do.  I  deserve  no  thanks.  I  am  about  to  make  to  you 
a  strange  confession  of  egotism  and  selfishness." 

"  You  ! — oh,  impossible  !  " 

"  Judge  yourself,  and  then  decidewhich  of  us  shall  have  cause 
to  be  grateful.  Helen,  when  I  was  scarcely  your  age — a  boy  in 
years,  but  more,  methinks,  a  man  at  heart,  with  man's  strong 
energies  and  sublime  aspirings,  than  I  have  ever  since  been — I 
loved,  and  deeply — " 

He  paused  a  moment,  in  evident  struggle.  Helen  listened  in 
mute  surprise,  but  his  emotion  awakened  her  own;  her  tender 
woman's  heart  yearned  to  console.  Unconsciously  her  arm 
rested  on  his  less  lightly. 

"  Deeply  and  for  sorrow.  It  is  a  long  tale,  that  may  ber  told 
hereafter.  The  worldly  would  call  my  love  a  madness.  I  did  not 
reason  on  it  then — I  cannot  reason  on  it  now.  Enough:  death 
smote  suddenly,  terribly,  and  to  me  mysteriously,  her  whom  I 
loved.  The  love  lived  on.  Fortunately,  perhaps  for  me.  I  had 
quick  distraction,  not  to  grief,  but  to  its  inert  indulgence.  I  was 
a  soldier;  I  joined  our  armies.  Men  called  me  brave.  Flattery! 
I  was  a  coward  before  the  thought  of  life.  I  sought  death:  like 
sleep  it  does  not  come  at  our  call.  Peace  ensued.  As  when  the 
winds  fall,  the  sails  droop — so  when  excitement  ceased,  all  seemed 
to  me  flat  and  objectless.  Heavy,  heavy  was  my  heart.  Perhaps 
grief  had  been  less  obstinate,  but  that  I  feared  I  had  cause  for 
self-reproach.  Since  then  I  have  been  a  wanderer — a  self-made 
exile.  My  boyhood  had  been  ambitious — all  ambition  ceased. 
Flames,  when  they  reach  the  core  of  the  heart,  spread,  and  leave 
all  in  ashes.  Let  me  be  brief:  I  did  not  mean  thus  weakly  to  com- 
plain— 1  to  whom  Heaven  has  given  so  many  blessings!  I  felt,  as 
it  were,  separated  from  the  common  objects  and  joys  of  men.  I 
grew  startled  to  see  how,  year  by  year,  wayward  humors  possessed 
me.  I  resolved  again  to  attach  myself  to  some  living  heart — it 
was  my  sole  chance  to  rekindle  my  own.  But  the  one  I  had  loved 
remained  as  my  type  of  woman,,  and  she  was  different  from  all  I 
saw.  Therefore  I  said  to  myself, '  I  will  rear  from  childhood  some 
young  fresh  life,  to  grow  up  into  my  ideal.'  As  this  thought  began 
to  haunt  me,  I  chanced  to  discover  you.  Struck  with  the  romance 
of  your  early  life,  touched  by  your  courage,  charmed  by  your  af- 
fectionate nature,  I  said  to  myself, '  Here  is  what  I  seek.'  Helen, 
in  assuming  the  guardianship  of  your  life,  in  all  the  culture  which 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  33 

I  have  sought  to  bestow  on  your  docile  childhood,  I  repeat,  that 
I  have  been  but  the  egotist.  And  now,  when  you  have  reached 
that  age,  when  it  becomes  me  to  speak,  and  you  to  listen — now, 
when  you  are  under  the  sacred  roof  of  my  own  mother — now  I 
ask  you,  can  you  accept  this  heart,  such  as  wasted  years,  and  griefs 
too  fondly  nursed,  have  left  it  ?  Can  you  be,  at  least,  my  com- 
forter? Can  you  aid  me  to  regard  life  as  a  duty,  and  recover  those 
aspirations  which  once  soared  from  the  paltry  and  miserable 
confines  of  our  frivolous  daily  being?  Helen,  here  I  ask  you, 
can  you  be  all  this,  and  under  the  name  of — Wife?" 

It  would  be  in  vain  to  describe  the  rapid,  varying,  indefinable 
emotions  that  passed  through  the  inexperienced  heart  of  the 
youthful  listener,  as  Harley  thus  spoke.  He  so  moved  all  the 
springs  of  amaze,  compassion,  tender  respect,  sympathy,  child- 
like gratitude,  that  when  he'paused  and  gently  took  her  hand,  she 
remained  bewildered,  speechless,  overpowered.  Harley  smiled 
as  he  gazed  upon  her  blushing,  downcast,  expressive  face.  He 
conjectured  at  once  that  the  idea  of  such  proposals  had  never 
crossed  her  mind;  that  she  had  never  contemplated  him  in  the 
character  of  wooer;  never  even  sounded  her  heart  as  to  the 
nature  of  such  feelings  as  his  image  had  aroused. 

"  My  Helen,"  he  resumed,  with  a  calm  pathos  of  voice,  "  there 
is  some  disparity  of  years  between  us,  and  perhaps  I  may  not  hope 
henceforth  for  that  love  which  youth  gives  to  the  young.  Per- 
mit me  simply  to  ask,  what  you  will  frankly  answer — '  Can  you 
have  seen  in  our  quiet  life  abroad,  or  under  the  roof  of  your 
Italian  friends,  any  one  you  prefer  to  me  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  no!"  murmured  Helen.  "How  could  I? — 
who  is  like  you  ?  "  Then,  with  a  sudden  effort — for  her  innate 
truthfulness  took  alarm,  and  her  very  affection  for  Harley, 
child-like  and  reverent,  made  her  tremble  lest  she  should  de- 
ceive him — she  drew  a  little  aside,  and  spoke  thus: 

"  Oh,  my  dear  guardian,  noblest  of  all  human  beings,  at  least 
in  my  eyes,  forgive,  forgive  me,  if  I  seem  ungrateful,  hesitating; 
but  I  cannot,  cannot  think  of  myself  as  worthy  of  you.  I  never 
so  lifted  my  eyes.  Your  rank,  your  position-—" 

"  Why  should  they  be  eternally  my  curse  ?  Forget  them,  and 
go  on." 

"It  is  not  only  they,"  said  Helen,  almost  sobbing, "though 
they  are  much;  but  I  your  type,  your  ideal!— I! — impossible! 
Oh,  how  can  I  ever  be  anything  even  of : use,  of  aid,  of  comfort, 
to  one  like  you  !  " 

"You  can,  Helen — you  can,"  cried  Harley,  charmed  by  such 
ingenuous  modesty.  "  May  I  not  keep  this  hand  ? " 


34  MV  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

And  Helen  left  her  hand  in  Harley's,  and  turned  away  her  face, 
fairly  weeping.  A  stately  step  passed  under  the  wintry  trees. 

11  My  mother,"  said  Harley  L'Estrange,  looking  up,  "I  present 
to  you  my  future  wife." 

CHAPTER  IX. 

WITH  a  slow  step  and  an  abstracted  air,  Harley  L'Estrange 
bent  his  way  toward  Egerton's  house,  after  his  eventful  inter- 
view with  Helen.  He  had  just  entered  one  of  the  streets  leading 
into  Grosvenor  Square,  when  a  young  man,  walking  quickly  from 
the  opposite  direction,  came  full  against  him,  and  drawing  back 
with  a  brief  apology,  recognized  him,  and  .exclaimed,  "What!  you 
in  England,  Lord  L'Estrange!  Accept  my  congratulations  on 
your  return.  But  you  seem  scarcely  to  remember  me." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Leslie.  I  remember  you  now  by  your 
smile;  but  you  are  of  an  age,  in  which  it  is  permitted  me  to  say 
that  you  look  older  than  when  I  saw  you  last." 

"And  yet,  Lord  L'Estrange,  it  seems  to  me  that  you  look 
younger."  .,  j  v 

Indeed,  this  reply  was  so  far  true;  that  there  appeared  less 
difference  of  years  than  before  between  Leslie  and  L'Estrange; 
for  the  wrinkles  in  the  schemer'smind  were  visible  in  his  visage, 
while  Harley's  dreamy  worship  of  Truth  and  Beauty  seemed  to 
have  preserved  to  the  votary  the  enduring  youth  of  the  divinities. 

Harley  received  the  compliment  with  a  supreme  indifference, 
which  might  have  been  suitable  to  a  Stoic,  but  which  seemed 
scarcely  natural  to  a  gentleman  who  had  just  proposed  to  a  lady 
many  years  younger  than  himself. 

Leslie  renewed — "Perhaps  you  are  .on  your  way  to  Mr.  Eger- 
ton's, If  so,  you  will  not  find  him  at  home  ;  he  is  at  his  office." 

"Thank  you.     Then  to  his  office  I  must  re-direct  my  steps." 

"I  am  going  to  him  myself,"  said  Randal,  hesitatingly. 

L'Estrange  had  no  prepossessions  in  favor  of  Leslie,  from  the 
little  he  had  seen  of  that  young  gentleman;  but  Randal's  remark 
was  an  appeal  to  his  habitual  urbanity,  and  he  replied,  with  well- 
bred  readiness,  "Let.  us  be  companions  so  far." 

Randal  accepted  the  arm  proffered  to  him  ;  and  Lord  L'Es- 
trange, as  is  usual  with  one  long  absent  from  his  native  land, 
bore  .part  as  a  questioner  in  the  dialogue  that  ensued. 

"  Egerton  is  always  the  same  man,  I  suppose — too  busy  for 
illness,  and  too  firm  for  sorrow  ?  " 

"  If  he  ever  feel  either,  he  will  never  stoop  to  complain.  But, 
indeed,  my  dear  lord,  I  should  like  much  to  know  what  you 
think  of  his  health." 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  35 

"  How  ?    You  alarm  me  !  " 

"•  Nay,  I  do  not  mean  to  do  that ;  and  pray  do  not  let  him 
know  that  I  went  so  far.  But  I  have  fancied  that  he  looks  a 
little  worn  and  suffering." 

"Poor  Audley  !  "  said  L'Estrange,  in  a  tone  of  deep  affection. 
"I  will  sound  him,  and,  be  assured,  without  naming  you  ;  for  I 
know  well  how  little  he  likes  to  be  supposed  capable  of  human 
infirmity.  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  your  hint — obliged  to  you 
for  your  interest  in  one  so  dear  to  me." 

And  Harley's  voice  was  more  cordial  to  Randal  than  it  had 
ever  been  before:  He  then  began  to  inquire  what  Randal  thought 
of  the  rumors  that  had  reached  himself  as  to  the  probable  defeat 
of  the  Government,  and  how  far  Audley's  spirits  were  affected  by 
such  risks.  But  Randal  here,  seeing  diat  Harley  could  communi- 
cate nothing,  was  reserved  and  guarded. 

"Loss  of  office  could  not,  I  think, effect  a  man  like  Audley," 
observed  Lord  L'Estrange.  "  He  would  be  as  great  in  oppo- 
sition— perhaps  greater  ;  and  as  to  emoluments — " 

"The  emoluments  are  good," interposed  Randal,  with  a  half- 
sigh. 

"  Good  enough,  I  suppose,  to  pay  him  back  about  a  tenth  of 
what  his  place  costs  our  magnificent  friend — No,  I  will  say  one 
thing  for  English  statesmen,  no  man  amongst  them  ever  yet  was 
the  richer  for  place." 

;  "And  Mr.  Egerton's  private  fortune  must  be  large,  I  take  for 
granted,"  said  Randal,  carelessly. 

"  It  ought  to  be,  if  he  has  time  to  look  to  it."1 

Here  they  passed  the  hotel  in  which  lodged  the  Count  diPes- 
chiera. 

Randal  stopped.  "  Will  you  excuse  me  for  an  instant  ?  As 
we  are  passing  this  hotel,  I  will  just  leave  my  card  here."  So 
saying  he  gave  his  card  to  a  waiter  lounging  by  the  door.  "  For 
the  Count  di  Peschiera,"  said  he  aloud. 

L'Estrange  started  ;>and  as  Randal  again  took  his  arm,  said— 
"So  that  Italian  lodges  here  ?  and  you  know  him  ?" 

"I  know  him  but  slightly,  as  one  knows  any  foreigner  who 
makes  a  sensation." 

"He  makes  a  sensation  ?  " 

"  Naturally,  for  he  is  handsome,  witty,  and  said  to  be  very  rich— 
that  is,  as  long  as  he  receives  the  revenues  of  his  exiled  kinsman." 

"  1  see  you  are  well  informed,  Mr.  Leslie.  And  what  is  sup- 
posed to  bring  hither  the  Count  di  Peschiera?" 

"I  did  hear  something,  which  I  did  not  quite  understand, 
about  a  bet  of  his  that  he  would  marry  his  kinsman's  daughter: 


36  MY    NOVEL',    OR, 

and  so,  I  conclude,  secure  to  himself  all  the  inheritance;  and  that 
he  is  therefore  :here  to  discover  the  kinsman  and  win  the  heiress. 
But  probably  you  know  the  rights  of  the  story,  and  can  tell  me 
what  credit  to  give  to  such  gossip." 

"  I  know  this  at  least,  that  if  he  did  lay  such  a  wager,  I  would 
advise  you  to  take  any  odds  against  him  that  his  backers  may 
give,"  said  L'Estrange,  dryly  ;  and  while  his  lips  quivered  with 
anger,  his  eye  gleamed  with  arch  ironical  humor. 

"  You  think,  then,  that  this  poor  kinsman  will  not  need  such 
an  alliance  in  order  to  regain  his  estates?" 

"  Yes  ;  for  I  never  yet  knew  a  rogue  whom  I  could  not  bet 
against,  when  he  backed  his  own  luck  as  a  rogue  against  Justice 
and  Providence," 

Randal  winced,  and  felt  as  if  an  arrow  had  grazed  his  heart ; 
but  he  soon  recovered. 

"  And  indeed  there  is  another  vague  rumor  that  the  young 
lady  in  question  is  married  already — to  some  Englishman." 

This  time  it  was  Harley  who  winced.  "  Good  Heavens!  that 
cannot  be  true — that  would  undo  all !  An  Englishman  just  at 
this  moment!  But  some  Englishman  of  correspondent  rank,  I 
trust,  or  at  least  one  known  for  opinions  opposed  to  what  an 
Austrian  would  call  Revolutionary  doctrines  ?" 

"I  know  nothing.  But  it  was  supposed,  merely  a  private 
gentleman  of  good  family.  Would  not  that  suffice  ?  Can  the 
Austrian  Court  dictate  a  marriage  to  the  daughter  as  a  condition 
for  grace  to  the  father  ?  " 

"No — not  that!"  said  Harley,  greatly  disturbed.  "But  put 
yourself  in  the  position  of  any  minister  to  one  of  the  great 
European  monarchies.  Suppose  a  political  insurgent,  formidable 
for  station  and  wealth,  had  been  proscribed,  much  interest  made 
on  his  behalf,  a  powerful  party  striving  against  it,  and  just  when 
the  minister  is  disposed  to  relent,  he  hears  that  the  heiress  to  this 
wealth  and  this  station  is  married  to  the  native  of  a  country  in 
which  sentiments  friendly  to  the  very  opinions  for  which  the  in- 
surgent was  proscribed  are  popularly  entertained,  and  thus  that 
the  fortune  to  be  restored  may  be  so  employed  as  to  disturb  the 
national  security — the  existing  order  of  things  ; — this,  too,  at  the 
very  time  when  a  popular  revolution  has  just  occurred  in 
France,*  and  its  effects  are  felt  most  in  the  very  land  of  the 
exile  ; — suppose  all  this,  and  then  say  if  any  thing  could  be  more 
untoward  for  the  hopes  of  the  banished  man,  or  furnish  his  ad- 
versary with  stronger  arguments  against  the  restoration  of  his 

*As  there  have  been  so  many  revolutions  in  France,  it  m^y  be  convenient  to  suggest  that, 
according  to  the  dates  of  this  story,  Harley  no  doubt  alludes  to  that  revolution  which  exiled 
Charles  X.,and  placed  Louis  Philippe  on  the  throne. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  37 

fortune  ?  But  pshaw — this  must  be  a  chimera!  If  true.  I  would 
have  known  of  it." 

"  I  quite  agree  with  your  lordship — there  can  be  no  truth  in 
such  a  rumor.  Some  Englishman,  hearing,  perhaps,  of  the  prob- 
able pardon  of  the  exile,  may  have  counted  on  an  heiress,  and 
spread  the  report  in  order  to  keep  off  other  candidates.  By 
your  account,  if  successful  in  his  suit,  he  might  fail  to  find  an 
heiress  in  the  bride." 

"  No  doubt  of  that.  Whatever  might  be  arranged,  I  can't 
conceive  that  he  would  be  allowed  to  get  at  the  fortune,  though  it 
might  be  held  in  suspense  for  his  children.  But,indeed,it  so  rarely 
happens  that  an  Italian  girl  of  high  name  marries  a  foreigner, 
that  we  must  dismiss  this  notion  with  a  smile  at  the  long  face  of  the 
hypothetical  fortune-hunter.  Heaven  help  him,  if  he  exist ! " 

"  Amen,"  echoed  Randal,  devoutly. 

"  I  hear  that  Peschiera's  sister  is  returned  to  England.  Do 
you  know  her  too  ? " 

"A  little." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Leslie,  pardon  me  if  I  take  a  liberty  not  war- 
ranted by  our  acquaintance.  Against  the  lady  I  say  nothing. 
Indeed,  I  have  heard  some  things  which  appear  to  entitle  her  to 
compassion  and  respect.  But  as  to  Peschiera,  all  who  prize  honor 
suspect  him  to  be  a  knave — I  know  him  to  be  one.  Now,  I  think 
that  the  longer  we  preserve  that  abhorrence  for  knavery  which 
is  the  generous  instinct  of  youth,  why,  the  fairer  will  be  our  man- 
hood, and  the  most  reverend  our  age.  You  agree  with  me  ? " 
And  Harley  suddenly  turning,  his  eyes  fell  like  a  flood  of  light 
upon  Randal's  pale  and  secret  countenance. 

"To  be  sure,"  murmured  the. schemer. 

Harley,  surveying  him,  mechanically  recoiled,  .and  withdrew 
his  arm. 

Fortunately  for  Randal,  who  somehow  or  other  felt  himself 
slipped  into  a  false  position,  he  scarce  knew  howor  why,  he  was 
here  seized  by  the  arm;  and  a  clear,  open,  manly  voice  cried, 
"  My  dear  fellow,  how  are  you  ?  I  see  you  are  engaged  now;  but 
look  into  my  rooms  when  you  can,  in  the  course  of  the  day." 

And  with  a  bow  of  excuse  for  his  interruption,  to  Lord  L'Es- 
trange,  the  speaker  was  then  turning  away,  when  Harley  said — 

"  No,  don't  let  me  take  you  from  your  friend,  Mr.  Leslie.  And 
you  need  not  be  in  a  hurry  to  see  Egerton;  for  I  shall  claim  the 
privilege  of  older  friendship  for  the  first  interview." 

"  It  is  Mr,  Egerton's  nephew,  Frank  Hazeldean." 

"  Pray,  call  him  back,  and  present  me  to  him.  He  has  a  face 
that  would  have  gone  far  to  reconcile  Timon  to  Athens." 


38  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Randal  obeyed,  and  after  a  few  kindly  words  to  Frank,  Har- 
ley  insisted  on  leaving  the  two  young  men  together,  and  walked 
on  to  Downing  Street  with  a  brisk  step. 

CHAPTER  X. 

"  THAT  Lord  L-'Estrange  seems  a  very  good  fellow." 

"  So-so — an  effeminate  humorist — says  the  most  absurd  things, 
and  fancies  them  wise.  Never  mind  him.  You  wanted  to  speak 
to  me,  Frank  ? " 

.  "Yes;  I  am  so  obliged  to  you  for  introducing  me  to  Levy.     I 
must  tell  you  how  handsomely  he  has  behaved." 

"  Stop;  allow  me  to  remind  you  that  I  did  not  introduce  you 
to  Levy;  you  had  met  him  before  at  Borrowell's,  if  I  recollect 
right,  and  he  dined  with  us  at  the  Clarendon — that  is  all  I  had  to 
do  in  bringing  you  together;  Indeed  I  rather  cautioned  you 
against  him  than  not.  Pray  don't  think  I  introduced  you  to  a  man" 
who,however  pleasant  and  perhaps  honest,is  still  a  money-lender. 
Your  father  would  be  justly  angry  with  me  if  I  had  done  so." 

"  Oh,  pooh!  you  are  prejudiced  against  poor  Levy.  But  just 
hear;  I  was  sitting  very  ruefully,  thinking  over  those  cursed  bills, 
and  how  the  deuce  I  should  renew  them,  when  Levy  walked  into 
my  rooms;  and,  after  telling  me  of  his  long  friendship  for  my 
uncle  Egerton  and  his  admiration  for  yourself,  and  (give  me  your 
hand,  Randal)  saying  how  touched  he  felt  by  your  kind  sym- 
pathy in  my  troubles,  he  opened  his  pocket-book,  and  showed 
me  the  bills  safe  and  sound  in  his  Own  possession." 

"  How  ?  " 

"  He  had  bought  them  up.  'It  must  be  so  disagreeable  tome,' 
he  said,  '  to  have  them  flying  about  the  London  money-market, 
and  those  Jews  would  be  sure  sooner  or  later  to  apply  to  my 
father.  And  now,'  added  Levy, '  I  am  in  no  immediate  hurry  for 
the  money,  and  we  must  put  the  interest  upon  fairer  terms.'  In 
short,  nothing  could  bemore  liberal  than  his  tone.  And  he  says, 
'he  is  thinking  of  a  way  to  relieve  me  altogether,  and  will  call 
aboutit  in  afew  days,  when  his  plan  is  matured.' After  all',  I  must 
owe  this  to  you,  Randal.  I  dare  swear  you  put  it  into  his  head." 

"  O  no,  indeed!  On  the  contrary,  I  still  say,  '  Be  cautious  in 
all  your  dealings  with  Levy.'  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,  what  he 
means  to  propose.  Have  you  heard  from  the  Hall  lately  ?" 

"  Yes — to-day.  Only  think — the  Riccaboccas  have  disap- 
peared. My  mother  writes  me  word  of  it — a  very  odd  letter. 
She  seems  to  suspect  that  I  know  where  they  are,  and  reproaches 
•we  for  '  mystery  ' — quite  enigmatical.  But  there  is  one  sen- 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  39 

tence  in  her  letter — see.  here  it  is  in  the  postscript — which  seems 
to  refer  to  Beatrice:  'I  don't  ask  you  to  tell  me  your  secrets, 
Frank,  but  Randal  will  no  doubt  have  assured  you  that  my  first 
consideration  will  be  for  your  own  happiness,  in  any  matter  in 
which  your  heart  is  really  engaged.'  " 

"Yes,"  said  Randal,  slowly;  "  no  doubt  this  refers  to  Beatrice; 
but,  as  I  told  you,  your  mother  will  not  interfere  oneway  or  the 
other— -such  interference  would  weaken  her  influence  with  the 
Squire.  Besides,  as  she  said,  she  can't  wish  you  to  marry  a  foreign- 
er; though  once  married,  she  would —  But  hosv  do  you  stand 
now  with  the  Marchesa  ?  Has  she  consented  to  accept  you  ?  " 

'*  Not  quite;  indeed,  I  have  not  actually  proposed.  Herman- 
ner,  though  much  softened,  has  not  so  far  emboldened  me;  and, 
besides,  before  a  positive  declaration,  I  certainly  must  go  down 
to  the  Hall;  and  speak  at  least  to  my  mother." 

"You  must  judge  for  yourself,  but  don't  do  anything  rash  : 
talk  first  to  me.  '  Here  we  are  at  my  office.  Good-bye;  and — • 
and  pray  believe  that,  in  whatever  yoii  do  with  Levy,  I  have  no 
hand  in  it." 

CHAPTER  XI. 

TOWARD  the  evening,  Randal  was  riding  fast  on  the  road  to 
Norwood.  The  arrival  of  Barley,  and  the  conversation  that  had 
passed  between  that  nobleman  and  Randal,  made  the  latter  anx- 
ious to  ascertain  how  far  Riccabocca  was  likely  to  learn  L'Es- 
trange's  return  to  England,  and  to  meet  with  him.  For  he  felt 
that,  should  the  latter  come  to  know  that  Riccabocca,  in  his 
movements,  had  gone  by  Randal's  advice,  Harley  would  find 
that  Randal  had  spoken  to  him  disingenuously;  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  Riccbaocca,  placed  under  the  friendly  protection  of  Lord 
L'Estrange,  would  no  longer  need  Randal  Leslie  to  defend  him 
from  the  machinations  of  Peschiera.  To  a  reader  happily  unac- 
customed to  diveintothe  deep  and  mazyfecesses  of  a  schemer's 
mind,  itmight  seem  that  Randal's  interestin  retaining  a  hold  over 
the  exile's  confidence  would  terminate  with  the  assurances  that 
had  reached  him,  from  more  than  one  quarter,  that  Violante 
might  cease  to  be  an  heiress  if  she  married  himself.  "  But  per- 
haps," suggests  some  candid  and  youthful  conjecturer — "per- 
haps Randal  Leslie  is:in  love  with  this  fair  creature  ?"  Randal 
in  love! — no!  He  was  too  absorbed  by  harder  passions  for  that 
blissful  folly.  Nor,  if  he  could  have  fallen  in  love,  was  Violante 
the  one  to  attract  that  sullen  secret  heart;  her  instinctive  noble- 
ness, the  very  stateliness  of  her  beauty,  womanlike  though  it 
was,  awed  him.  Men  of  that  kind  may  love  some  soft  slave — 


4O  MY    NOVEL;    OR, 

they  cannot  lift  their  eyes  to  a  queen.  They  may  look  down — 
they  cannot  look  up.  But,  on  the  one  hand,  Randal  could  not 
resign  altogether  the  chance  of  securing  a  fortune  that  would 
realize  his  most  dazzling  dreams,  upon  the  mere  assurance,  how- 
ever probable,  which  had  so  dismayed  him  .;  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  should  he  be  compelled  to  relinquish  all  idea  of  such  alli- 
ance, though  he  did  not  contemplate  the  base  perfidy  of  actually 
assisting  Peschiera's  avowed  design,  still,  if  Frank's  marriage 
with  Beatrice  should  absolutely  depend  upon  her  brother's  ob- 
taining the  knowledge,  of  Violante's  retreat,  and  that  marriage 
should  be  as  conducive  to  his  interests  as  he  thought  he  could 
make  it,  why — he  did  not  then  push  his  deductions  farther,  even 
to  himself  they  seemed  too  black  ;  but  he  sighed  heavily,  and 
that  sigh  foreboded  how  weak  would  be  honor  and  virtue  against 
avarice  and  ambition.  Therefore,  on  all  accounts,  Riccabocca 
was  one  of  those  cards  in  a  sequence,  which  so  calculating  a 
player  would  not  throw  out. of  his  hand:  it  might  serve  for  re- 
pique, — at  the  worst,  it  might  score  well  in  the  game.  Intimacy 
with  the  Italian  was  still  part  and  parcel  in  that  knowledge  which 
was  the  synonym  of  power. 

While  the  young  man  was  thus  meditating,  on  his  road  to 
Norwood,  Riccabocca  and  his  Jemima  were  close  conferring  in 
their  drawing-room.  And  if  you  could  have  there  seen  them, 
reader,  you  would  have  been  seized  with  equal  surprise  and  curi- 
osityjforsomeextraordinarycommunicationhad certainly  passed 
between  them.  Riccabocca  wag  evidently  much  agitated,  and 
with  emotions  not  familiar  to  him.  The  tears  stood  in  his  eyes 
at  the  same  time  that  a  smile,  the  reverse  of  cynical  or  sardonic, 
curved  his  lips;  while  his  wife  was  leaning  her  head  on  his 
shoulder,  her  hand  clasped  in  his,  and,  by  the  expression  of  her 
face,  you  might  guess  that  he  had  paid  her  some  very  gratifying 
compliment,  of  a  nature  more  genuine  and  sincere  than  those 
which  characterized  his  habitual  hollow  and  dissimulating  gal' 
lantry.  But  j  ust  at  this  moment  Giacomo  entered,  and  Jemima, 
with  her  native  English  modesty,  withdrew  in  haste  from  Ric- 
cabocca's  sheltering  side. 

"  Padrone,"  said  Giacomo,  who,  whatever  his  astonishment  at 
the  connubial  position  he  had  disturbed,  was  much  too  discreet 
to  betray  it — "Padrone,  I  see  the  young  Englishman  riding  to- 
ward the  house,  and  I  hope,  when  he  arrives,  you  will  not  forget 
the  alarming  information  I  gave  you  this  morning." 

"  Ah — -ah  ! "  said  Riccabocca,  his  face  falling. 

"  If  the  Signorina  were  but  married  !  " 

"My  very  thought— my  constant  thought!"  exclaimed  Rice*- 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  41 

bocca.  "And  you  really  believe  the  young  Englishman  loves 
her!" 

"  Why  else  should  he  come,  excellency  ? "  asked  Giacomo, 
with  great  naiveti. 

"Very  true;  why,  indeed?"  said  Riccabocca.  "Jemima,! 
cannot  endure  the  terrors  I  suffer  on  that  poor  child's  account. 
I  will  open  myself  frankly  to  Randal  Leslie.  And,  now,  too, 
that  which  might  have  been  a  serious  consideration,  in  case  I 
return  to  Italy,  will  no  longer  stand  in  our  way,  Jemima.'' 

Jemima  smiled  faintly,  and  whispered  something  to  Ricca- 
bocca, to  which  he  replied, — 

"  Nonsense,  anima.  mia.  I  know  it  will  be — have  not  a  doubt 
of  it.  I  tell  youitisasnine  tofour,  according  to  the  nicest  calcu- 
lations. I  will  speak  at  once  to  Randal.  He  is  too  young — 
too  timid  to  speak  himself." 

"  Certainly,"  interposed  Giacomo;  "how  could  he  dare  to 
speak,  let  him  love  ever  so  well  ? " 

Jemima  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  never  fear,"  said  Riccabocca,  observing  this  gesture  ;  "  I 
will  give  him  the  trial.  If  he  entertain  but  mercenary  views,  I 
shall  soon  detect  them.  I  know  human  nature  pretty-well,!  think, 
my  love  ;  and,  Giacomo,— just  get  me  my  Machiavelli ; — that's 
right.  Now  leave  me,  my  dear ;  I  must  reflect,and  prepare  myself." 

When  Randal  entered  the  house,Giacomo,  with  a  smile  of  pecu- 
liar suavity,  ushered  him  into  the  drawing-room.  He  found  Ric- 
cabocca alone,  and  seated  before  the  fireplace,  leaning  his  face  on 
his  hand, with  the  great  folio  of  Machiavelli  lying  ©pen  on  the  table. 

The  Italian  received  him  as  courteously  as  usual ;  but  there 
was  in  his  manner  acertain  serious  and  thoughtful  dignity,  which 
was  perhaps  the  more  imposing,  because  but  rarely  assumed. 
After  a  few  preliminai  y  observations,Randal  remarked  that  Frank 
Hazeldean  had  informed  him  of  the  curiosity  which  the  dis- 
appearance of  the  Riccaboccas  had  excited  at  the  Hall,  and  in- 
quired  carelessly  if  the  Doctor  had  left  instructions  as  to  the  for- 
warding of  any  letters  that  might  be  directed  to  him  at  the  Casino. 

"Letters,"  said  Riccabocca,  simply;  "I  never  receive  any; 
or,  at  least,  so  rarely,  that  it  is  not  worth  while  to  take  an  event 
so  little  expected  into  consideration.  No ;  if  any  letters  do 
reach  the  Casino,  there  they  will  wait." 

"  Then  I  can  see  no  possibility  of  indiscretion, — no  chance 
of  a  clue  to  your  address." 

"  Nor  I  either." 

Satisfied  so  far,  and  knowing  that  it  was  not  in  Riccabocca's 
habits  to  read  the  newspapers,  by  which  he  might  otherwise  have 


42  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR 

learnt  of  L'Estrange's  arrival  in  London,  Randal  then  proceeded 
to  inquire,  with  much  seeming  interest,  into  the  health  of  Violan- 
te — hoped  it  did  not  suffer  by  confinement,etC;  Riccaboccaeyed 
him  gravely  while  he  spoke,  and  then  suddenly  rising,  that  air  of 
dignity  to  which  I  have  before  referred  became  yet  more  striking. 

"  My  young  friend,"  said  he, "  hear  me  attentively,  and  answer 
me  frankly.  I  know  human  nature — "  Here  a  slight  smile  of 
proud  complacency  passed  the  sage's  lips,  and  his  eye  glanced 
toward  his  Machiavelli.  i  ".I  know  human  nature — at  least  I 
have;studied  it,"  he  renewed  more  earnestly,  and  with  less  evi- 
dent self-conceit ;  "  and  I  believe  that  when  a  perfect  stranger 
to  me  exhibits  an  interest  in  my  affairs,  which  occasions  him  no 
small  trouble — an  interest  (continued  the  wise  man,  laying  his 
hand  on  Randal's  shoulder)  which  scarcely  a  son  could  exceed, 
he  must  be  under  the  influence  of  some  strong  personal  motive." 

"Oh,  sir  !  "  cried  Randal,  turning  a  shade  more  pale,  and  with 
a  faltering  tone.  Riccabocca  surveyed  him  with  the  tenderness 
of  a  superior  being,  and  pursued  his  deductive  theories. 

4iln  your  case,  what  is  that  motive?  Not  political ;  for  I  con- 
elude  you  share  the  opinions  of  your  government,  and  those 
opinions  have  not  favored  mine.  Not  that  of  pecuniary  or  am- 
bitious calculations';  for  how  can  such  calculations  enlist  you  on 
behalf  of  a  ruined  exile?  Whatremains?  Why,  themotive  which 
at  your  age  is  ever  the  most  natural  and  the  strongest.  I  don't 
blame  you.  Machiavelli  himself  allows  that  such  a  motive  has 
swayed  the  wisest  minds,and  overturned  the  most  solid  states.  In  a 
word,youngman,you  are  in  love,and  with  my  daughter  Violante." 

Randal  was  so  startled  by  this  direct  and  unexpected  charge 
upon  his  own  masked  batteries,  that  he  did  not  even  attempt 
his  defence.  His  head  drooped  on  his  breast,  and  he  remained 
speechless.  ti 

"I  do  not  doubt,"  resumed  the  penetrating  judge  of  human 
nature,  "that  you  would  have  been  withheld,  by  the  laudable 
and  generous  scruples  which  characterize  your  happy  age,  from 
voluntarily  disclosing  to  me  the  state  of  your  heart.  You  might 
suppose  that,  proud  of  the  position  I  once  held,  or  sanguine  in 
the  hope  of  regaining  my  inheritance,  I  might  be  over-ambitious 
in^ my  matrimonial  views  for  Violante  ;  or  that  you,  anticipating 
my  restoration  to  honors  and  fortune,  might  seem  actuated  by 
the  last  motives  which  influence  love  and  youth. ;  and  therefore, 
my  dear  young  friend,  I  have  departed  from  the  ordinary  custom 
in  England,  and  adopted  a  very  common  one  in  my  own  country. 
With  us  a  suitor  seldom  presents  himself  till  he  is  assured  of  the 
consent  of  the  father.  I  have  only  to  say  this— if  I  am  right, 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  43 

and  you  love  my  daughter,  my  first  object  in  life  is  to  see  her 
safe  and  secure ;  and,  in  a  word — you  understand  me." 

Now,  mightily  may  it  comfort  and  console  us  ordinary  mortals, 
who  advance  no  pretence  to 'superior"  wisdom  and  ability,  to  see 
the  huge  mistake  made  by  both  these  very  sagacious  personages — 
Dr.  Riccabocca,  valuing  himself  on  his  profound  acquaintance 
with  character,  and  Randal  Leslie,  accustomed  to  grope  into 
every  hole  and  corner  of  thought  and  action,  wherefrom  to  ex- 
tract that  knowledge  which  is  power!  For  whereas  the  sage, 
judging  not  only  by  his  own  heart  in  youth,  but  by  the  general 
influences  of  the  master-passion  on  the  young,  had  ascribed  to 
Randal  sentiments  wholly  foreign  tothabablediplomatist'snature; 
so  no  sooner  had  Riccabocca  brought  this  speech  to  a  close,  than 
Randal,  judging  also  by  his  own  heart,  and  by  the  general  laws 
which  influence  men  of  the  mature  age  and  boasted  worldly 
wisdom  of  the  pupil  of  Machiavelli,  instantly  decided  that  Ric- 
cabocca presumed  upon  his  youth  and  inexperience,  and  meant 
most  nefariously  to  take  him  in. 

"The  poor  youth  !"  thought  Riecabocca,  "how  unprepared 
he  is  for  the  happiness  I  give  him  ?" 

"The  cunning  old  Jesuit  !"  thought  Randal;  "he  has  cer- 
tainly learned,  since,  we  met  last,  that  he  has  no  chance  of  re- 
gaining his  patrimony,  and  so  he  wants  to  impose  on  me  thehand 
of  a  girl  without  a  shilling.  What  other  motive  can  he  possibly 
have  ?  Had  his  daughter  the  remotest  probability  of  becoming 
the  greatest  heiress  in  Italy,  would  he  dream  of  bestowing  her 
on  me  in  this  off-hand  way?  The  thing  stands  to  reason." 

Actuated  by  his  resentment  at  the  trap  thus  laid  for  him,  Ran- 
dal was  about  to  disclaim  altogether  the  disinterested  and  absurd 
affection  laid  to  his  charge,  when  it  occurred  to  him  that,  by  so 
doing,  he  might  mortally  offend,  the  Italian — since  the  cunning 
never  forgive  those  who  refuse  to  be  duped  by  them — and  it 
might  still  be  conducive  to  his  interest  to  preserve  intimate  and 
familiar  terms  with  Riccabocca;  therefore,  subduing  his  first  im- 
pulse, he  exclaimed — 

"O  too  generous  man  !  pardon  me  if  I  have  so  long  been  un- 
able to  express  my  amaze,  my  gratitude;  but  I  cannot— no,  I 
cannot,  while  your  prospects  remain  thus  uncertain,  avail  myself 
of  your  inconsiderate  magnanimity.  Your  rare  conduct  can  only 
redouble  my  own  scruples, if  you,. as  I  firmly  hope  and  believe, 
are  restored  to  your  great  possessions— you  would  naturally  look 
so  much  higher  than  me.  Should  these  hopes  fail,  then,  indeed, 
it  may  be  different ;  yet  even  then,  what  position,  what  fortune, 
have  I  to  offer  to  your  daughter  worthy  of  her  ? " 


44  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"You  are  well-born  !  all  gentlemen  are  equals,"  said  Ricca- 
bocca,with,a  sortof  easy  nobleness.  "You  haveyouth,  information, 
talent— sources  of  certain  wealth  in  this  happy  country— power- 
ful connections  ;  and,  in  fine,  if  you  are  satisfied  with  marrying 
for  love,  I  shall  be  contented  ;— if  not,  speak  openly.  As  to  the 
restoration  to  my  possessions,  I  can  scarcely  think  that  probable 
while  my  enemy  lives.  And  even  in  that  case,  since  I  saw  you 
last,  something  has  occurred  (added  Riccabocca,  with  a  strange 
smile,  which  seemed  to  Randal  singularly  sinister  and  malignant) 
that  may  remove  all  difficulties.  Meanwhile  do  not  think  me  so 
extravagantly  magnanimous — do  not  underrate  the  satisfaction  I 
must  feel  at  knowing  Violante  safe  from  the  designs  of  Peschiera — 
safe,  and  for  ever,  under  a  husband's  roof.  I  will  tell  you  an 
Italian  proverb — it  contains  a  truth  full  of  wisdom  and  terror: 
:  '  Hai  cinquanta  amici  ? — non  basta. — Hai.un  nemico  ? — e  troppo.'  "  * 

"Something  has  occurred  ! "  echoed  Randal,  not  heeding  the 
conclusion  of  this  speech,  and  scarcely  hearing  the  proverb  which 
the  sage  delivered  in  his  most  emphatic  and  tragic  tone.  "  Some- 
thing has  occurred  !  My  dear  friend,  be  plainer.  What  has  oc- 
curred?" Riccabocca  remained  silent.  "Something  that  induces 
you  to  bestow  your  daughter  on  me  ?" 

Riccabocca  nodded,  and  emitted  a  low  chuckle. 

"The  very  laugh  of  a  fiend,"  muttered  Randal.  " Something 
that  makes  her  not  worth  bestowing.  He -betrays  himself.  Cun- 
ning people  always  do," 

"Pardon  me,"  said  the  Italian  at  last,  "if  I  don't  answer  your 
question  ;  you  will  know  later  ;  but,  at-  present,  this  is  a  family 
secret.  And  now  I  must  turn  to  another  and  more  alarming 
cause  for  my  frankness  to  you."  Here  Riccabocca's  face  changed, 
and  assumed  an  expression  of  mingled  rage  and  fear.  "You 
must  know,"  he  added,  sinking  his  voice,  "that  Giacomo  has 
seen  a  strange  person  loitering  about  the  house,  and  looking  up 
at  the  windows ;  and  he  has  no  doubt— nor  have  I — that  this  is 
some  spy  or  emissary  of  Peschiera's." 

"Impossible  ;  how  could  he  discover  you?" 

"I  know  not ;  but  no  one  else  has  any  interest  in  doing  so. 
The  man  kept  at  a  distance,  and  Giacomo  could  not  see  his  face." 
I  "  It  may  be  but  a  mere  idler.  Is  this  all  ? " 

"  No  ;  the  old  woman  who  serves  us  said  that  she  was  asked 
at  a  shop  '  if  we  were  not  Italians  ?  '  " 

"  Arid  she  answered  ?  " 
"No" ;  but  owned  that  'we  had  a  foreign  servant,  Giacomo.'" 

"  I  willsee  to  this.     Rely  on  it  that  if  Peschiera  has  discovered 

*  Have  you  fifty  friends  ?— -it  is  not  enough; — Have  you  one  enemy  ?— it  is  too  much. 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  45 

you,  I  will  learn  it.  Nay,  I  will  hasten  from  you  in  order  to 
commence  inquiry." 

"  I  cannot  detain  you.  May  I  think  that  we  have  now  an 
interest  in  common  ?  " 

"Oh,  indeed,  yes;  but — but — your  daughter!  how  can  I 
dream  that  one  so  beautiful,  so  peerless,  will  confirm  the  hope 
you  have  extended  to  me  ?  " 

"  The  daughter  of  an  Italian  is  brought  up  to  consider  that  it 
is  a  father's  right  to  dispose  of  her  hand." 

"But  the  heart?" 

"  Cospetto!"  said  the  Italian,  true  to  his  infamous  notions  as 
to  the  sex,  "  the  heart  of  a  girl  is  like  a  convent — the  holier  the 
cloister  the  more  charitable  the  door." 

CHAPTER  XII. 

RANDAL  had  scarcely  left  the  house  before  Mrs.  Riccabocca, 
who  was  affectionately  anxious  in  all  that  concerned  Violante, 
rejoined  her  husband. 

.  "  I  like  the  young  man  very  well,"  said  the  sage~"  very  well, 
indeed.  I  find  him  just  what  I  expected,  from  my  general  knowl- 
edge of  human  nature  ;  for  as  love  ordinarily  goes  with  youth,  so 
modesty  usually  accompanies  talent.  He  is  young,  ergo  he  is  in 
love ;  he  has  talent,  ergo  he  is  modest — modest  and  ingenuous." 

"  And  you  think  not  in  any  way  swayed  by  interest  in  his 
affections  ? " 

"Quite  the  contrary  ;  and  to  prove  him  the  more,  I  have  not 
said  a  word  as  to  the  worldly  advantages  which,  in  any  case,  would 
accrue  to  him  from  an  alliance  with  my  daughter.  In  any  case  ; 
for  if  1  regain  my  country,  her  fortune  is  assured  ;  and  if  not,  I 
trust  (said  the  poor  exile,  lifting  his  brow  with  stately  and  becom- 
ing pride),  that  I  am  too  well  aware  of  my  child's  dignity,as  well  as 
my  own,  to  ask  any  one  to  marry  her  to  his  own  worldly  injury." 

"  Eh  !  I  don't  quite  understand  you,  Alphonso.  To  be  sure, 
your  dear  life  is  insured  for  her  marriage-portion  ;  but — " 

"  Pazzie — stuff  !  "  said  Riccabocca,  petulantly  ;"  her  marriage- 
portion  would  be  as  nothing  to  a  young  man  of  Randal's  birth 
and  prospects.  I  think  not  of  that.  But  listen  :  I  have  never 
consented  to  profit  by  Harley  L'Estrange's  friendship  for  me  ; 
my  scruples  would  not  extend  to  my  son-in-law.  This  noble 
friend  has  not  only  high  rank,  but  considerable  influence— influ- 
ence with  the  Government — influence  with  Randal's  patron — 
who,  between  ourselves,  does  not  seem  to  push  the  young  man  as 
he  might  do ;  I  judge  by  what  Randal  says.  I  should  write  there- 


46  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

.fore,  before  anything  was  settled,  to  L'Estrange,  and  I  should 
say  to  him  simply, '  I  never  asked  you  to  save  me  from  penury, 
but  I  do  ask  you  to  save  a  daughter  of  my  house  from  humiliation. 
I  can  give  to  her  no  dowry  ;  can  her  husband  owe  to  my  friend 
that  advance  in  an  honorable  career — that  opening  to  energy  and 
talent — which  is  more  than  a  dowry  to  generous  ambition  ? " 

"  Oh,  it  is  in  vain  you  would  disguise  your  rank,"  cried 
Jemima,  with  enthusiasm  ;  "  it  speaks  in  all  you  utter,  when  your 
passions  are  moved." 

The  Italian  did  not  seem  flattered  by  that  eulogy.  "  Pish," 
said  he,  "  there  you  are  !  rank  again  ! " 

But  Jemima  was  right.  There  was  something  about  her  hus- 
band that  was  grandiose  and  princely,  whenever  he  escaped  from 
his  accursed  Machiavelli,  and  gave  fair  play  to  his  heart. 

And  he  spent  the  next  hour  or  so  in  thinking  over  all  that  he 
could  do  for  Randal,  and  devising  for  his  intended  son-in-law 
the  agreeable  surprises,  which  Randal  was  at  that  very  time 
racking  his  yet  cleverer  brains  to  disappoint. 

These  plans  conned  sufficiently,  Riccabocca  shut  up  his  Mach- 
iavelli, and  hunted  out  of  his  scanty  collection  of  books  Buffon  on 
Man,  and  various  other  psychological  volumes;  in  which  he  soon 
became  deeply  absorbed.  Why  were  these  works  the  object  of 
the  sage's  study  ?  Perhaps  he  will  let  us  know  soon,  for  it  is 
clearly  a  secret  known  to  his  wife  ;  and  though  she  has  hitherto 
kept  one  secret,  that  is  precisely  the  reason  why  Riccabocca 
would  not  wish  long  to  overburthen  her  discretion  with  another. 

:       •  . 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

RANDAL  reached  home  in  time  to  dress  for  a  late  dinner  at 
Baron  Levy's. 

The  Baron's  style  of  living  was  of  that  character  especially 
affected  both  by  the  most  acknowledged  exquisites  of  that  day, 
and,  it  must  be  owned,  also  by  the  most  egregious  parvenus.  For 
it  is  noticeable  that  it  is^your  parvenu  who  always  comes  nearest 
injfashion  (so  far  as  externals  are  concerned)  to  your  genuine  ex- 
quisite. It  is  your  parvenu  who  is  most  particular  as  to  the  cut 
of  his  coat,  and  the  precision  of  his  equipage,-  and  the  minutiae 
of  his  menage.  Those  between  the  piirvenu  and  the  exquisite, 
who  know  their  own  consequence,  and  have  something  solid  to 
rest  upon,  are  slow  in  following  all  the  caprices  of  fashion,  and 
obtuse  in  observation  as  to  those  niceties  which  neither  give  them 
another  ancestor,  nor  add  another  thousand  to' the  account  at 
their  banker's  ;^-as  to  the  last,  rather,  indeed,  the  contrary  ! 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  47 

There  was  a  decided  elegance  about  the  Baron's  house  and  his 
dinner.  If  he  had  been  one  of  the  lawful  kings  of  the  dandies, 
you  would  have  cried,  "  What  perfect  taste  !  " — but  such  is 
human  nature,  that  the  dandies  who  dined  with  him  said  to  each 
other,  "He  pretend  to  imitate  D — !  vulgar  dog  !".  There  was 
little  affectation  of  your  more  showy  opulence.  The  furniture 
in  the  rooms  was  apparently  simple,  but,  in  truth,  costly,  from 
its  luxurious  comfort — the  ornaments  and  china  scattered  about 
the  commodes  were  of  curious  rarity  and  great  value  ;  and  the 
pictures  on  the  walls  were  gems.  At  dinner,  no  plate  was  admitted 
on  the  table.  The  Russian  fashion,  then  uncommon,  now  more 
prevalent,  was  adopted — fruit  and  flowers  in  old  Sevres  dishes  of 
priceless  vertu,  and  in  sparkling  glass  of  Bohemian  fabric.  No 
livery  servant  was  permitted  to  wait;  behind  each  guest  stood  a 
gentleman  dressed  so  like  the  guest  himself,  in  fine  linen  and  simple 
black,  that  guest  and  lacquey  seemed  stereotypes  from  one  plate. 

The  viands  were  exquisite  ;  the  wine  came  from  the  cellars  of 
deceased  archbishops  and  ambassadors.  The  company  was 
select;  the  party  did  not  exceed  eight.  Four  were  the  eldest 
sons  of  peers  (from  a  baron  to  a  duke)  ;  one  was  a  professed 
wit,  never  to  be  got  without  a  month's  notice,  and  where  &  par- 
venu was  host,  a  certainty  of  green  peas  and  peaches — out  of 
season  ;  the  'sixth,  to  Randal's  astonishment,  was  Mr.  Richard 
Avenel ;  himself  and  the  Baron  made  up  the  complement. 

The  eldest  sons  recognized  each  other  with  a  meaning  smile  ; 
the  most  juvenile  of  them,  indeed  (it  was  his  first  year  in  Lon- 
don), had  the  grace  to  blush  and  look  sheepish.  The  others 
were  more  hardened  ;  but  they  all  united  in  regarding  with  sur- 
prise both  Randal  and  Dick  Avenel.  The  former  was  known  to 
most  of  them  personally,  and  to  all,  by  repute,  as  a  grave,  .clever, 
promising  young  man,  rather  prudent  than  lavish,  and  never 
suspected  to  have  got  into  a  scrape.  What  the  deuce  did  he  do 
there?  Mr.  Avenel  puzzled  them  yet  more.  A  middle-aged 
man,  said  to  be  in  business,  whom  they  had  observed  "  about 
town  "  (for  he  had  a  noticeable  face  and  figure) — that  is,  seen 
riding  in  the  Park,  or  lounging  in  the  pit  at  the  opera,  but  never 
set  eyes  on  at  a  recognized  club,  or  in  the  coteries  of  their  "  set "  ; 
a  man  whose  wife  gave  horrid  third-rate  parties,  that  took  up 
half  a  column  in.the  Morning  Post  with  a  list  of  "The  Company 
Present,"  in  which  a  sprinkling  of  dowagers  fading  out  of  fashion, 
and  a  foreign  title  or  two,  made  the  darkness  of  the  obscurer 
names  doubly  dark.  Why  this  man  should  be  asked  to  meet 
them,  by  Baron  Levy,  too — a  decided  tuft-hunter  and  would-be 
exclusive — called  all  their  faculties  into  exercise.  The  wit,  who, 


48  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

being  the  son  of  a  small  tradesman,  but  in  the  very  best  society, 
gave  himself  far  greater  airs  than  the  young  lords,  impertinently 
solved  the  mystery. — "  Depend  on  it,"  whispered  he  to  Spend- 
quick — "depend  on  it  the  man  is  the  X.  Y.  of  the  Times,  who 
offers  to  lend  any  sum  of  money  from^io  to  half  a  million.  He's- 
the  man  who  has  all  your  bills  ;  Levy  is  only  his  jackal." 

"Ton  my  soul,"  said  Spendquick,  rather  alarmed,  "if  that's 
the  case,  one  may  as  well  be  civil  to  him." 

"  You,  certainly,"  said  the  wit,  "But  I  never  have  found  an  X. 
Y.  who  would  advance  me  the  L.  s.;  and  therefore,  I  shall  not  be 
more  respectful  to  X.  Y.  than  to  any  other  unknown  quantity." 

By  degrees,  as  the  wine  circulated,  the  party  grew  gay  and  so- 
ciable. Levy  was  really  an  entertaining  fellow  ;  had  all  the  gos- 
sip of  the  town  at  his  fingers'  ends;  and  possessed,  moreover,  that 
pleasant  art  of  saying  ill-natured  things  of  the  absent,  which  those 
present  always  enjoy.  By  degrees,  too,  Mr.  Richard  Avenel  came 
out ;  and,  as  the  whisper  had  circulated  round  the  table  that  he 
was  X.  Y.,  he  was  listened  to  with  profound  respect,  which  greatly 
elevated  his  spirits.  Nay,  when  the  wit  tried  once  to  show  him 
up  or  mystify  him,  Dick  answered  with  a  bluff  spirit,  that,  though 
very  coarse,  was  found  so  humorous  by  Lord  Spendquick  and 
other  gentlemen  similarly  situated  in  the  money-market,  that  they 
turned  the  laugh  against  the  wit,  and  silenced  him  for  the  rest  of 
the  night — a  circumstance  which  made  the  party  go  off  much  more 
pleasantly.  After  dinner,  the  conversation,  quite  that  of  single 
men,  easy  and  cttbonnaire,  glanced  from  the  turf,  and  the  ballet, 
and  the  last  scandal,  toward  politics  ;  for  the  times  were  such  that 
politics  were  discussed  everywhere,  and  three  of  the  young  lords 
were  county  members. 

Randal  said  little,  but,  as  was  his  wont,  listened  attentively ; 
and  he  was  aghast  to  find  how  general  was  the  belief  that  the  Gov- 
ernment was  doomed.  Out  of  regard  to  him,  and  with  that  deli- 
cacy of  breeding  which  belongs  to  a  certain  society,  nothing  per- 
sonal to  Egerton  was  said,  except  by  Avenel,  who,  however,  on 
blurting  out  some  rude  expressions  respecting  that  minister,  was 
instantly  checked  by  the  Baron. 

"Spare  my  friend,  and  Mr.  Leslie's  near  connection,"  said  he, 
with  a  polite  but  grave  smile. 

"  Oh,"  said  Avenel, "  publicmen,  whom  we  pay,  are  public  prop- 
erty—aren't they,  my  lord  ?  "  appealing  to  Spendquick. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Spendquick,  with'great  spirit — "  public  prop- 
erty, or  why  should  we  pay  them  ?  There  must  be  a  very  strong 
motive  to  induce  us  to  do  that !  I  hate  paying  people.  In  fact," 
he  subjoined  in  an  aside  "I  never  do." 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  49 

"However,"  resumed  Mr.  Avenel,  graciously,  "I  don't  want 
to  hurt  your  feelings,  Mr.  Leslie.  As  to  the  feelings  of  our  host, 
the  Baron,  I  calculate  that  they  have  got  tolerably  tough  by  the 
exercise  they  have  gone  through." 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  the  Baron,  joining  in  the  laugh  which 
any  lively  saying  by  the  supposed  X.  Y.  was  sure  to  excite — 
"nevertheless,4  love  me,  love  ray  dog,'  love  me,  love  my  Egerton." 

Randal  started,  for  his  quick  ear  and  subtle  intelligence  caught 
something  sinister  and  hostile  in  the  tone  with  which  Levy  uttered 
this  equivocal  comparison,  and  his  eye  darted  toward  the  Baron. 
But  the  Baron  had  bent  down  his  face,  and  was  regaling  himself 
upon  an  olive. 

By-and-by  the  party  rose  from  table.  The  four  young  noble- 
men had  their  engagements  elsewhere,  and  proposed  to  separate 
without  re-entering  the  drawing-room.  As,  in  Goethe's  theory, 
monads  which  have  affinities  with  each  other  are  irresistibly  drawn 
together,  so  these  gay  children  of  pleasure  had,  by  a  common  im- 
pulse, on  rising  from  table,  moved  each  to  each,  and  formed  a 
group  round  the  fire-place.  Randal  stood  a  little  apart,  musing; 
the  wit  examined  the  pictures  through  his  eye-glass ;  and  Mr. 
Avenel  drew  the  Baron  toward  the  sideboard,  and  there  held  him 
in  whispered  conference.  The  colloquy  did  not  escape  the  young 
gentlemen  round  the  fire-place  ;  they  glanced  toward  each  other. 

"Settling  the  per-centage  on  renewal,"  said  one,  sottovoce. 

"X.  Y.  does  not  seem  such  a  very  bad  fellow,"  said  another. 

"He  looks  rich,  and  talks  rich,"  said  a  third. 

"A  decided  independent  way  of  expressing  his  sentiments  ; 
those  moneyed  men  generally  have." 

"  Good  heavens  ! "  ejaculated  Spendquick,  who  had  been  keep- 
ing his  eye  anxiously  fixed  on  the  pair,  "do  look  ;  X.  Y.  is  ac- 
tually taking  out  his  pocket-book  ;  he  is  coming  this  way.  De- 
pend on  it  he  has  got  our  bills — mine  is  due  to-morrow  !" 

"And  mine  too,"  said  another,  edging  off.  "  Why,  it  is  a  per^ 
feet  guet-apens." 

Meanwhile,  breaking  away  from  the. Baron,  who  appeared  anx- 
ious to  detain  him,  and  failing  in  that  attempt,  turned  aside,  as 
if  not  to  see  Dick's  movements — a  circumstance  which  did  not 
escape  the  notice  of  the  group,  and  confirmed  all  their  suspicions, 
Mr.  Avenel,  with  a  serious,  thoughtful  face,  and  a  slow  step,  ap- 
proached the  group.  Nor  did  the  great  Roman  general  more  ner- 
vously "flutter  the  dove-cotes  in  Corioli,"  than  did  the  advance 
of  the  supposed  X.  Y.  agitate  the  bosoms  of  Lord  Spendquick 
and  his  sympathizing  friends.  Pocket-book  in  hand,  and  appar- 
ently feeling  for  something  formidable  within ;its  mystic  recesses, 


50  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

step  by  step  came  Dick  Avenel  toward  the  fireplace.  The  group 
stood  still,  fascinated  by  horror. 

"  Hum,"  said  Mr.  Avenel,  clearing  his  throat. 

"I  don't  like  that  hum  at  all,"  muttered  Spendquick. 

"Proud  to  have  made  your  acquaintance,  gentlemen,"  said 
Dick,  bowing. 

The  gentlemen;  thus  addressed,  bowed  in  return. 

"  My  friend  the  Baron  thought  this  not  exactlythe  time  to — " 
Dick  stopped  a  moment  ;  you  might  have  knocked  down  these 
four  young  gentlemen,  though  four  finer  specimens  of  humanity 
no  aristocracy  in  Europecould  produce— you  might  haveknocked 
them  down  with  a  feather.  "But,"  renewed  Avenel,  not  finish- 
ing his  sentence,  "I  have  made  it  a  rule  in  life  never  to  lose  se- 
curing a  good  opportunity;  in  short,  to  make  the  most  of  the  pres- 
ent moment.  And,"  added  he,  with  a  smile  which  froze  the  blood 
in  Lord  Spendquick's  veins,  "the  rule  has  made  me  a  very  warm 
man  !  Therefore,  gentlemen,  allow  me  to  present  you  each  with 
one  of  these  " — every  hand  retreated  behind  the  back  of  its  well- 
born owner — when,  to  the  inexpressible  relief  of  all,  Dick  con- 
cluded with — "  a  little  soiree  dansante,"  and.extended.fouf  cards 
of  invitation. 

"Most  happy  !"  exclaimed  Spendquick.  "  I  don't  dance  in 
general ;  but  to  oblige  X—  I  mean  to  have>a  better  acquaintance, 
sir,  with  you — I  would  dance  on  the  tight-rope." 

There  .was  a  good-humored,  pleasant  laugh  at  Spendquick's 
enthusiasm,  and  a  general  shaking  of  hands  and  pocketing  the 
invitation  cards. 

"You  don't  look  like  a  dancing  man,!'  said  Avenel,  turning  to 
the  wit,  who  was  plump  and  somewhat  gouty — as  wits  who  dine 
out  five  days  in  the  week  generally  are  ;  "but  we  shall-have  sup- 
per at  one  o'clock." 

Infinitely  offended  and  disgusted,  the  wit  replied,  dryly,  "  that 
every  hour  of  his  time  was  engaged  for  the  rest  of  the  season," 
and,  with  a  stiff  salutation  to  the  Baron,  took  his  departure.  The 
rest,  in  good  spirits,  hurf\ed  away  to  their  respective  cabriolets  ; 
and  Leslie  was  following  them  into  the  hall,  when  the  Baron, 
catching  hold  of  him^  said,  "Stay,  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

fiii  :.».":>  [/,",:  ,<v 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  Baron  turned  into  his  drawing-room,  and  Leslie  followed. 

"  Pleasant  young  men  those,"  said  Levy,  with  a  slight  sneer, 
as  he  threw  himself  into  an  easy-chair  and  stirred  the  fire.  "  And 
not  at  all  proud ;  but,  to  be  sure,  they  are-bunder  great  obliga- 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  5! 

tions  to  me.  Yes  :  they  owe  me  a  great  deal.  Apropos,  I  have- 
have  had  a  long  talk  with  Frank  Hazeldean — fine  young  man — 
remarkable  capacities  for  business.  I  can  arrange  his  affairs  for 
him4  I  find,  on  reference  to  the  Will  Office,  that  you  were  quite 
right ;  the  Casino  property  is  entailed  on  Frank.  He  will  have 
the  fee-simple.  He  can  dispose  of  the  reversion  entirely.  So 
that  there  will  be  no  difficulty  in  our  arrangements." 

"But  I  told  you  also  that  Frank  had  scruples  about  borrow- 
ing on  the  event  of  his  father's  death." 

"Ay — you  did  so.  .Filial  affection!  I  never  take  that  into 
account  in  matters  of  business.  Such  little  scruples,  though  they 
are  highly  honorable  to~human  nature,  soon  vanish  before  the 
prospect  of  the  King's  Bench.  And,  too,  as  you  so  judiciously  re- 
marked/Dur clever  young  friend  is  in  love  with  MadamediNegra." 

"  Did  he  tell  you  that?" 

"No;  but  Madame  di  Negra  did!" 

"You 'know  her?" 

"  I  know  most  people  in  good  society,  who  now  and  then 
require  a  friend  in  the  management  of  their  affairs.  And  hav- 
ing made  sure  of  the  fact  you  stated,  as  to  Hazeldean's  contin- 
gent property  (excuse  my  prudence),  I  have  accommodated 
Madame  di  Negra,  and  brought  up  her  debts." 

"  You  have  ?     You  surprise  me!  " 

"  The  surprise  will  vanish  on  reflection.  But  you  are  very 
new  to  the  world  yet,  my  dear  Leslie.  By  the  way,  I  have  had 
an  interview  with  Peschiera — " 

"  About  his  sister's  debts?" 

"Partly.     A  man  of  the  nicest  honor  is  Peschiera." 

Aware  of  Levy's  habit  of  praising  people  for  the  qualities  in 
which,  according  to  the  judgment  of  less  penetrating  mortals, 
they  were  most  deficient,  Randal  only  smiled  at  this  eulogy,  and 
waited  for  Levy  to  resume.  But  the  Baron  sat  silent  and  thought- 
ful for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  wholly  changed  the  subject. 

"  I  think  your  father  has  some  property  in  — — shire,  and  you 
probably  can  give  me  a  little  information  as  to  certain  estates  of 
a  Mr.  Thornhill,  estates  which,  on  examination  of  the  title  deeds, 
I  find  once,  indeed,  belonged  to  your  family."  The  Baron 
glanced  at  a  very  elegant  memorandum  book. — "  The  manors  of 
Rood  and  Dulmansberry,  with  sundry  farms  thereon.  Mr.Thorn-' 
hill  wants  to  sell  them^— an  old  client  of  mine,  Thornhill.  He 
has  applied  to  me  on  the  matter.  Do  you  think  it  an  improva- 
ble property  ?" 

Randal  listened  with  a  livid  cheek  and  a  throbbing  heart. 
We  have  seen  that,  if  there  was  one  ap^'tious  scheme  in  his  cal- 


52  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

culation  which,  though  not  absolutely  generous  and  heroic,  still 
might  win  its  way  to  a  certain  sympathy  in  the  undebased  human 
mind,  it  was  the  hope  to  restore  the  fallen  fortunes  of  his  ancient 
house,  and  repossess  himself  of  the  long-alienated  lands  that  sur- 
rounded the  dismal  wastes  of  the  mouldering  hall.  And  now  to 
hear  that  those  lands  were  getting  into  the  inexorable  gripe  of 
Levy — tears  of  bitterness  stood  in  his  eyes. 

"Thornhill,"  continued  Levy,  who  had  watched  the  young 
man's  countenance — "  Thornhill  tells  me  that  that  part  of  his 
property — the  old  Leslie  lands — produces  ^2000  a-year,and  that 
the  rental  could  be  raised.  He  would  take^5o,ooo  for  it — ^10,- 

000  down^and  suffer  the  remaining  ^30^000  to  lie  on  mortgage  at 
four  per  cent.  It  seemsa  very  good  purchase.  Whatdo  you  say  ? " 

"  Don't  ask  me,"'  said  Randal,  stung  into  rare  honesty;  "  for 

1  had  hoped  I  might  live  to  repossess  myself  of  that  property." 

"Ah!  indeed.  It  would  be  a  very  great  addition  to  your  con- 
sequence in  the  world — not  from  the  mere  size  of  the  estate,  but 
from  its  hereditary  associations.  And  if  you  have  any  idea  of 
the  purchase — -believe  me,  I'll  not  stand  in  your  way." 

"How  can  I  haveiany  idea  of  it?" 

"  But  I  thought  you  said  you  had."    • 

"  I  understood  that  these  lands  could  riot  be  sold  till  Mr.Thorn- 
hill's  son  came  of  age,  and  joined  in  getting  rid  of  the  entail." 
.  "  Yes,  so  Thornhill  himself  supposed,  till,  on  examining  the 
title-deeds,  I  found  he  was  under  a  mistake.  These  lands  are 
not  comprised  in  the  settlement  made  by  old  Jasper  Thornhill, 
which  ties  up  the  rest  of  the  property.  The  title  will  be  per- 
fect. Thornhill  wants  to  settle  the  matter  at  once — losses  on 
the  turf,  you  understand;  an  immediate  purchaser  would  get  still 
better  terms.  A  Sir  John  Spratt  would  give  the  money — but  the 
addition  of  these  lands  would  make  the  Spratt  property  of  more 
consequence  in  the  county  than  the  Thornhill.  So  my  client 
would  rather  take  a  few  thousands  less  from  a  man  who  don't  set  up 
to  be  his  rival.  Balance  of  power  in  counties  as  well  as  nations." 

Randal  was  silent. 

,  "  Well,"  said  Levy,  with  great  kindness  of  manner,  "I  see  I 
pain  you;  and  though  I  am  what  my  very  pleasant  guests  would 
call  a  parvenu,  I  comprehend  your  natural  feelings  as  a  gentle- 
man of  ancient  birth.  Parvenu!  Ah!  is  it  not  strange,  Leslie, 
that  no  wealth,  no  fashion,  no  fame,  can  wipe  out  that  blot? 
They  .call  me  a  parvenu,  and  borrow  my  money.  <  They  call  our 
friend,  the  wit,  a  parvenu,  and  submit  to  all  his  insolence — if  they 
condescend  to  regard  his  birth  at  all — provided  they  can  but  get 
him  to  dinner.  They  call  the  best  debater  in  the  Parliament  of 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  53 

England  a.  parvenu,  and  will  entreat  him,  some  day  or  other,  to 
be  prime  minister,  and  ask  him  for  stars  and  garters,  A  droll 
world,  and  no  wonder  the  parvenus  want  to  upset  it." 

Randal  had  hitherto  supposed  that  this  notorious  tuft-hunter — 
this  dandy  capitalist — this  money-lender,  whose  whole  fortune 
had  been  wrung  from  the  wants  and  follies  of  an  aristocracy, 
was  naturally  a  firm  supporter  of  things  as  they  are — how  could 
things  be  better  for  men  like  Baron  Levy  ?  But  the  usurer's 
burst  of  democratic  spleen  did  not  surprise  his  precocious  and 
acute  faculty  of  observation.  He  had  before  remarked  that  it 
is  the  persons  who  fawn  most  upon  an  aristocracy,  and  profit  the 
most  by  the  fawning,  who  are  ever  at  heart  its  bitterest  dispara- 
gers. Why  is  this?  Because  one  full  half  of  democratic  opinion 
is  made  up  of  envy;  and  we  can  only  envy  what  is  brought  before 
our  eyes,  and  what,  while  very  near  to  us,  is  still  unattainable. 
No  man  envies  an  archangel. 

"But,"  said  Levy,  throwing  himself  back  in  his  chair,  "a  new 
order  of  things  is  comme'ncing;  we  shall  see.  Leslie,  it  is  lucky 
for  you  that  you  did  not  enter  Parliament  under  the  Govern- 
ment; it  would  be  your  political  ruin  for  life." 

"  You  think,  then,  that  the  ministry  really  cannot  last?." 

"  Of  course  I  do;  and  what  is  more,  I  think  tha.t  a  ministry 
of  the  same  principles  cannot  be  restored.  You  are  a  young  man 
of  talent  and  spirit;  your  birth  is  nothing  compared  to  the  rank 
of  the  reigning  party  ;  it  would  tell,  to  a  certain  degree,  in  a 
democratic  one.  I  say,  you  should  be  more  civil  to  Avenel;  he 
could  return  you  to  Parliament  at  the  next  election." 

"The  next  election!  In  six  years!  We  have  just  had  a  gen- 
eral election." 

"  There  will  be  another  before  this  year,  or  half  of  it,  or  per- 
haps a  quarter  of  it,  is  out." 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?  "  ; 

"  Leslie,  let  there  be  confidence  between  us;  we  can  help  each 
other.  Shall  we  be  friends  ? " 

"  With  all.  my  heart.  But  though  you  may  help  me,  how  can 
I  help  you  ?  " 

"  You  have  helped  me  already  to  Frank  Hazeldean  ,and  the 
Casino  estate.  All  clever  men  can  help  me.  Come,  then,  we  are 
friends;  and  what  I  say  is  secret.  You  ask  me  why  I  think  there  will 
be  a  general  election  so  soon  ?  I  will  answer  you  frankly.  Of  all 
the  public  men  I  ever  met  with,  there  is  no  one  who  has  so  clear  a 
vision  of  things  immediately  before  him  as  Audley  Egerton." 

"  He  has  that  character.     Not  /ar-seeing,  but 
to  a  certain  limit." 


54  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  Exactly  so.  No  one  better,  therefore,  knows  public  opin- 
ion, and  its  immediate  ebb  and  flow." 

"Granted." 

"  Egerton,  then,  counts  on  a  general  election  within  three 
months;  and  I  have  lent  him  the  money  for  it." 

"  Lent  him  the  money  !  Egerton  borrow  money  of  you — -the 
rich  Audley  Egerton!  " 

"  Rich! "  repeated  Levy  in  a  tone  impossible  to  describe,  and 
accompanying  the  word  with  that  movement  of  the  middle  fin- 
ger and  thumb,  commonly  called  a  "snap,"  which  indicates 
profound  contempt. 

He  said  no  more.  Randal  sat  stupefied.  At  length  the  latter 
muttered,  "But  if  Egerton  is  really  not  rich — if  he  lose  office, 
and  without  the  hope  of  return  to  it — " 

"  If  so,  he  is  ruined! "  said  Levy,  coldly;  "and  therefore,  from 
regard  to  you,  and  feeling  an  interest  in  your  future  fate,  I  say 
— Rest  no  hopes  of  fortune  and  career  upon  Audley  Egerton. 
Keep  your  place  for  the  present,  but  be  prepared  at  the  next 
election  to  stand  upon  popular  principles.  Avenel  shall  return 
you  to  Parliament;  and  the  rest  is  with  luck  and  energy.  And 
now,  I'll  not  detain  you  longer,"  said  Levy,  rising  and  ringing 
the  bell;  The  servant  entered. 

"  Is  my  carriage  here  ?  " 

"Yes,  Baron." 

"Can  I  set  you' down  anywhere?-'' 

"No,  thank  you,  I  prefer  walking."   . 

"  Adieu,  then.  And  mind  you  remember  the  soirA  dansante  at 
Mrs.  Avenel's."  Randal  mechanically  shook  the  hand  extended 
to  him,  and  went  down  the  stairs. 

The  fresh  frosty  air  aroused  his  intellectual  faculties,  which 
Levy's  ominous  words  had  almost  paralyzed. 

And  the  first  thing  the  clever  schemer  said  to  himself  was 
this — "But  what  can  be  the  man's  motives  in  what  he  said  tome?" 

The  next  was — "Egerton  ruined!     What  am  I,  then?" 

And  the  third  was — "And  that  fair  remnant  of  the  old  Les- 
lie property!  ,£20,000  down — how  to  get  the  sum  ?  Why 
should  Levy  have  spoken  to  trie  of  this  ?  " 

And  lastly,  the  soliloquy  rounded  back — "The  man's  motives  ! 
His  motives ! " 

Meanwhile,  the  Baron  threw  himself  into  his  chariot — the  most 
comfortable  easy  chariot  you  can  possibly  conceive— single  man's 
chariot — perfect  taste- — no  married  man  ever  had  such  a  chariot ; 

and  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  at 's  hotel,  and  in  the  presence 

of  Giulio  Franzini,  Count  di  Peschiera. 


VARIETIES.  IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  55 

" Mon  cher"  said  the  Baron,  in  very  good  French,  and  in  a 
tone  of  the  most  familiar  equality  with  the  descendant  of  the 
princes  and  heroes  of  grand  medieval  Italy— "  Moncher,  give  me 
pneof your  excellent  cigars.  I  think  I  have  put  allmattersin  train." 

"  You  have  found  out — " 

"  No ;  not  so  fast  yet,"  said  the  Baron,  lighting  the  cigar  ex- 
tended to  him.  "  But  you  said  that  you  should  be  perfectly  con- 
tented if  it  only  cost  you  ^20,000  to  marry  off  your  sister  (to  whom 
that  sum  is  legally  due),  and  to  marry  yourself  to  the  heiress." 

"I  did,  indeed." 

"Then  I  have  no  doubt  I  shall  manage  both  objects  for  that 
sum,  if  Randal  Leslie  really  knows  where  the  young  lady  is,  and 
can  assist  you.  Mosi  promising,  able  man  is  Randal  Leslie — 
but  innocent  as  a  babe  just  born." 

"Ha,  ha!     Innocent?     Que-diable!" 

"  Innocent  as  this  cigar,  mon  cher — strong  certainly,  butsmoked 

very  easily.     Soyez  tranquille  !  " 
. 

CHAPTER  XV. 

WHO  has  not  seen,  who  not  admired;  that  noble  picture  by  Dan- 
iel Maclise,  which  refreshes  the  immortal  name  of  my  ancestor 
Caxton  !  For  myself,  while  with  national  pride  I  heard  the 
admiring  murmurs  of  the  foreigners  who  grouped  around  it 
(nothing,  indeed,  of  which  our  nation  rnay  be  more  proud  had 
they  seen  in  the  Crystal  Palace) — heard,  with  no  less  a  pride  in 
the  generous  nature  of  fellow-artists,  the  warm  applause  of  living 
and  deathless  masters,  sanctioning  the  enthusiasm  of  the  popular 
crowd  ; — what  struck  me  more  than  the  precision  of  drawing, 
for  which  the  artist  has  been  always  renowned,  and  the  just, 
though  gorgeous  affluence  of  color  which  he  has  more  recently 
acquired,  was  the  profound  depth  of  conception,  out  of  which 
this  great  work  had  so  elaborately  arisen.  That  monk,  with  his 
scowl  toward  the  printer  and  his  back  on  the  Bible  over  which 
his  form.casts  a  shadow — the  whole  transition  between  themedieval 
Christianity  of  cell  and  cloister,  and  the  modern  Christianity 
that  rejoices  in  the  daylight,  is  depicted  there,  in  the  shadow 
that  obscures  the  Book— in  the  scowl  that  is  fixed  upon  the  Book- 
diffuser  ; — that  sombre,  musing  face  of  Richard,  Dukeof  Glou- 
cester, with  the  beauty  of  Napoleon,  darkened  to  the  expression 
of  a  Fiend,  looking  far  and  anxiously  into  futurity,  as  if  foreseeing 
there  what  antagonism  was  about  to  be  created  to  the  schemes 
of  secret  crime  and  unrelenting  force  ;— the  chivalrous  head  of 
the  accomplished  Rivers,  seen  but  in  profile  under  his  helmet, 
as  if  the  age  when  Chivalry  must  defend  its  noble  attributes,  in 


56  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

steel,  was  already  half  passed  away  ;  and,  not  least  grand  of  all, 
the  rude  thews  and  sinews. of  the  artisan  forced  into  service  on 
the  type,  and  the  ray  of  intellect,  fierce  and  menacing  revolutions 
yet  to  be,  struggling  through  his  rugged  features,  and  across  his 
low  knitted  brow  ; — all  this,  which  showed  how  deeply  the  idea 
of  the  discovery,  in  its  good  and  in  its  evil,  its  saving  light  and 
its  .perilous  storms,  had  sunk  into  the  artist's  soul,  charmed  me 
as  effecting  the  exact  union  between  sentiment  and  execution, 
which  is  the  true  and  rare  consummation  of  the  ideal  in  Art. 
But  observe,  while  in  these  personages  of  the  group  are  depicted 
the  deeper  and  graver  agencies  implicated  in  thebrightbut  terrible 
invention^ — observe  how  little  the  light  epicures  of  the  hour  heed 
the  scowl  of  the  monk,  or  the  restless  gesture  of  Richard,  or  the 
troubled  gleam  in  the  eyes  of  the  artisan — King  Edward,  hand- 
some Poco  curatite,  delighted  in  the  surprise  of  a  child,  with  a 
new  toy  ;  and  Clarence,  with  his  curious,  yet  careless,  glance — 
all  the  while  Caxton  himself,  calm,  serene,  untroubled,  intent 
solely  upon  the  manifestation  of  his  discovery,  and  no  doubt 
supremely  indifferent  whether  the  first  proofs  of  it  shall  be  dedi- 
cated to  a  Rivers  or  an  Edwa.rd,  a  Richard  or  a  Henry,  Planta- 
genet  or  Tudor — 'tis  all  the  same  to  that  comely,  gentle-looking 
man.  So  is  it  ever  with  your  Abstract  Science  ! — not  a  jot  cares 
its  passionless  logic  for  the  woe  or  weal  of  a  generation  or  two. 
The  stream,  once  emerged  from  its  source,  passes  on  into  the 
great  Intellectual  Sea,  smiling  over  the  wretch;  that  it  drowns, 
or  under  the  keel  of  the  ship  which  it  serves  as  a  slave. 

Now,  when  about  to  commence  the  present  chapter  on  the 
Varieties  of  Life,  this  masterpiece  of  thoughtful  art  forced  itself 
on  my  recollection,  and  illustrated  what  I  designed  to  convey.  In 
the  surface  of  every  age,  it  is  often  that  which  but  amuses,  for 
the  moment,  the  ordinary  children  of  pleasant  existence,  the  Ed- 
wards and  the  Clarences  (be  they  kings  and  dukes,  or  simplest 
of  simple  subjects),  which  afterward  towers  out  as  the  great  se- 
rious epoch  of  the  time.  When  we  look  back  upon  human  rec- 
ords, how  the  eye  settles  upon  WRITERS  as  the  main  landmarks 
of  the  past !  We  talk  of  the  age  of  Augustus,  of  Elizabeth,  of 
Louis  XIV.,  of  Anne,  as  the  notable  eras  of  the  world.  Why? 
Because  it  is  their  writers  who  have  made  them  so.  Intervals 
between  one  age  of  authors  and  another  lie  unnoticed,  as  the  flats 
and  common  lands  of  uncultured  history.  And  yet,  strange  to 
say,  when  these  authors  are  living  amongst  us,  they  occupy  a 
very  small  portion  of  our  thoughts,  and  fiH  up  but  desultory  in- 
terstices in  the  bitumen  and  tufo  wherefrom  we  build  up  the 
Babylon  of  our  lives!  So  it  is,  and  perhaps  so  it  should  be 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  57 

whether  it  pleases  the  conceit  of  penmen  or  not.  Life  is  meant 
to  be  active ;  and  books,  though  they  give  the  action  to  future 
generations,  administer  but  to  the  holiday  of  the  present. 

And  so,  with  this  long  preface,  I  turn  suddenly  from  theRan- 
dals  and  the  Egertons,  and  the  Levys,  Avenels,  and  Peschieras — 
from  the  plots  and  passions  of  practical  life,  and  drop  the 
reader  suddenly  into  one  of  those  obscure  retreats  wherein 
Thought  weaves,  from  unnoticed  moments,  a  new  link  to  "the 
chain  that  unites  the  ages. 

Within  a  small  room,  the  single  window  of  which  opened  on 
a  fanciful  and  fairy-like  garden,  that  has  been  before  described, 
sat  a  young  man  alone.  He  had  been  writing,  the  ink  was  not 
dry  on  his  manuscript,  but  his  thoughts  had  been  suddenly 
interrupted  from  his  work,  and  his  eyes,  now  lifted  from  the  let- 
ter which  had.  occasioned  that  interruption,  sparkled  with  de- 
light. "  He  will  come,"  exclaimed  the  young.man!  "come  here — 
to  the  home  which  I  owe  to  him.  I  have  not  been  unworthy 
of  his  friendship.  And  she  " — his  breast  heaved,  but  the  joy 
faded  from  his  face.  "Oh,  strange,  strange,  that  I  feel  sad  at 
the  thought  to  see  her  again.  See  her — Ah  no  !  my  own  com- 
forting Helen — my  own  Child-angel.  Her  I  can  never  see  again  ! 
The  gfown  worhan — that  is  not  my  Helen.  And  yet — and  yet 
(he  resumed  after  a  pause),  if  ever  she  read  the  pages  in  which 
thought  flowed  and  trembled  under  her  distant  starry  light — if 
ever  she  see  how  her  image  has  rested  with  me,  and  feeLthat, 
while  Others  believe  that  I  invent,  I  have  but  remembered — will 
she  not,  for  a  moment,  be  my  own  Helen  again  !  Again,  in  heart 
and  in  fancy,  stand  by  my  side  on  the  desolate  bridge — hand  in 
hand — rorphans  both,  as  we  stood  in  the  days  so  sorrowful,  yet, 
as  I  recall  them,  so  sweet, — Helen  in  England,  it  is  a  dream !  " 

He  rose,  half-consciously,  and  went  to  the  window.  The 
fountain  played  merrily  before  his  eyes,  and  the  birds  in  the 
aviary  caroled  loud  to  his  ear.  "And  in  this  house,"  he  mur- 
mured, "I  saw  her  last !  And  there,  where  the  fountain  now 
throws  its  spray  on  high — there  her  benefactor  and  mine  told  me 
that  I  was  to  lose  her,  that  I  might  win  fame.  Alas  !  " 

At  this  time  a  woman,  whose  dress  was  somewhat  above  her 
mien  and  air,  which,  though  not  without  a  certain  respectability, 
were  very  homely,  entered  the  room  ;  and,  seeing  the  young  man 
standing  thus  thoughtful  by  the  window,  paused.  She  was  used 
to  his  habits ;  and  since  his  success  in  life,  had  learned  .to  re- 
spect them.  So  she  did  not  disturb  his  reverie,  but  began  softly 
to  arrange  the  room — dusting,  with  the  corner  of  her  apron,  the 
various  articles  of  furniture,  putting  a  stray  chair  or  two  in  its 


58  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

right  place,  but  not  touching  a  single  paper.  Virtuous  woman, 
and  rare  as  virtuous  ! 

The  young  man  turned  at  last,  with  a  deep,  yet  not  alto- 
gether painful,  sigh — 

"  My  dear 'mother,  good-day  to  you.  Ah,  you  do  well  to  make 
the  room  look  its  best.  Happy  news !  .1  expect  a  visitor !" 

"  Dear  me,  Leonard,  will  he  want  lunch — or  what?" 

"  Nay,  I  think  not,  mother.  It  is  he  to-  whom  we  owe  all — 
'ffac  otia  fecit'  Pardon  my  Latin  ;  it  is  Lord  L'Estrange." 

The  face  of  Mrs.  Fairfield  (the  reader  has  long  since  divined 
the  name)  changed  instantly  and  betrayed  a  nervous  twitch  of  all 
the  muscles,  which  gave  her  a  family  likeness  to  old  Mrs.  Avenel. 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed,  mother.     He  is  the  kindest — '"  •• 

"  Don't  talk  so  ;  I  can't  bear  it  !"  cried  Mrs.  Fairfield. 

"  No  wonder  you  are  affected  by  the  recollection  of  all  his 
benefits.  But  when  once  you  have  seen  him,  you  will  find  your- 
self ever  after  at  your  ease.  And  so,  pray  smile  and  look  as  good  as 
you  are;  for  I  am  proud  of  your  open,  honest  look  when  you  are 
pleased,  mother.  And  he  must  see  your  heart  in  your  face  as  I  do." 

With  this,  Leonard  put  his  arm  around  the  widow's  neck,  and 
kissed  her.  She  clung  to  him  fondly  for  a  moment,  and  he  felt 
her  tremble  from  head  to  foot.  Then  she  broke  from  his  em- 
brace, and  hurried  out  of  the  room.  Leonard  thought  perhaps 
she  had  gone  to  improve  her  dress,  or  to  carry  her  housewife 
energies  to  the  decoration  of  the  other  rooms  ;  for  "  the  house  " 
was  Mrs.  Fairfield's  hobby  and  passion  ;  and  now  that  she 
worked  no  more,  save  for  her  amusement,  it  was  her  main  occu- 
pation. The  hours  she  contrived  to  spend  daily  in  bustling 
about  those  little  rooms,  and  leaving  everything  therein  to  all  ap- 
pearance precisely  the  same,  were  among  the  marvels  in  life  which 
the  genius  of  Leonard  had  never  comprehended.  But  she  was  al- 
ways so  delighted  when  Mr.  Norreys  or  some  rare  visitor  came; 
and  said  (Mr.  Norreys  never  failed  to  do  so),  "  How  neatly  all  is 
kept  here!  What  could  Leonard  do  with' out  you,  Mrs.  Fairfield?  " 

And,  to  Norreys's  infinite  amusement,  Mrs.  Fairfield  always  re- 
turned the  same  answer.  "  Deed,  sir,  and  thank  you  kindly,  but 
'tis  my  belief  that  the  drawin'-room  would  be  awful  dusty." 

Once  more  left  alone,  Leonard's  mind  returned  to  the  state 
of  reverie,  and  his  face  assumed  the  expression  that  had  now 
become  to  it  habitual.  Thus  seen,  he  was  changed  much  since 
we  last  beheld  him.  His  cheek  was  more  pale  and  thin,  his  lips 
more  firmly  compressed,  his  eye  more  fixed  and  abstract.  You 
could  detect,  if  I  may  borrow  a  touching  French  expression, 
that  "  sorrow  had  passed  by  there."  But  the  melancholy  on  his 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  59 

countenance  was  ineffably  sweet  and  serene,  and  on  his  ample 
forehead  there  was  that  power,  so  rarely  seen  in  early  youth — 
the  power  that  has  conquered,  and  betrays  its  conquests  but  in 
calm.  The  period  of  doubt,  of  struggle,  of  defiance,  was  gone 
perhaps  for  ever;  genius  and  soul  were  reconciled  to  human  life. 
It  was  a  face  most  lovable  ;  so  gentle  and  peaceful  in  its  char- 
acter. No  want  of  fire  ;  on  the  contrary,  the  fire  was  so  clear 
and  so  steadfast,  that  it  conveyed  but  the  impression  of  light. 
The  candor  of  boyhood,  the  simplicity  of  the  villager,  were  still 
there — refined  by  intelligence,  but  intelligence  that  seemed  to 
have  traversed  through  knowledge — not  with  the  footstep,  but 
the  wing — unsullied  by  the  mire — tending  toward  the  star — seek- 
ing through  the  various  grades  of  Being  but  the  lovelier  forms 
of  truth  and  goodness;  at  home,  as  should  be  the  Art  that  con- 
summates the  Beautiful — 

"  In  den  heitern  Regionen 
Wo  die  reinen  Formen  wohnen."  * 

From  this  reverie  Leonard  did  not  seek  to  rouse  himself,  till  the 
bell  at  the  garden-gate  rang  loud  and  shrill;  and  then  starting  up 
and  hurrying  into  the  hall,  his  hand  was  grasped  in  Harley's. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

A  FULL  and  happy  hour  passed  away  in  Harley's  questions 
and  Leonard's  answers  ;  the  dialogue  that  naturally  ensued  be- 
tween the  two,  on  the  first  interview  after  an  absence  of  years 
so  eventful  to  th'e  younger  man. 

The  history  of  Leonard  during  this  interval  was  almost  solely 
internal,  the  struggle  of  intellect  with  its  own  difficulties,  the  wan- 
derings of  imagination  through  its  own  adventurous  worlds. 

The  first  aim  of  Norreys,  in  preparing  the  mind  of  his  pupil 
for  its  vocation,  had  been  to  establish  the  equilibrium  of  its 
powers,  to  calm  into  harmony  the  elements  rudely  shaken  by 
the  trials  and  passions  of  the  old,  hard,  outer  life. 

The  theory  of  Norreys  was  briefly  this.  The  education  of  a 
superior  human  being  is  but  the  development  of  ideas  in  one  for 
the  benefit  of  others.  To  this  end  attention  should  be  directed — 
ist,  To  the  value  of  the  ideas  collected  ;  zndly,  To  their  dis- 
cipline ;  3rdly,  To  their  expression.  For  the  first,  acquirement 
is  necessary;  for  the  second,  discipline;  for  the  third,  art.  The  first 
comprehends  knowledge,  purely  intellectual,  whether  derived 
from  observation,  memory,  reflection,  books  or  men,  Aristotle 

*  At  home— "In  the  serene  regions 

Where  dwell  the  pure  forms." 


60  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

or  Fleet  Street.  The  second  demands  training,  not  only  intel- 
lectual, but  moral ;  the  purifying  and  exaltation  of  motives;  the 
formation  of  habits  :  in  which  method  is  but  a  part  of  a  divine 
and  harmonious  symmetry — an  union  of  intellect  and  con- 
science. Ideas  of  value,  stored  by  the  first  process;  marshalled 
into  force,  and  placed  under  guidance,  by  the  second  ;  it  is  the 
result  of  the  third,  to  place  them  before  the  world  in  the  most 
attractive  or  commanding  form.'  This  may  be  done  by  actions 
no  less  than  words;  but  the  adaptation  of  means  to  end,  the 
passage  of  ideas  from  the  brain  of  one  man  into  the  lives  and 
souls  of  all,  no  less  in  action  than  in  books,  requires  study.  Ac- 
tion has  its  art  as  well  as  literature.  Here  Norreys  had  but  to 
deal  with  the  calling  of  the  scholar,  the  formation  of  the  writer, 
and  so  to  guide  the  perceptions  toward  those  varieties  in  the 
sublime  and  beautiful,  the  just  combination  of  which  is  at  once 
CREATION.  Man  himself  is  but  a  combination  of  elements. 
He  who  combines  in  nature,  creates  in  art. 

Such,  very  succinctly  and  indequately  expressed,  was  the 
system  upon  which  Norreys  proceeded  .to  regulate  and  perfect 
the  great  native  powers  of  his  pupil;  and  though  the  reader  may 
perhaps  say  that  no  system  laid  down  by  another  can  either  form 
genius  or  dictate  to  its  results,  yet  probably  nine-tenths  at  least 
of  those  in  whom  we  recognize1  the  luminaries  of  our  race,  have 
passed,  unconsciously  to  themselves  (for  self-education  is  rarely 
conscious  of  its  phases),  through  each  of  these  processes.  And 
no  one  who  pauses  to  reflect  will  deny-,  that,  according  to  this 
theory,  illustrated  by  a  man  of  vast  experience,  profound  knowl- 
edge, and  exquisite  taste,  the  struggles  of  genius  would  be  in- 
finitely lessened  ;  its  vision  cleared  and,  strengthened,  and  the 
distance  between  effort  and  success  notably  abridged. 

Norreys,  however,  was  far  too  deep  a  reasoner  to  fall  into  the 
error  of  modern  teachers,  who  Suppose  that  education  can  dis- 
pense with  labor.  No  mind  becomes  muscular  without  rude  and 
early  exercise.  'Labor  should  be  strenuous,  but  in  right  direc- 
tions. All  that  we  can  do  for  it  is  to  save  the  waste  of  time  in 
blundering  into  needless  toils. 

The  master  had  thus  first  employed  his  neophyte  in-arranging 
and  compiling  materials  for  a  great  critical  work  in  which  Norreys 
himself  was  engaged.  In  this  stage  of  scholastic  preparation, 
Leonard  was  necessarily  led  to  the  acquisition  of  languages,  for 
which  he  had  great  aptitude — the  foundations  of  a  large  and  com- 
prehensive erudition  were  solidly  constructed.  He  traced  by 
the  ploughshare  the  walls  of  the  destined  city.  Habits  of  accu- 
*acy  and  of  generalization  became  formed  insensibly:  and  that 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  6l 

precious  faculty  which  seizes,  amidst  accumulated  materials, 
those  that  serve  the  object  for  which  they  are  explored, — (that 
faculty  which  quadruples  all  force,  by  concentrating  it  on  one 
point) — once  roused  into  action,  gave  purpose  to  every  toil  and 
quickness  to  each  perception.  But  Norreys  did  not  confine  his 
pupil  solely  to  the  mute  world  of  a  library;  he  introduced  him 
to  some  of  the  first  minds  in  art,  science,  and  letters — and  active 
life;  "These,"  said  he,  "are  the  living  ideas  of  the  present,  out 
of  which  books  for  the  future  will  be  written  :  study  them  ;  and 
here,  as  in  the  volumes  of  the  past,  diligently  amass  and  delib- 
erately compile." 

By  degrees  Norreys  led  on  that  young,  ardent  mind  from  the 
selection  of  ideas  to  their  aesthetic  analysis— from  compilation 
to  criticism  :  but  criticism  severe;  close,  and  logical — ^a  reason 
for  each  word  of  praise  or  of  blame.  Led  in  this  stage  of  his 
career  to  examine  into  the  laws  of  beauty,  a  new  light  broke  upon 
his  mind;  from  amidst  the  masses  of  marble  he  had  piled 
around  him,  rose  the  vision  of  the  statue. 

And  so,  suddenly  one  day  Norreys  said  to  him,  "I  need  a 
compiler  no  longer — maintain  yourself  by  your  own  creations." 
And  Leonard  wrote,  and  a  work  flowered  up  from  the  seed  deep 
buried,  and  the  soil  well  cleared  to  the  rays  of  the  sun  and  the 
healthful  influence  of  expanded  air. 

That  first  work  did  not  penetrate  to  a:  very  wide  circle  of 
readers,  not  from  any  perceptible  fault  of  its  own — there  is  luck 
in  these  things  ;  the  first  anonymous  work  of  an  original  genius 
is  rarely  at  once  eminently  successful.  But  the  more  experienced 
recognized  the  promise  of  the  book.  Publishers,  who  have  an 
instinct  in  the  discovery  of  available  talent,  which  often  fore- 
stalls the  appreciation  of  the  public,  volunteered  liberal  offers. 
"Be  fully  successful  this  time,"  said  Norreys;  "think  not  of 
models  nor  of  style.  Strike  at  once  at  the  common  human 
heart — throw  away  the  corks- — swim  out  boldly.  One'  word 
more — never  write  a  page  till  you  have  walked  from  your  room  to 
Temple  Bar, and, mingling  with  men, and  reading  the  human  face, 
learn  why  great  poets  have  mostly  passed  their  lives  in  cities." 

Thus  Leonard  wrote  again,  and  woke  one  morning  to  find  him- 
self famous.  So  far  as  the  chances  of  all  professions  dependent 
on  health  will  permit,  present  independence,  and,  with  foresight 
and  economy,  th«  prospect  of  future  competence,  were  secured. 

"And,  indeed,"  said  Leonard,  concluding  a  longer  but  a 
simpler  narrative  than  is  here  told— "indeed,  there  is  some  chance 
that  I  may  obtain  at  once  a  sum  that  will  leave  me  free  for  the 
rest  of  my  life  to  select  my  own  subjects  and  write  without  care 


62  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

for  remuneration.  This  is  what  I  call  the  true  (and  perhaps, 
alas!  the  rare)  independence  of  him  who  devotes  himself  to 
letters.  Norreys,  having  seen  my  boyish  plan  for  the  improve- 
ment of  certain  machinery  in  the  steam-engine,  insisted  on  my 
giving  much  time  to  mechanics.  The  study  that  once  pleased  me 
so  greatly,  now  seemed  dull;  but  I  went  into  it  with  good  heart; 
and  the  result  is,  that  I  have  improved  so  far  on  my  original  idea 
that  my  scheme  has  met  the  approbation  of  one  of  our  most 
scientific  engineers  ;  and  I  am  assured  that  the  patent  for  it  will 
be  purchased  of  me  upon  terms  which  I  am  ashamed  to  name  to 
you,  so  disproportioned  do  they  seem  to  the  value  of  so  simple  a 
discovery.  Meanwhile,  I  am  already  rich  enough  to  have  real- 
ized the  two  dreams  of  my  heart — to  make  a  home  in  the  cottage 
where  I  had  last  seen  you  and  Helen — I  mean  Miss  Digby;  and 
to  invite  to  that  home  her  who  had  sheltered  my  infancy." 

"  Your  mother,  where  is  she  ?     Let  me  see  her." 

Leonard  ran  out  to  call  the  widow,  but,  to  his  surprise  and 
vexation,  learned  that  she  had  quitted  the  house  before  L'Es- 
trange  arrived. 

He  came  back  perplexed  how  to  explain  what  seemed  ungra- 
cious and  ungrateful,  and  spoke  with  hesitating  lip  and  flushed 
cheek  of  the  widow's  natural  timidity  and  sense  of  her  own 
homely  station.  "  And  so  overpowered  is  she,"  added  Leonard, 
"  by  the  recollection  of  all  that  we  owe  to  you,  that  she  never 
hears  your  name  without  agitation  OT  tears,  and  trembled  like  a 
leaf  at  the  thought  of  seeing  you." 

"  Ha  !  "  said  Harleyvwith  visible  emotion;  "  Is  it  so  ?  "  And 
he  bent  down,  shading  his  face  with  his  hamd.  "And,"  he  re- 
newed after  a  pause,  but  not  looking  up — "  and  you  ascribe  this 
fear  of  seeing  me,  this  agitation  at  my  name,  solely  to  an  exag- 
gerated sense  of — of  the  circumstances  attending  my  acquaint- 
ance with  yourself?" 

"And,  perhaps,  to:a  sort  of  shame  that  the  mother  of  one  you 
have  made  her  proud  of  is  but  a  peasant." 

"That  is  all?"  said  Harley,  earnestly,'now  looking  up  and -fix- 
ing his  eyes,  in  which  stood  tears,  upon  Leonard's  ingenuous  brow. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  lord,  what  else  can  it  be  ?  Do  not  judge  her 
harshly." 

L'Estrange  arose  abruptly,  pressed  Leonard's  hand, muttered 
something  not  audible,  and  then  drawing  his  young  friend's  arm 
in  his,  led  him  into  the  garden,  and  turned  the  conversation  back 
to  its  former  topics. 

Leonard's  heart  yearned  to  ask  after  Helen,  and  yet  some- 
-'•tbing  withheld  him  from  doing  so.  till,  seeing  Harley  did  not 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  63 

volunteer  to  speak  of  her,  he  could  not  resist  his  impulse.  "And 
Helen — Miss  Digby — is  she  much  changed  ? " 

"  Changed,  no — yes  ;  very  much." 

"  Very  much  ! "    Leonard  sighed.    "  I  shall  see  her  again  ?  " 

"Certainly,"  said  Harley,  in  a  tone  of  surprise.  "How  can  you 
doubt  it  ?  And  I  reserve  to  you  the  pleasure  of  saying  that  you 
are  renowned.  You  blush  ;  well,  I  will  say  that  for  you.  But 
you  shall  give  her  your  books." 

"  She  has  not  yet  read  them,  then  ? — not  the  last  ?  The  first 
was  not  worthy  of  her  attention,"  said  Leonard,  disappointed. 

"  She  has  only  just  arrived  in  England  ;  and  though  your 
books  reached  me  in  Germany,  she  was  not  then  with  me.  When 
I  have  settled  some  business  that  will  take  me  from  town,  I  shall 
present  you  to  her  and  my  mother."  There  was  a  certain  em- 
barrassment in  Harley's  voice  as  he  spoke  ;  and  turning  round 
abruptly,  he  exclaimed,  "  But  you  have  shown  poetry  even  here. 
I  could  not  have  conceived  that  so  much  beauty  could  be  drawn 
from  what  appeared  to  me  the  most  commonplace  of  all  subur- 
ban gardens.  Why,  surely,  where  that  charming  fountain  now 
plays  stood  the  rude  bench  in  which  I  read  your  verses." 

"  It  is  true  ;  I  wished  to  unite  all  together  my  happiest  asso- 
ciations. I  think  I  told  you,  my  lord,  in  one  of  my  letters,  that 
I  had  owed  a  very  happy,  yet  very  struggling  time  in  my  boy- 
hood to  the  singular  kindness  and  generous  instruction  of  a 
foreigner  whom  I  served.  This  fountain  is  copied  from  one  that 
I  made  in  his  garden,  and  by  the  margin  of  which  many  a 
summer  day  I  have  sat  and  dreamt  of  fame  and  knowledge." 

"True,  you  told  me  of  that;  and  your  foreigner  will  be  pleased 
to  hear  of  your  success,  and  no  less  so  of  your  grateful  recollec- 
tions. By  the  way,  you  did  not  mention  his  name." 

"  Riccabocca." 

"  Riccabocca  !  My  own  dear  and  noble  friend  ! — is  it  possi- 
ble ?  One  of  my  reasons  for  returning  to  England  is  connected 
with  him.  You  shall  go  down  with  me  and  see  him.  I  meant 
to  start  this  evening." 

"  My  dear  lord,"  said  Leonard,  "I  think  that  you  may  spare 
yourself  so  long  a  journey.  I  have  reason  to  suspect  that  Sig- 
nor  Riccabocca  is  my  nearest  neighbor.  Two  days  ago  I  was  in 
the  garden,  when  suddenly  lifting  my  eyes  to  yon  hillock  I  per- 
ceived the  form  of  a  man  seated  amongst  the  brushwood  ;  and, 
though  I  could  not  see  his  features,  there  was  something  in  the 
very  outline  of  his  figure  and  his  peculiar  posture,  that  irresistibly 
reminded  me  of  Riccabocca.  I  hastened  out  of  the  garden  and 
ascended  the  hill,  but  he  was  gone.  My  suspicions  were  so  strong, 


*4  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

that  I  caused  inquiry  tobemadeat  the  different  shops  scattered 
about,  and  learned  that  a  family,  consisting  of  a  gentleman,  his 
wife,  and  daughter,  had  lately  come  to  live  in  a  house  that  you 
must  have  passed  in  your  way  hither,  standing  a  little  back  from 
the  road,  surrounded  by  high  walls  ;  and  though  they  were  said 
to  be  English,  yet  from  the  description  given  to  me  of  the  gen- 
tleman's person  by  one  who  had  noticed  it,  by  the  fact  of  a  for- 
eign servant  in  their  employ,  and  by  the  very  name  '  Richmouth,' 
assigned  to  the  new-comers,  I  can  scarcely  doubt  that  it.  is  the 
family  you  seek." 

"And  you  have  never  called  to  ascertain  ?" 

"  Pardon  me,  but  the  family  so  evidently  shunning  observa- 
tion (no  one  but  the  master  himself  ever  seen  without  the  walls), 
the  adoption  of  another  name  too — led  me  to  infer  that  Ricca- 
bocca  has  some  strong  motive  for  concealment ;  and  now,  with 
improved  knowledge  of  life,  and  recalling  all  the  past,  I  cannot 
but  suppose  that  Riccaboccawasnotwhathe  appeared.  Hence, 
I  have  hesitated  on  formally  obtruding  myself  upon  his  secrets, 
whatever  they  be,  and  have  rather  watched  for  some  chance 
occasion  to.  meet  him  in  his  walks." 

"You  did  right,  my  dear  Leonard  ;  but  my  reasons  for  seeing 
my  old  friend  forbid  all  scruples  of  delicacy,  and  I  will  go  at 
once  to  his  house." 

"You  will  tell  me,  my  lord,  if  I  am  right." 

"1  hope  to  be  allowed  to  do  so.  Pray,  stay  at  home  till  I  re- 
turn. And  now,  ere  I  go,  one  question  more :  You  indulge  con- 
jectures as  to  Ricqabocca,  because  he  has  changed  his  name — 
tvhy  have  you  dropped  your  own  ? "  < 

"I  wished  to  have  no  name,"  said  Leonard,  coloring  deeply, 
"but  that  which  I  could  make  myself." 

"  Proud  poet,  this  I  can  comprehend.  But  from  what  reason 
did  you  assume  the  strange  and  fantastic  name  of  Oran?" 

The  flush  on  Leonard's  face  became  deeper.  "My  lord," 
said  he,  in  a  low  voice,  "it  is  a  childish  fancy  of  mine ;  it  is  an 
anagram." 

"Ah!" 

"  At  a  time  when  my  cravings  after  knowledge  were  likely  much 
to  mislead,  and  perhaps  to  undo  me,  I  chanced  on  some  poems 
that  suddenly  affected  my  whole  mind,  and  led  me  up  into  purer 
air ;  and  I  was  told  that  these  poems  were  written  in  youth,  by 
one  who  had  beauty  and  genius — one  who  was  in  her  grave — a 
relation  of  my  own,  and  her  familiar  name  was  Nora — " 

"Ah  !"  again  ejaculated  Lord  L'Estrange,  and  his  arm  pressed 
\jeavily  upon  Leonard's. 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    UFE.  65 

"So,  somehow  or  other,"  continued  the  young  author  falter- 
ingly,  "  I  wished  that  if  ever  I  won  a  poet's  fame,  it  might  be  to 
my  own  heart,  at  least,  associated  with  this  name  of  Nora — with 
her  whom  death  had  robbed  of  the  fame  that  she  might  other- 
wise have  won — with  her  who — " 

He  paused,  greatly  agitated. 

Harley  was  no  less  so.  But,  as  if  by  a  sudden  impulse,  the 
soldier  bent  down  his  manly  head  and  kissed  the  poet's  brow ; 
then  he  hastened  to  the  gate,  flung  himself  on  his  horse,  and 
rode  away. 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

LORD  L'ESTRANGE  did  not  proceed  at  once  to  Riccabocca's 
house.  He  was  under  the  influence  of  a  remembrance  too  deep 
and  too  strong  to  yield  easily  to  the  lukewarm  claim  of  friend- 
ship. He  rode  fast  and  far ;  and  impossible  it  would  be  to  de- 
fine the  feelings  that  passed  through  a  mind  soacutely  sensible  and 
so  rootedly  tenacious  of  all  affections.  When  recalling  his  duty  to 
the  Italian,  he  once  more  struck  into  the  road  to  Norwood,  the  slow 
pace  of  his  horse  was  significant  of  his  own  exhausted  spirits ;  a 
deep  dejection  had  succeeded  to  feverish  excitement.  "Vain 
task,"  he  murmured,  "to  wean  myself  from  the  dead  !  Yet  I  am 
now  betrothed  to  another;  and  she,  with  all  her  virtues,  is  not  the 
one  to — "  He  stopped  short  in  generous  self-rebuket  "  Too  late  to 
think  of  that !  Now,  all  that  should  remain  to  me  is  to  insure  the 
happiness  of  the  life  to  which  I  have  pledged  my  own.  But—" 
He  sighed  as  he  so  murmured.  On  reaching  the  vicinity  of  Ric- 
cabocca's house,  he  put  up  his  horse  at  a  little  inn,  and  proceeded 
on  foot  across  the  heath-land  toward  the  dull  square  building, 
which  Leonard's  description  had  sufficed  to  indicate  as  the  ex- 
ile's new  home.  It  was  long  before  any  one  answered  his  sum- 
niotvs  at  the  gate.  Not  till  he  had  thrice  rung  did  he  hear  a  heavy 
st'ep  on  the  gravel-walk  within  ;  then  th^  wicket  within  the  gate 
was  partially  drawn  aside,  a  dark  eye  gleamed  out,  and  a  voice 
In  imperfect  English  asked  who  was  there. 

"  Lord  L'Estrange  ;  and  if  I  am  right  as  to  the  person  I  seek, 
that  name  will  at  once  admit  me." 

The  door  flew  open  as  did  that  of  the  mystic  cavern  at  the 
sound  of  "Open,  Sesame";  and  Giacomo,  almost  weeping  with 
joyous  emotion,  exclaimed,  in  Italian,  "The  good  Lord!  Holy 
San  Giacomo  !  thou  hast  heard  me  at  last !  We  are  safe  now." 
And  dropping  the  blunderbuss  with  which  he  had  taken  the  pre- 
caution to  arm  himself,«he  lifted  Harley's  hand  to  his  lips,  in  tht 
affectionate  greeting  peculiar  to  his  countrymen. 


66  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

"And  the  Padrone?"  asked  Harley,  as  he  entered  the  jealous 
precincts. 

"Oh,  he  is  just  gone  out ;  but  he  will  not  be  long.  You  will 
wait  for  him?" 

"  Certainly.  What  lady  is  that  I  see  at  the  far  end  of  the  gar- 
den?" 

"Bless  her,  it  is  our  Signorina.  I  will  run  and  tell  her  you 
are,  come." 

"That  I  am  come ;  but  she  cannot  know  me  even  by  name." 

''Ah,  Excellency,  can  you  think  so  ?  Many  and  many  a  time 
has  she  talked  to  me  of  you,  and  I  have  heard  her  pray  to  the 
holy  Madonna  to  bless  you7,  and  in  a  voice  so  sweet — " 

"  Stay,  I  will  present  myself  to  her.  Go  into  the  house,  and  we 
will  wait  for  the  Padrone.  Nay,  I  need  the  air,  my  friend.  Harley, 
as  he  said  this,  broke  from  Giacomo,  and  approached  Violante. 

The  poor  child,  in  her  solitary  walk  in  the  obscurer  parts  of 
the  dull  garden,  had  escaped  the  eye  of  Giacom-o  when  he  had 
gone  forth  to  answer  the  bell ;  and  she,  unconscious  of  the  fears 
of  which  she  was  the  object,  had  felt  something  of  youthful  curi- 
osity at  the  summons  at  the  gate,  and  the  sight  of  a  stranger  in 
close  and  friendly  confidence  with  the  unsocial  Giacomo. 

As  Harley  now  neared  her  with  that  singular  grace  of  movement 
which  belonged  to  him,  a  thrill  shot  through  her  heart — she  knew 
not  why.  She  did  not  recognize  his  likeness  to  the  sketch  taken 
by  her  father  from  his  recollections  of  Harley's  early  youth.  She 
did  not  guess  who  he  was  ;  and  yet  she  felt  herself  color,  and,  nat- 
urally fearless  though  she  was,  turned  away  with  a  vague  alarm. 

"  Pardon  my  want  of  ceremony,  Signorina,"  said  Harley,  in 
Italian  ;  "but  I  am  so  old  a  friend  of  your  father's  that  I  cannot 
feel  as  a  stranger  to  yourself." 

Then  Violante  lifted  to  him  her  dark  eyes,  so  intelligent  and  so 
innocent — eyes  full  of  surprise,  but  not  displeased  surprise.  And 
Harley  himself  stood  amazed  and  almost  abashed,  by  the  rich  and 
almost  marvelous  beauty  that  beamed  upon  him.  "  My  father's 
friend,"  she  said,  hesitatingly,  "and  I  never  to  have  seen  you  !  " 

"Ah,  Signorina,"  said  Harley  (and  something  of  its  native 
humor,  half  arch,  half  sad,  played  round  his  lip),  "  you  are  mis- 
taken there  ;  you  have  seen  me  before,  and  you  received  me  much 
more  kindly  then — ' 

"  Signer  !"  said  Violante,  more  and  more  surprised,  and  with 
a  yet  richer  color  on  her  cheeks. 

Harley,  who  had  now  recovered  from  the  first  effect  of  her 
beauty,  and  who  regarded  her  as  men  of  his  years  and  character 
arc  apt  to  regard,  ladies  in  their  teens,  as  more  child  than  woman, 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  67 

suffered  himself  to  be  amused  by  her  perplexity;  for  it  was  in  his 
nature,  that  the  graver  and  more  mournful  he  felt  at  heart,  the 
more  he  sought  to  give  play  and  whim  to  his  spirits. 

"  Indeed,:Signorina,"  said  he  demurely,  "  you  insisted  then  on 
placing  one  of  those  fair  hands  in  mine  ;  the  other  (forgive  me 
the  fidelity  of  my  recollections)  was  affectionately  thrown  around 
my  neck." 

"  Signor  !  "  again  exclaimed  Violante  ;  but  this  time  there  was 
anger  in  her  voice,  as  well  as  surprise,  and  nothing  could  be. more 
charming  thaa  her  look  of  pride  and  resentment. 

Harley  smiled  again,  but  with  so  much  kindly  sweetness  that 
the  anger  vanished  at  once,  or  rather  Violante  felt  angry  with 
herself  that  she  was  no  longer  angry  with  him.  But  she  had 
looked  so  beautiful  in  her  anger,  that  Harley  wished,  perhaps, 
to  see  her  angry  again.  So,  composing  his  lips  from  their  pro- 
pitiatory smile,  he  resumed,  grayely — 

"Your  flatterers  will  tell  you,  Signorina,  that  you  are  much 
improved  since  then,  but  I  liked  you  better  as  you  were ;  not 
but  what  I  hope  to  return  someday  what  you  then  so  generously 
pressed  upon  me." 

"  Pressed  upon  you  ! — I  ?  Signor,  you  are  under  some  strange 
mistake." 

"  Ala.s  !  no  ;  but  the  female  heart  is  so  capricious  and. 
You  pressed  it  upon  me,  I  assure  you.     I  own  that  I  was 
loath  to  accept  it." 

"  Pressed  it !     Pressed,  what  ? " 

"Your  kiss,  my  child,"  said  Harley  ;  and  then  added,  with  a 
serious  tenderness,  "And  I  again  say  that  1  hope  to  return  it 
someday — -when  I  see  you,  by  the  side  of  father  and  of  husband, 
in  your  native  land — the  fairest  bride  on  whom  the  skies  of  Italy 
ever  smiled  !  And  now,  pardon  a  hermit  and  a  soldier  for  his 
rude  jests,  and  give  your  hand,  in  token  of  that  pardon, — to 
Harley  L'Estrange." 

Violante,  who,  at  the  first  words  of  his  address  had  recoiled, 
witlva  vague  belief  that  the  stranger  was  out  of  his  mind,  sprang 
forward  as  it  closed,  and,  in  all  the  vivid  enthusiasm  of  her 
nature,  pressed  the  hand  held  out  to  her,  with  both  her  own. 
" tjarley  L'Estrange— the  preserver  of  my  father's  life!"  she 
cried  ;  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  with  such  evident  grati- 
tude and  revereace  that  Harley  felt  at  once  confused  and  de- 
lighted. She  did  not  think  at  that  instant  of  the  hero  of  her 
dreams— she  thought  but  of  him  who  had  saved  her  father.  But, 
as  his  e^es  sank  before  her  own,  and  his  head  uncovered,  bowed 
over  the  >-'ar»d  he  held,  she  recognized  the  likeness  to  the  feature*- 


68  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

on  which  she  had  so  often  gazed.  The  first  bloom  of  youth  was 
gone,  but  enough  of  youth  still  remained  to  soften  the  lapse  of 
years,  and  to  leave  to  manhood  the  attractions  which  charm  the 
eye.  Instinctively  she  withdrew  her  hands  from  his  clasp,  and, 
in  her  turn,  looked  dowm 

In  this  pause  of  embarrassment  to  both,  Riccabocca  let  him- 
self into  the  garden  by  his  own  latch-key,  and,  startled  to  see  a 
man  by  the  side  of  Violante,  sprang  forward  with  an  abrupt  and 
angry  cry.  Harley  heard,  and  turned. 

As  if  restored  to  courage  and  self-possession  by  the  sense  of 
her  father's  presence,  Violante  again  took  the  hand  of  the  visitor. 
"  Father,"  she  said,  simply,  "it  is  he — he  is  come  at  last.'-  And 
then,  retiring  a  few  steps,  she  contemplated  them  both  ',  and  her 
face  was  radiant  with  happiness^— as  if  something,  long  silently 
missed  and  looked  for,  was  as  silently  found,  and  life  had  no 
more  a  want,  nor  the  heart  a  void. 


. 

BOOK  TENTH.— INITIAL  CHAPTER. 

UPON    THIS   FACT — THAT  THE  WORLD   IS  STILL  MUCH  THE  SAME 
AS   IT    ALWAYS   HAS    BEEN. 

IT  is  observed  by  a  very  pleasant  writer — read  now-a-days 
only  by  the  brave  pertinacious  few  who  still  struggle  hard  to 
rescue  from  the  House  of  Pluto,  the  souls  of  departed  authors, 
jostled  and  chased  as  those  souls  are  by  the  noisy  footsteps  of 
the  living— it  is  observed  by  the  admirable  Charron,that  "judg- 
ment and  wisdom  is  not  only  the  best,  but  the  happiest  portion 
God  Almighty  hath  distributed  amongst  men  ;  for  though  this 
distribution  be  made  with  a  very  uneven  hand,  yet  nobody  thinks 
himself  stinted  or  ill-dealt  with,  but  he  that  hath  never  so  little 
is  contented  in  this  respect."  * 

And,  certainly,  the  present  narrative  may  serve  in  notabl'e  illus- 
tration of  the  remark  so  dryly  made  by  the  witty  and  wise  preacher. 
For  whether  our  friend  Riccabocca  deduce  theories  for  dally 
life  from  the  great  folio  of  Machiavelli,  or  that  promising  young 
gentleman,  Mr.  Randal  Leslie,  interpret  the  power  of  knowledge 
into  the  art  of  being  too  knowing  for  dull  honest  folks  to  cope 
with  him  ;  or  acute  Dick  Avenel  push  his  way  up  the  social 
ascent  with  a  blow  for  those  before,  and  a  kick  for  those  behind 
him,  after  the  approved  fashion  of  your  strong  New  Man  ;  or 

*  Translation  of  Charrdn  on  Wisdom.     By  G.  STANHOPE,  D.D.,  late  Dean  of  Canter- 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  69 

himself  to  the  Magnetic  Rock  in  the  Arabian  tale,  to  which  the 
nails  in  every  ship  that  approaches  the  influence  of  the  loadstone 
fly  from  the  planks,  and  a  shipwreck  per  day  adds  its  waifs  to 
Baron  Levy — that  cynical  impersonation  of  Gold — compare 
the  Rock :  questionless  at  least  it  is,  that  each  of  those  person- 
ages believes  that  Providence  has  bestowed  on  him  an  elder  son's 
inheritance  of  wisdom.  Nor,  were  we  to  glance  toward  the  ob- 
scurer paths  of  life,  should  we  find  good  Parson  Dale  deem  him- 
self worse  off  than  the  rest  of  the  world  in  this  precious  com- 
modity— as,  indeed,  he  has  signally  evinced  of  late  in  that  shrewd 
guess  of  his  touching  Professor  Moss  ; — even  plain  Squire  Haze^ 
dean  takes  it  for'  granted  that  he  could  teach  Audley  Egerton  a 
thing  or  two  worth  knowing  in  politics  ;  Mr.  Stirn  thinks  that 
there  is  no  branch  of  useful  lore  on  which  he  .could  hot  instruct 
the  Squire  ;  while  Sprott,  the  tinker,  with  his  bag  fulF  of  tracts 
and  lucifer-matches,  regards  the  whole  framework  of  modern 
society,  from  a  rick  to  a  constitution,  with  the  profound  disdain 
of  a  revolutionary  philosopher.  Considering  that  every  individual 
thus  brings  into  the  stock  of  the  world  so  vast  a  share  of  intelli- 
gence, it  cannot  but  excite  our  wonder  to  find  that  Oxenstiern 
is  popularly  held  to  be  right  when  he  said,  "See,  my  son,  how 
little  wisdom  it  requires  to  govern  States  ";— that  is,  Men  !  That 
so  many  millions  of  persons,  each  with  a  profound  assurance  that 
he  is  possessed  of  an  exalted  sagacity,  should  concur  in  the 
ascendancy  of  a  few  inferior  intellects,  according  to  a  few  stupid, 
prosy,  matter-of-fact  rules  as  old  as  the  hills,  is  a  phenomenon 
very  discreditable  to  the  spirit  and  energy  6f  the  aggregate  human 
species  !  It  creates  no  surprise  that  on  e  sensible  watch-dog  should 
control  the  movements  of  a  flock  of  silly  grass-eating  sheep  ;  but 
that  two  or  three  silly  gross-eating  sheep  should  give  the  law  to 
whole  flocks  of  such  mighty  sensible  watch  dogs — Diavolo  !  Dr. 
Riccabocca,  explain  (hat  if  you  can  !  And  wonderfully  strange 
it  is,  that  notwithstanding  all  the  march  of  enlightenment,  not- 
withstanding our  progressive  discoveries  in  the  laws  of  nature — 
our  railways,  steam  engines,  animal  magnetism,  and  electro- 
biology — we  have  never  made  any  improvement  that  is  generally 
acknowledged,  since  Men  ceased  to  be  troglodytes  and  nomads, 
in  the  old-fashioned  gamut  of  flats  and  sharps,  which  attunes 
into  irregular  social' jog-trot  all  the  generations  that  pass  from  the 
cradle  to  the  grave  ;  still,  "  the  desire  for  something  we  have  not  " 
impels  all  the  energies  that  keep  us  in  movement,  for  good  or  for 
ill, according  to  the  checks  or  thedirectionsof  each  favorite  desire. 
A  friend  of  mine  once  said  to  a  millionaire,  whom  he  saw  for 
ever  engaged  in  making  money  which  he  never  seemed  to  have 


y0  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

any  pleasure  in  spending,  "  Pray,  Mr. ,  will  you  answer  me 

one  question  :  You  are  said  to  have  two  millions,  and  you  spend 
^600  a.-year.  In  order  to  rest  arid  enjoy,what  will  content  you  ?  " 

"A  little  more,"  answered  the  millionaire.  That  ''little  more" 
is  the  main-spring  of  civilization.  Nobody  ever  gets  it ! 

"Philus,"  saith  a  Latin  writer,  "was  not  so  rich  as  Lselius ; 
Laslius  was  not  so  rich  as  Scipio;  Scipio  was  not  so  rich  as  Crassus  ; 
and  Crassus  was  not  so  rich  as  he  wished  to  be  !  "  If  John  Bull 
were  once  contented,  Manchester  might  shut  up  its  mills.  It  is 
the  "  little  more"  that  makes  a  mere  trifle  of  the  National  Debt ! — 
Long  life  to  it ! 

Still,  mend  our  law-books  as  we  will,  one  is  forced  to  confess 
that  knaves  are  often  seen  in  fine  linen,  and  honest  men  in  the 
most  shabby  old  rags  ;  and  still,  notwithstanding  the  exceptions, 
knavery  is  a  very  hazardous  game  ;  and  honesty,  on  the  whole, 
by  far  the  best  policy.  Still,  most  of  the  Ten  Commandments 
remain  at  the  core  of  all  Pandects  and  Institutes  that  keep  our 
hands  off  our  neighbors'  throats,  wives,  and  pockets  ;  still,  every 
year  shows  that  the  Parson's  maxim — non  quieta  mover e — is  as 
prudent  for  the  health  of  communities  as  when  Apollo  recom- 
mended his  votaries  not  to  rake  up  a  fever  by  stirring  the  Lake 
Camarina;  still  people,  thank  Heaven,  decline  to  reside  in  paral- 
lelograms ;  and  the  surest  token  that  we  live  under  a  free  gov- 
ernment is,  when  we  are  governed  by  persons  whom  we  have  a 
full  right  to  imply,  by  our  censure  and  ridicule,  are  blockheads 
compared  to  ourselves  !  Stop  that  delightful  privilege,  and,  by 
Jove  !  sir,  there  is  nekher  pleasure  nor  honor  in  being  governed 
at  all !  You  might  as  well  be^ — a  Frenchman  ! 

,  • 

CHAPTER  II. 

-• 

THE  Italian  and  his  friend  are  closeted  together. 

"And  .why  have  you  left  your  home  in shire  ?  and  why 

this  new  change  of  name  ? " 

"  Peschiera  is  in  England," 

"  I  know  it." 

"And  bent  on- discovering  me  ;  and,  it  is  said,  of  stealing  from 
me  my  child." 

"  He  has  had  the  assurance  to  lay  wagers  that  he  will  win  the 
hand  of  your  heiress.  .  I  know  that  too  ;  and  therefore  I  have 
come  to  England— first  to  baffle  his  design^ — for  I  do  not  think 
your  fears  altogether  exaggerated — and  next  to  learn  from  you 
how  to  follow  up  a  clue  which,  unless  I  am  too  sanguine,  may 
lead  to  his  ruin,  and  your  unconditional  restoration.  Listen  to 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  >t 

me.  You  are  aware  that,  after  the  skirmish  with  Peschiera's 
armed  hirelings  sent  in  search  of  you,  I  received  a  polite  mes- 
sage from  the  Austrian  Government,  requesting  me  to  leave  its 
Italian  domains.  Now,  as  I  hold  it  the  obvious  duty  of  a  for- 
eigner, admitted  to  the  hospitality  of  a  State,  to  refrain  from  all 
participation  in  its  civil  disturbances,  so  I  thought  my  honor  as- 
sailed at  this  intimation,  and  went  at  once  to  Vienna  to  explain 
to  the  Minister  there  (to  whom  I  was  personally  known),  that 
though  I  had,  as  became  man  to  man,  aided  to  protect  a  refugee, 
who  had  taken  shelter  under  my  roof,  from  the  infuriated  sol- 
diers at  the  command  of  his  private  foe,  I  had  not  only  not  shared 
in  any  attempt  at  revolt,  but  dissuaded,  as  far' as  I  could,  my  Ital- 
ian friends  from  their  enterprise  ;  and  that  because,  without  dis- 
cussing its  merits,  I  believed,  as  a  military  man  and  a  cool  spec- 
tator, the  enterprise  could  only  terminate  in  fruitless  bloodshed. 
I  was  enabled  to  establish  my  explanation  by  satisfactory  proof; 
and  my  acquaintance  with  the  Minister  assumed  something  of 
the  character  of  friendship.  I  was  then  in  a  position  to  advo- 
cate your  cause,  and  to  state  your  original  reluctance  to -enter 
into  the  plots  of  the  insurgents.  I  admitted  freely  that  you  had 
such  natural  desire  for  the  independence  of  your  native  land, 
that,  had  the  standard  of  Italy  been  boldly  hoisted  by  its  legiti- 
mate chiefs,  or  at  the  common  uprising  of  its  whole  people,  you 
would  have  been  found  in  the  van,  amidst  the  ranks  of  your 
countrymen;  but  I  maintained  that  you  would  never  have  shared 
in  a  conspiracy  frantic  in  itself,  and  defiled  by  the  lawless  schemes 
and  sordid  ambition  of  its  main  projectors,  had  you  not  been  be- 
trayed and  decoyed  into  it  by  the  misrepresentations  and  do- 
mestic treachery  of  your  kinsman — the  very  man  who  denounced 
you.  Unfortunately,  of  this  statement  I  had  no  proof  but  your 
own  word.  I  made,  however,  so  far  an  impression  in  your  fa- 
vor, and,  it  may  be,  against  the  traitor,  that  your  property  was 
not  confiscated  to  the  State,  nor  handed  over,  upon  the  plea  of 
your  civil  death,  to  your  kinsman." 

"  How  !— I  do  not  understand.  Peschiera  has  the  property?" 
"  He  holds  the  revenues  but  of  ofie-half  upon  pleasure,  and  they 
would  be  withdrawn,  Could  I  succeed  in  establishing  the  case  that 
exists  against  him.  I  was  forbidden  before  to  mention  this  to  you ; 
the  Minister,  not  inexcusably,  submitted  you  to  the  probation  of 
unconditional  exile.  Your  grace  might  depend  upon  your  own 
forbearance  from  future  conspiracies — forgive  the  word.  I  need 
not  say  I  was  permitted  to  return  to  Lombardy.  I  found,  on  my 
arrival,  that — that  your  unhappy  wife  had  been  to  my  house, 
and  exhibited  great  despair  at  hearing  of  my  departure." 


72  MY  NOVEL  ;  ok, 

Riccabocca  knit  his  dark  brows,  and  breathed  hard. 

"I  did  not  judge  it  necessary  to  acquaint  you  with  this  cir- 
cumstance, nor  did  it  much  affect  me.  I  believed  in  her  guilt — 
and  what  could  now  avail  her  remorse,  if  remorse  she  felt  ? 
Shortly  afterward,  I  heard  that  she  was  no  more." 

."Yes,"  muttered  Riccabocca,  "she  died  in  the  same  year 
that  I  left  Italy.  It  must  be  a  strong  reason  that  can  excuse  a 
friend  for  reminding  me  even  that  she  once  lived  ! " 

"I  come  at  once  to  that  reason,"  said  L'Estrange  gently. 
"  This  autumn  I  was  roaming  through  Switzerland,  and,  in  one 
of  my  pedestrian  excursions  amidst  the  mountains,  I  met  with 
an  accident,  which  confined  me  for  some  days  to  a  sofa  at  a  little 
inn  in  an  obscure  village.  My  hostess  was  an  Italian  ;  and,  as 
I  had  left  my  servant  at  a  town  at  some  distance,  I  required  her 
attention  till  I  could  write  to  him  to  come  to  me.  1  was  .thank- 
ful for  her  care,  and  amused  by  her  Italian  babble.  We  became 
very  good  friends.  .  She.  told  me  she  had  been  servant  to  a  lady 
of  great  rank,  who  had  died  in  Switzerland  ;  and  that,  being  en- 
riched by  the  generosity  of  her  mistress,  she  had  married  a  Swiss 
inn-keeper,  and  his  people  had  become  hers.  My  servant  ar- 
rived, and  my  hostess  learned  my  name,  which  she  did  not  know 
before.  She  came  into  my  room  greatly  agitated.  In  brief,  this 
woman  had  been  servant  tp  your  wife.  She  had  accompanied 
her  to  my  villa,  and  known  of  her  anxiety  to  see  me,  as  your 
friend.  The  Government  had  assigned  to  your  wife  your  palace 
at  Milan,  with  a  competent  income.  .She  had  refused  to  accept 
either.  Failing  to  see  me,  she  had  set  off  toward  England,  re- 
solved upon  seeing  yourself ;  for  the  journals  had  stated  that  to 
England  you  had  escaped." 

"She  dared  !— shameless.!  And  see,  but  a  moment  before,  I 
had  forgotten  all  but  her  grave  in  a  foreign  soil — -and  these  .tears 
had  forgiven  her,,"  murmured,  the  Italian. 

"  Let  them  forgive  her  still,"  said  Harley,  with  all  his  exquisite 
sweetness  of  look  and  tone.  -".I  resume.  .  On  entering  Switzer- 
land, your  wife's  health,  which  you  know  was  always  delicate, 
gave  way.  To  fatigue  and  anxiety  succeeded  fever,  and  delirium 
ensued.  She  had  taken  with  her  but  this  one  female  attendant — 
the  sole  one  she  could  trust — on  leaving  home.  She  suspected 
Peschiera  to  have  bribed  her  household.  In  the  presence  of  this 
woman  she  raved  of  her  innocence — in  accents  of  terror  and 
aversion,  denounced  your  kinsman — and  called  on  you  to  vin- 
dicate her  name  and  your  own." 

"Ravings  indeed!  Poor  Paulina !"  groaned  Riccabocca, 
covering  his  face  with  both  hands. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  73 

"But  in  her  delirium  there  were  lucid  intervals.  In  one  of 
these  she  rose,  in  spite  of  all  her  servant  could  do  to  restrain  her, 
took  from  her  desk  several  letters,  and  reading  them  over,  ex- 
claimed piteously,  '  But  how  to  get  them  to  him  ? — whom  to  trust? 
And  his  friend  is  gone ! '  Then  an  idea  seemed  suddenly  to 
flash  upon  her,  for  she  uttered  a  joyous  exclamation,  sat  down, 
and  wrote  long  and  rapidly  ;  enclosed  what  she  wrote  with  all 
the  letters,  in  one  packet,  which  she  sealed  carefully,  and  bade 
her  servant  carry  to  the  post,  with  many  injunctions  to  take  it 
with  her  own  hand,  and  pay  the  charge  upon.  it.  '  For  oh. !'  said 
she  (I  repeat  the  words  as  my  informant  told  them  to  me) — '  for. 
oh  !  this  is  my  sole  chance  to  prove  to  my  husband  that,  though 
I  have  erred,  I  am  not  the  guilty  thing  he  believes  me  ;  the 
sole  chance,  too,  to  redeem  my  error,  and  restore,  perhaps,  to 
my  husband  his  country,  to  my  child  her  heritage.'  The  ser- 
vant took  the  letter  to  the  post ;  and  when  she  returned,  her  lady 
was  asleep,  with  a  smile  upon  her  face.  But  from  that  sleep 
she  woke  again  delirious,  and  before  the  next  morning  her  soul 
had  fled."  Here  Riccabocea  lifted  one  hand  from  his  face  and 
grasped  Harley's  arm,  as  if  mutely  beseeching  him  to  pause. 
The  heart  of  the  man  struggled  hard  with  his  pride  and  his  phil- 
osophy ;  and  it  was  long  before  Harley  could  lead  him  to  regard 
the  worldly  prospects  which  this  last  communication  from  his 
wife  might  open  to  his  ruined  fortunes,  Not,  indeed,  till  Ric- 
cabocea had  persuaded  himself,  and,  half-persuaded  Harley  (for 
strong,  indeed,  was  all  presumption  of  guilt  against  the  dead) 
that  his  wife's  protestations  of  innocence  from  all  but  error 
had  been  but  ravings. 

"Be  this  as  it  may,"  said  Harley,  "  there  seems  every  reason  to 
suppose  that  the  letters  enclosed  were  Peschiera's  correspond- 
ence, and  that,  if  so,  these  would  establish  the  proof  of  his  influ- 
ence over  your  wife,  and  of  his  perfidious  machinations  against 
yourself.  I  resolved,  before  Coming  hither,  to  go  round  by  Vienna. 
There  I  heard,  with  dismay,  that  Peschiera  had  not  only  obtained 
the  imperial  sanction  to  demand  your  daughter's  hand,  but  had 
boasted  to  his  profligate  circle  that  he  should  Succeed  •  and  he  was 
actually  on  his  road  to  England.  I  saw  at  once  that  could. this 
design,  by  any  fraud  or  artifice,  be  successful  with  Violante  (for 
of  your  consent,  I  need  not  say,  I  did  not  dream),  the  discovery  of 
the  packet,  whatever  its  contents,  would  be  useless;  Peschiera's 
end  would  be  secured,  I  saw  also  that  his  success  would  suffice 
forever  to  clear  his  name — for  his  success  must  imply  your  con- 
sent (it  would  be  to  disgrace  your  daughter,  to  assert  that  she  had 
married  without  it),  and  your  consent  would  be  his  acquittal.  I 


74  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

saw,  too,  with  alarm,  that  to  all  means-for  the  accomplishment  of 
his  project  he  would  be  urged  by  despair;  for  his  debts  are  great, 
and  his  character  nothing  but  new  wealth  can  support.  I  knew 
that  he  was  able,  bold,  determined,  and  that  he  had  taken  with  him 
a  large  supply  of  money  borrowed  upon  usury  ;— in  a  word,  I 
trembled  for  you  both.  I  have  now  seen  your  daughter,  and  I 
tremble  no  more.  Accomplished  seducer  as  Peschiera  boasts 
himself,  the  first  look  upon  her  face,  so  sweet  yet  so  noble,  con- 
vinced me  that  she  is  proof  against  a  legion  of  Peschiefas.  Now, 
then,  return  we  to  this  all-important  subject — to  this  packet.  It 
never  reached  you.  Long  years  have  passed  since  then.  Does  it 
exist  still  ?  Into  whose  hands  would  it  have  fallen  ?  Try  to  sum- 
mon up  all  your  recollections.  The  servant  could  not  remember 
the  name  of  the  person  to  whom  it  was  addressed;  she  only  in- 
sisted that  the  name  began  with  a  B,  that  it  was  directed  to  Eng- 
land, and  that  to  England  she  accordingly  paid  the  postage. 
Whom  then,  with  a  name  that  begins  with  B,  or  (in  case  the  ser- 
vant's memory  here  misled  her)  who  did  you  or  your  wife  know, 
during  your  visit  to  England,  with  sufficient  intimacy  to  make  it 
probable  that  she  would  select  such  a  person  for  her  confidant?" 

"I  cannot  conceive,"  said  Riccabocca,  shaking  his  head.  "  We 
came  to  England  shortly  after  our  marriage.  Paulina  was  affected 
by  the  climate.  She  spoke  hot  a  word  of  English,  and  indeed  not 
even  French,  as  might  have  been  expected  from  her  birth,  for  her 
father  was  poor,  and  thoroughly  Italian.  She  refused  all  society. 
I  went,  it  is  true,  somewhat  into  the  London  world — enough  to 
induceme  to  shrink  from  the  contrast  that  my  second  visit  as  a 
beggared  refugee  would  have  made  to  the  reception  I  met  withon 
my  first;  but  I  formed  ho  intimate  friendships.  I  recall  no  one 
whom  she  could  have  written  to  as  intimate  with  me."  [c 

"But,"  persisted  ttarley,  ''think  again.  Was  there  no  lady 
well  acquainted  with  Italian,  and  with  whom,  perhaps,  for  that 
very  reason,  your  wife  became  familiar  ? " 

"•'Ah,  it  is  true.  There  was  one  old  kdy  of  retired  habits, 
but  who  had  been  much  in  Italy.  Lady— Lady — I  remember — 
Lady  Jbne  Horton." 

"  Horton — Lady  Jane  !  "exclaimed  Harley;  "again  !  thrice  in 
one  day — is  this  wOtind  never  to  scar  over  ? "  Then,  noting  Ricca- 
bocca's  look  of  surprise,  he  said,  "  Excuse  me,  my  friend ;  I  listen 
to  you  -frith  renewed  interest.  Lady  Jane  was  a  distant  relation  of 
my  own;  she  judged  me,  perhaps,  harshly — and  I  have  some 
painful  associations  with  her  name  ;  but  she  was  a  woman  of 
many  virtues.  Your  wife  knew  her  ?" 

"  Not,  however,  intimately — still,  better  than  any  one  else  in 


VARIETIES  1M   ENGLISH   LIFE.  75 

London.  But  Paulina  would  not  have  written  to  her;  she  knew 
that  Lady  Jane  had  died  shortly  after  her  own  departure  from 
England.  I  fnyself  was  summoned  back  to  Italy  on  pressingbusi- 
ness;.  she  was  too  unwell  to  journey  with  me  as  rapidly  as  I  was 
obliged  to  travel;  indeed,  illness  detained  her  several  weeks  in 
England.  In  this  interval  she  might  have  made  acquaintances. 
Ah,  now  I  see;  I  guess.  You  say  the  name  began  with  B.  Paulina, 
in  my  absence,  engaged  a  companion — -a.  Mrs.  Bertram.  This 
lady  accompanied  her  abroad.  Paulina  became  excessively  at- 
tached to  her,  she  knew  Italian  so  well.  Mrs.  Bertram  left  her  on 
the  road  and  returned  to  England,  for  some  private  affairs  of 
her  own.  I  forget  why  of  wherefore;  if,  indeed,  I  ever  asked 
or  learned.  Paulina  missed  her  sadly,  often  talked  of  her, 
wondered  why  she  never  heard  from  her.  No  doubt  it  Was  to 
this  Mrs.  Bertram  that  she  wrote !  " 

"And  you  don't  know  the  lady's  friends,  or  address?  " 

"  No." 

"  Nor  who  recommended  her  to  your  wife  ?" 

"No." 

"  Probably  Lady  Jane  Horton  ?  " 

"  It  may  be  so.     Very  likely." 

"I  will  follow  up  this  track,  slight  as  it  is." 

"But  if  Mrs.  Bertram  received  the  communication,  how  comes 
it  that  it  never  reached  myself — O,  fool  that  I  am,  how  should 
it  !  I,  who  guarded  so  carefully  my  incognito  !  " 

"True.  This  your  wife  could  not  foresee;  she  Would  naturally 
imagine  that  your  residence  in  England  would  be  easily  dis- 
covered. But  many  years  must  have  passed  since  your  wife  lost 
sight  of  this  Mrs.  Bertram,  if  their  acquaintance  was  made  soon 
after  your  marriage;  and  now  it  is  along  time  to  retrace — ^before 
even  your  Violante  was  born." 

"  Alas !  yes.  I  lost  two  fair  sons  in  the  interval.  Violante 
was  born  to  me  as  a  child  of  sorrow." 

"And  to  make  sorrow  lovely  !  how  beautiful  she  is  !" 

The  father  smiled  proudly. 

"Where,  in  the  loftiest  houses  of  Europe,  find  a  husband 
worthy  of  such  a  prize  ?" 

"You  forget  that  I  am  still  an  exile — she  still  dowerless.  You 
forget  that  I  am  pursued  by  Peschiera;  that  I  would  rather  see 
her  a  .beggar's  wife — than — Pah,  'the  very  thought  maddens  me, 
it  is  so  foul.  Corpo  di  Bacco  !  I  have  been  glad  to  find  her  a 
husband  already." 

"  Already  !     Then  that  young  man  spoke  truly  /  " 

"  What  young  man  ?  " 


76  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"Randal  Leslie.  How  !  yqu  know  him?"  Here  a  brief  ex> 
planation  followed.  Harley  heard  with  attentive  ear,  and 
marked  vexation,  the  particulars  of  Riccabocca's  connection 
and  implied  engagement  with  Leslie. 

"  There  is  something  very  suspicious  to  me  in  all  this,"  said  he. 
"  Why  should  this  young  man  have  so  sounded  me  as  to  Vio- 
lante's  chance  of  losing  fortune  if  she  married  an  Englishman?" 

"  Did  he  ?  Oh,  pooh  !  excuse  him.  It  was  but  his  natural 
wish  to  seem  ignorant  of  all  about  me.  He  .did  not  know 
enough  of  my  intimacy  with  you  to  betray  my  secret." 

"  But  he  knew  enough  of  it — must  have  known  enough  to 
have  made  it  right  that  he  should  tell  you  I  was  in  England 
He  does  not  seem  to  have  done  so." 

"  No — that  is  strange — yet  scarcely  strange;  for,  when  we  last 
met,  his  head  was  full  of  other  things— love  and  marriage. 
Basta!  youth  will  be  youth." 

"He  has  no  youth  left  in  him !"  exclaimed  Harley,  passionately. 
"  I  doubt  if  he  ever  had  any.  He  is  one  of  those  men  who  ,come 
into  the  world  with  the  pulse  of  a  centenarian.  You  and  I  never 
shall  be  as  old — as  he  was  in  long-clothes.  Ah,  you  may  laugh; 
but  I  am  never  wrong  in  my  instincts.  I  disliked  him  at  the  first — 
his  eye,  his  smile,  his  voice,  his  very  footstep.  It  is  madness 
in  you  to  countenance  such  a  marriage;  it  may  destroy  all 
chance  of  your  restoration." 

"  Better  that  than  infringe  my  word  once  passed." 

"  No,  no,"  exclaimed  Harley;  "  your  word  is  not  passed — it 
shall  not  be  passed.  Nay,  never  look  so  piteously  at  me.  At 
all  events,  pause  till  we  know  more  of  this  young  man.  If  he 
be  worthy  of  her  without  a  dower,  why,  then,  let  him  lose  you 
your  heritage?  I  should  have  no  more  to  say." 

"But  why  lose  me  my  heritage  ?  There  isno  law  in  Austria  which 
candictate  to  a  father  what  husband  to  choose  for  his  daughter." 

"  Certainly  not.  But  you  are  out  of  the  pale  of  law  itself  just  at 
present;  and  it  would  surely  be  a  reason  for  state  policy  to  with- 
hold your  pardon,  and  it  would  be  to  the  loss  of  that  favor  with 
your  own  countrymen,  which  would  now  make  that  pardon  so 
popular,  if  it  were  known  that  the  representative  of  your  name 
were  debased  by  your  daughter's  alliance  with  an  English  ad- 
venturer—a clerk  in  a  public  office  !  O,  sage  in  theory,  why 
are  you  such  a  simpleton  in  action  ?  " 

Nothing  moved  by  this  taunt,  Riccabocca  rubbed  his  handa^ 
and  then  spread  them  comfortably  over  the  fire. 

"My  friend,"  said  he,  "the  representation  of  my  name 
would  pass  to  my  son." 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  77 

"  But  you  have  no  son  ?  " 

"Hush!  I  am  going  .to  have  one;  :my  Jemima  informed  me 
of  it  yesterday  morning;  and  it  was  upon  that  information  that 
I  resolved  to  speak  to  Leslie.  Am  I  a  simpleton  now?" 

"Going  to  have  a  son,"  repeated  Harley,  looking  very  bewil- 
dered; *'  how  do  you  know  it  is  to  be  a  son  ?  " 

"  Physiologists-  are  agreed,"  said  the  sage,  positively,  "  that 
where  the  husband  is  much  older  than  the  wife,  and  there  has  been 
a  long  interval  without  children  before  she  condescends  to  in- 
crease the  population  of  the  world— she  (that  is,  it  is  at  least  as 
nine  to  four) — she  brings  into  the  world  a  male.  I  consider 
that  point,  therefore,  as  settled,  according  to  the  calculations  of 
statisticians  and  the  researches  of  naturalists." 

Harley  could  not  help  laughing,  though  he  was  still  angry 
and  disturbed. 

"The  same  man  as  ever;  ahvays  the  fool  of  philosophy." 

"£V.$/W/0/"said  Riccabocca.  "I  am  rather  the  philosopher 
of  fools.  And  talking  of  that,  shall  I  present  you  to  my  Jemima  ?" 

"Yes  ;  but  in  turn  I  must  present  you  to  one  who  remembers 
with  gratitude  your  kindness,  and  whom  your  philosophy,  for  a 
wonder,  has  not  ruined.  Some  time  or  other  you  must  explain 
that  to  me.  Excuse  me  for  a  moment ;  I  will  go  for  him." 

"For  him; — for  whom?  In  my  position  I  must  be  cautious 
and — " 

"  I  will  answer  for  his  faith  and  discretion.  Meanwhile,  order 
dinner,  and  let  me  and  my  friend  stay  to  share  it." 

"  Dinner !  Corpo  di  Bacco! — not  that  Bacchus  can  help  us 
here.  What  will  Jemima  say  ?  " 

"  Henpecked  man,  settle  that  with  your  connubial  tyrant. 
But  dinner  it  must  be." 

I  leave  the  reader  to  imagine  the  delight  of  Leonard  at  seeing 
once  more  Riccabocca.  unchanged,  and  Violante  so  improved  ; 
and  the  kind  Jemima  too.  And  their  wonder  at  him  and  his 
history,  his  books  and  his  fame.  He  narrated  his  struggles  and 
adventures  with  a  simplicity  that  .removed  from  si.story  so  per- 
sonal the  character  of  egotism.  But  when  he  came  to  speak  of 
Helen,  he  was  brief  and  reserved. 

Violante  would  have  questioned  more  closely ;  but,  to  Leon- 
ard's relief,  Harley  interposed. 

"You  shall  see  her  whom  he  speaks  of  before  long,  and  ques- 
tion her  yourself." 

With  these  words,  Harley:  turned  the  young  man's  narrative 
into  new  directions ;  and  Leonard's  words  again  flowed  freely. 
Thus  the  evening  passed  away  happily  to  all  save  Riccabocca, 


7$  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

For  the  thought  of  his  dead  wife  rose  ever  and  anon  before  the 
exile;  but  when  it  did, and  became  too  painful,  he  crept  rrearer 
to  Jemima,  and  looked  in  her  simple  face,  and  pressed  her  cordial 
hand.  And  yet  the  monster  had  implied  to  Harley  that  his 
comforter  was  a  fool — so  she  was,  to  love  so  contemptible  a 
slanderer  of  herself  and  her  sex. 

Violante  was  in  a  state  of  blissful  excitement ;  she  could  not 
analyze  her  6wn  joy.  But  her  conversation  was  chiefly  with  Leon- 
ard ;  and  the  most  silent  of  all  was  Harley.  He  sat  listening 
to  Leonard's  warm,  yet  unpretending  eloquence — that  eloquence 
which  flows  so  naturally  from  genius,  when  thoroughly  at  its  ease, 
and  hot  chilled  back  on  itself  by  hard,  unsympathizing  hearers — 
listened, yet  more  charmed,  to  the  sentiments  less  profound,  yet 
no  less  earnest— sentiments  so  feminine,  yet  so  noble,  with  which 
Violante's  fresh,  virgin  heart  responded  to  the  poet's  kindling 
soul.  Those  sentiments  of  hers  were  so  unlike  all  he  heard  in 
the  common  world — so  akin  to  himself  in  his  gone  youth  ! 
Occasionally — at  some  high  thought  of  her  own,  or  some  lofty- 
line  from  Italian  song,  that  she  cited  with  lighted  eyes,  and  in. 
melodious  accents — occasionally  he  reared  his  knightly  head, 
and  his  lip  quivered,  as  if  he 'had  heard  the  sound  of  a  trumpet. 
The  inertness  of  long  years  was  shaken.  The  Heroic,  that  lay 
deep  beneath  all  the  humors  of  his  temperament,  was  reached, 
appealed  to ;  and  stirred  within  him,  rousing  up  all  the  bright 
associations  connected  with  it,  and  long  dormant.  When  he 
arose  to  take  leave,  surprised  at  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  Harley 
said,  in  a  tone  that  bespoke  the  sincerity  of  the  compliment,  "  I 
thank  you. for  the  happiest  hours  I  have  known  for  years."  His 
eye  dwelt Joh  Violante  as  he  spoke.  But  timidity  returned  to 
her  with  his  words — at  his  look  ;  and  it  was  no  longer  the  in- 
spired muse,  but  the  bashful  girl  that  stood  before  him. 

"  And  when  shall  I  see  you  again  ?"  asked  Riccabocca,  dis- 
consolately, following  his  guest  to  the  door. 

"When!  Why,  of  course,  to'morrow.  Adieu!  my  dear 
friend.  No  wonder  you  have  l)6rne  your:exile  so  patiently, — 
with  such  a  child  ! " 

He  took  Leonard's  arm,  and  walked  with  him  to  the  inn  where 
he  had  left  his  horse.  Leonard1  spoke  of  Violante  with  enthu- 
siasm. Harley  was  silent. 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE  next  day  a  somewhat  old-fashioned,  but  exceedingly 
patrician,  equipage  stopped  at  Riccabocca's  garden-gate.  Gia- 
como,  who,  from  a  bed-room  window,  had  caught  sight  of  its 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  79 

winding  toward  the  house,  was  seized  with  undefinable  terror 
when  he  beheld  it  pause  before  their  walls,  and  heard  the  shrill 
summons  at  the  portal.  He  rushed  into  his  master's  presence, 
and  implored  him  not  to  stir — not  to  allow  any  one  to  give  in- 
gress to  the  enemies  the  machine  might  disgorge,  "  I  have 
heard," said  he,"howatown  in  Italy — Ithink  it  was  Bologna — 
was  once  taken  and  given  up  to  the  sword,  by  incautiously  ad- 
mitting a  wooden  horse,  full  of  the  troops  of  Barbarossa,  and  all 
manner  of  bombs  and  Congreve  rockets." 

"The  story  is  differently  told  in  Virgil,"  quoth  Riccabocca, 
peeping  out  of  the  window.  "  Nevertheless,  the  machine  looks 
very  large  and  suspicious  ;  unloose  Pompey." 

"  Father,"  said  Violante,  coloring,  "it  is,  your  friend  Lord 
L'Estrange  ;  I  hear  his  voice." 

"Are  you  sure  ?  " 

"  Quite.     How  can  I  be  mistaken  ?  " 

"  Go  then,  Giacomo  :  but  take  Pompey  with  thee — and  give 
the  alarm  if  we  are  deceived." 

But  Violante  was  right;  and  in  a  few  moments  Lord  L'Estrange 
was  seen  walking  up  the  garden,  and  givio'g  the  arm  to  two  lad?-s. 

"Ah,"  said  Riccabocca,  composing  his  dres§ing-robe  around 
him,  "go,  my  child,  and  summon  Jemima.  Man  to  man ;  but, 
for  Heaven's  sake,  woman  to  woman." 

Harley  had  brought  his  mother  and  Helen,  in  compliment  to 
the  ladies  of  his  friend's  household. 

.The  proud  Countess  knew  that  she  was  in  the  presence  of 
Adversity,  and  her  salute  to  Riccabocca  was  only  less  respectful 
than  that  by  which  she  would  have  rendered  homage  to  her 
sovereign.  But  Riccabocca,  always  gallant  to  the  sex  that  he 
pretended  to  despise,  was  not  to  be  outdone  in  ceremony  ;  and  the 
bow  which  replied  to  the  curtsey  would  have  edified  the  rising 
generation,  and  delighted  such  surviving  relics  of  the  old  Court 
breeding  as  may  linger  yet  amidst  the  gloomy  pomp  of  the  Fau- 
bourg St.  Germain.  These  dues  paid  to  etiquette,  the  Countess 
briefly  introduced  Helen  as  Miss  Digby,and  seated  herself  near 
the  exile.  In  a  few  moments  the  two  elder  personages  became 
quite  at  home  with  each  other  ;  and,  really,  perhaps  Riccabocca 
had  never,  since  we  have  known  him,  showed  to  such  advantage 
as  by  the  side  of  his  polished,  but  somewhat  formal  visitor.  Both 
had  lived  so  little  with  our  modern  ill-bred  age !  They  took 
out  their  manners  of  a  former  race,  with  a  sort  of  pride  in  air- 
ing once  more  such  fine  lace  and  superb  brocade.  Riccabocca 
gavetruce  to  the  shrewd  but  homely  wisdom  of  his  proverbs — per- 
haps he  remembered  that  Lord  Chesterfield  denounces  proverbf 


8.0  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

as  vulgar ; — and  gaunt  though  his  figure,  and  far  from  elegant 
though  his  dressing-robe,  there  was  that  about  him  which  spoke 
undeniably  of  the  grand  seigneur — of  one  to  whom  a  Marquis  de 
Dangeau  would  have  offered  zfauteuil  by  the  side  of  theRohans 
and  Montmorencies. 

Meanwhile  Helen  and  Harley  seated  themselves  a  little  apart, 
and  were  both  silent-^the  first,  from  timidity,  the  second  from 
abstraction.  At  length  the  door  opened,  and  Harley  suddenly 
sprang  to  his  feet — Violante  and  Jemima  entered.  Lady  Lans- 
mere's  eyes  first  rested  on  the  daughter,  and  she  could  scarcely 
refrain  from  an  exclamation  of  admiring  surprise  ;  but  then,  when 
she  caught  sight  of  Mrs.  Riccabocca's  somewhat  humble,  yet 
not  obsequious  mien — looking  a  little  shy,  a  little  homely,  yet 
still  thoroughly  a  gentlewoman  (though  of  your  plain  rural  kind 
of  that  genus) — she  turned  from  the  daughter,  and  with  the 
savoir  vivre  of  the  fine  old  school,  paid  her  first  respects  to  the 
wife ;  respects  literally,  for  her  manner  implied  respect, — but  it 
was  more  kind,  simple,  and  cordial  than  the  respect-  she  had 
shown  to  Riccabocca;— as  the  sage  himself  had  said,  here"it  was 
Woman  to  Woman."  And  then  she  took  Violante's  hand  in  both 
hers,  and  gazed  on  her  as  if  she  could  not  resist^the  pleasure  of 
contemplating  so  'much  beauty.  "  My  son,"  she  said,  softly,  and 
with  a  half-sigh — "  my  son  in  vain  told  me  not  to  be  surprised. 
This  is  the  first  time  I  have  ever  knownreality  exceeddescription !" 

Violante's  blush  here  made  her  still  more  beautiful ;  and  as  the 
Countess  returned  to  Riccabocca,  she  stole  gently  to  Helen's  side. 

"Miss  Digby,  my  ward,"  said  Harley,  pointedly,  observing 
that  his  mother  had  neglected  her  duty  of  presenting  Helen  to 
the  ladies.  He  then  reseated  himself,  and  conversed  with  Mrs; 
Riccabocca ;  but  his  bright  quick  eye  glanced  over  at  the  two 
girls.  They  were  about  the  same  age— and  youth  was  all  that, 
to  the  superficial  eye,  they  seemed  to  have  in  common.  A  greater 
contrast  could  not  well  be  conceived  ;  and,  what  is  more  strange, 
both  gained  by  it.  Violante's  brilliant  loveliness  seemed  yet  more 
dazzling,  and  Helen's  fair  gentle  face  yet  more  winning.  Neither 
had  mixed  much  with  girls  of  her  own  age  ;  each  took  to  the  other 
at  first  sight.  Violante,  as  the  less  shy,  began  the  conversation. 

"You  are  his  ward — Lord  L'Estrange's?" 

"Yes." 
•-"Perhaps  you  came  with  him  from  Italy?" 

''No,  not  exactly.     But  I  have  been  in  Italy  for  some  years.'1 

"Ah!  you  regret — nay,  I  am  foolish — you  return  to  your  na- 
tive land.  But  the  skies  in  Italy  are  so  blue — here  it  seems  as 
if  nature  wanted  colors." 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  8 1 

"  Lord  L'Estrange  says  that  you  were  very  young  when  you  left 
Italy;  you  remember  it  well.  He,  too,  prefers  Italy  to  England." 

4<  He!     Impossible! " 

"  Why  impossible,  fair  sceptic  ?  "  cried  Harley,  interrupting 
himself  in  the  midst  of  a  speech  to  Jemima. 

Violante  had  not  dreamed  that  she  could  be  overheard — she 
was  speaking  low;  but,  though  vividly  embarrassed,  she  answered 
distinctly — 

"  Because  in  England  there  is  the  noblest  career  for  noble 
minds." 

Harley  was  startled,  and  replied,  with  a  slight  sigh,  "At  your 
age  I  should  have  said  as  you  do.  But  this  England  of  ours  is 
so  crowded  with  noble  minds,  that  they  only  jostle  each  other, 
and  the  career  is  one  cloud  of  dust." 

"  So,  I  have  read,  seems  a  battle  to  the  common  soldier,  but 
not  to  the  chief." 

"  You  have  read  good  descriptions  of  tattles,  I  see." 

Mrs.  Riccabocca,  who  thought  this  remark  a  taunt  Upon  her 
step-daughter's  studies,  hastened  to  Violante's  relief. 

"  Her  papa  made  her  read  the  history  of  Italy,  and  that  I 
believe  is  full  of  battles." 

HARLEY. — All  history  is,  and  all  women  are  fond  of  war  and 
warriors.  I  wonder  why  ? 

VIOLANTE  (turning  to  Helen,  and  in  a  very  low  voice  resolved 
that  Harley  should  not  hear  this  time},— We  can  guess  why — 
can  we  not  ? 

HARLEY  (hearing  every  word,  as  if  it  had  been  spoken  in  St. 
Paul's  WhisperingGallery). — If  you  can  guess,  Helen,  pray  tell  me. 

HELEN  (shaking  her  pretty  head,  and  answering,  with  a  livelier 
smile  than  usual). — But  I  am  not  fond  of  war  and  warriors. 

HARLEY  (to  Violante). — Then  I  must  appeal  at  once  to  you, 
self-convicted  Bellona  that  you  are.  Is  it  from  the  cruelty 
natural  to  the  female  disposition  ? 

VIOLANTE  (with  a  sweet  musical  laugh). — From  two  propen- 
sities still  more  natural  to  it. 

HARLEY. — You  puzzle  me:  what  can  they  be  ? 

VIOLANTE. — Pity  and  admiration;  we  pity  the  weak  and  ad- 
mire the  brave. 

Harley  inclined  his  head  and  was  silent. 

Lady  Lansmere  had  suspended  her  conversation  with  Ricca- 
bocca to  listen  to  this  dialogue.  "Charming!"  she  cried.  "You 
have  explained  what  has  often  perplexed  me.  Ah,  Harley,  I  am 
glad  to  see  that  your  satire  is  foiled;  you  have  no  reply  to  that." 

"  No;  I  willingly  own  myself  defeated,  too  glad  to  claim  the 


8|  MV    NOVEL.  ;    OR, 

Signorina's  pity,  since  my  cavalry-sword  hangs  on  the  wall,  and 
I  can  no  longerhave  a  professional  pretenoe  to  heradmiration." 

He  then  rose,  and  glanced  toward  the  window.  "  But  I  see 
a  rn,ore  formidable  disputant  for  my  conqueror  to  encounter  is 
coming  into  the  field--one  whose  profession  it  is  to  substitute 
some  other  romance  for  that  of  camp  and  siege." 

"  Our  friend  Leonard,"  said  Riccabocca,  turning  his  eyes  also 
toward  the  window.  "True;  as  Quevedo  says  wittily,  'Ever 
since  there  has  been  so  great  a  demand  for  type,  there  has  been 
much  less  lead  to  spare  for  cannon-balls.'  " 

Here  Leonard  entered.  Hurley  had  sent 'Lady  Lansmere's 
footman  to  him  with  a  note,  that  prepared  him  to  meet  Helen. 
As  he  came  into  the  room,  Harley  took  him  by  the  hand  and  led 
him  to  Lady  Lansmere. 

"  The  friend  of  whom  I  spoke.  Welcome  him  novy  for  my 
sake,  ever  after  for  his  own";  and  then,  scarcely  allowing  time 
for  the  Countess's  elegant  and  gracious  response,  he  drew  Leon- 
ard toward  Helen.  "Children,"  said  he,  with  a  touching  voice, 
that  thrilled  through  the  hearts  of  both,  "go  and  seat  yourselves 
yonder,  and  talk  together  of  the  past.  Signorina,  I  invite  you 
to  renewed  discussion  upon  the  abstruse  metaphysical  subject 
you  have  started;  let  us  see  if  we  cannot  find  ge«tler  sources 
for  pity  and  admiration  than  war  and  warriors."  He  took  Vio- 
lante aside  to  the  window.  "  You  remember  that  Leonard,  in 
telling  you  his  history  last  night,  spoke,  you  thought,  rather  too 
briefly,  of  the  little  girl  who  had  been  his  companion  in  the 
rudest  time  of  his  trials.  When  you  would  have  questioned  more, 
I  interrupted  you,  and  said,  '  You  should  see  her  shortly,  and 
question  her  yourself.'  And  now  what  do  you  think  of  Hejen 
Digby?  Hush,  speak  low.  But  her  ears  are  not  so  sharp  as  mine." 

VioLANTE.—Ah  !  that  is  the  fair  creature  whom  Leonard 
called  his  child-angel  ?  What  a  lovely  innocent  face  ! — the  angel 
is  there  still. 

;  .HARLEY  (pleased  both  at  the  praise  and  with  her  w-ho  gave 
it). — You  think  so;  and  you  are  right.  Helen  is  not;  communi- 
cative. But  fine  natures  are  like  fine  poems,— a  glance  at  the 
first  two  lines  suffices  for  a  gues.s  into  the  beauty  that  waits 
you  if  you  read  on. 

Violante  gazed  on  Leonard  and  Helen,  as  they  sat  apart. 
Leonard  was  the  speaker,  Helen  the  listener;  arid  though  the 
former  had,  in  his  narrative  the  night  before,  been  indeed  brief 
as  to  the  episode  in  his  life  connected  with  the  orphan,  enough 
had  been  said  to  interest  Violante  in  the  pathos  of  their  former 
position  toward  each  other,  and  in  the  happiness  they  must  feel 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  83 

in  their  meeting  again — separated  for  years  on  the  wide  sea  of 
life,  now  both  saved  from  the  storm  and  shipwreck.  The  tears 
came  into  her  eyes.  "  True,"  she  said,  very  softly,  "  there  is 
more  here  to  move  pity  and  admiration  than  in — "  She  paused. 

HARLEY. — Complete  the  sentence.  Are  you  ashamed  to  re- 
tract? Fie  on  your  pride  and  obstinacy  ! 

VIOLANTE. — No;  but  even  here  there  have  been  war  and  hero- 
ism— the  war  of  genius  with  adversity,  and  heroism  in  the  com- 
forter who  shared  it  and  consoled.  Ah!  wherever  pity  and  admi- 
ration are  both  felt,  something  nobler  than  mere  sorrow  must 
have  gone  before;  the -heroic  must  exist. 

"  Helen  does  not  know  what  the  word  heroic  means,"  said 
Harley,  rather  sadly;  "you  must  teach  her." 

"Is  it  possible,"  thought  he,  as  he  spoke,  "that  a  Randal  Les- 
lie could  have  charmed  this  grand  creature?  No  'Heroic,' 
surely,  in  that  sleek  young  placeman."  "  Your  father,"  he  said 
aloud,  and  fixing  his  eyes  on  her  face,  "  sees  much,  he  tells  me, 
of  a  young  man  about  Leonard's  age,  as  to  date;  but  I  never 
estimate  the  age  of  men  by  the  parish  register;  and  I  should 
speak  of  that  so-called  young  man  as  a  contemporary  of  my  great- 
grandfather;— I  mean  Mr.  Randal  Leslie.  Do  you  like  him?" 

"Like  him?"  said  Violante,  slowly,  as  if  sounding  her  own 
mind: — "  Like  him  ? — yes." 

"  Why?"  asked  Harley,  with  dry  and  curt  indignation. 

"His  visits  seem  to  please  my  dear  father.  Certainly  I  like  him." 

"  Hum.     He  professes  to  like  you,  I  suppose  ?  " 

Violante  laughed  unsuspiciously.  She  had  half  a  mind  to 
reply, — "  Is  that  so  strange?  "  But  her  respect  for  Harley  stopped 
her.  The  words  would  have  seemed  to  her  pert. 

"  I  am  told  he  is  clever,"  resumed  Harley. 

"  Oh,  certainly." 

"And  he  is  rather  handsome.  But  I  like  Leonard's  face  belter." 

"  Better — that  is  not  the  word.  Leonard's  face  is  as  that  of 
one  who  has  gazed  so  often  upon  Heaven;  and  Mr.  Leslie's — 
there  is  neither  sunlight  nor  starlight  reflected  there." 

"  My  dear  Violante!"  exclaimed  Harley,  overjoyed;  and  he 
pressed  her  hand. 

The  blood  rushed  over  the  girl's  cheek  and  brow;  her  hand 
trembled  in  his.  But  Harley's  familiar  exclamation  might  have 
come  from  a  father's  lips. 

At  that  moment  Helen  softly  approached  them,  and  looking 
timidly  into  her  guardian's  face,  said,  "  Leonard's  mother  is 
with  him:  he  asks  me  to  call  and  see  her.  May  I  ?" 

"May  you!     A  pretty  notion  the  Signorina  must  form  of 


84  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

your  enslaved  state  of  pupilage,  when  she  hears  you  ask  that 
question.  Of  course  you  may." 

"  Will  yo.u  come  with  us  ?  " 

Harley  looked  embarrassed.  He  thought  of  the  widow's  agi- 
tation at  his  name;  of  that  desire  to  shun  him,  which  Leonard 
had  confessed,  and  of  which  he  thought  he  had  divined  the 
cause.  And  so  divining,  he,  too,  shrank  from  such  a  meeting. 

"Another  time,  then,"  said  he,  after  a  pause. 

Helen  looked  disappointed,  but  said  no  more. 

Violante  was  surprised  at  this  ungracious  answer.  She  would 
have  blamed  it  as  unfeeling  in  another.  But  all  that  Harley  did 
was  right  in  her  eyes. 

"Cannot  I  go  with  Miss  Digby  ?"  said  she;  "and  my  mother 
will  go  too.  We  both  know  Mrs.  Fairfield.  We  shall  be  so 
pleased  to  see  her  again." 

"So be  it,"  said  Harley;  "I  will  wait  here  with  your  father 
till  you  come  back.  Oh,  as  to  my  mother,  she  will  excuse  the — 
excuse  Madame  Riccabocca,  and  you  too.  See  how  charmed 
she  is  with  your  father.  I  must  stay  to  watch  over  the  conju- 
gal interests  o£  mine" 

But  Mrs.  Riccabocca  had  too  much  good  old  country  breeding 
to  leave  the  Countess;  and  Harley  was  forced  himself  to  appeal 
to  Lady  Lansmere.  When  he  had  explained  the  case  in  point, 
the  Countess  rose  and  said, — 

"  But  I  will  call  myself  with  Miss  Digby." 

"  No,"  said  Harley,  gravely,  but  in  a  whisper — "no — I  would 
rather  not.  I  will  explain  later." 

"  Then,"  said  the  Countess  aloud,  after  a  glance  of  surprise 
at  her  son,  "  I  must  insist  on  your  performing  this  visit,  my  dear 
madam,  and  you,  Signorina.  In  truth,  I  have  something  to  say 
confidentially  to — " 

"Tome!"  interrupted  Riccabocca,  "Ah,  Madame  la  Corri- 
tesse,  you  restore  me  to  five-and-twenty.  Go,  quick — O  jealous 
and  injured  wife;  go,  both  of  you — quick;  and  you  too,  Harley." 

"  Nay,"  said  Lady  Lansmere,  in  the  same  tone,  "  Harley  must 
stay,  for  my  design  is  not  at  present  upon  destroying  your  matri- 
monial happiness,  whatever  it  may  be  later.  It  is  a  design  so 
innocent,  that  my  son  will  be  a  partner  in  it." 

Here  the  Countess  put  her  lips  to  Harley's  ear,  and  whispered. 
He  received  her  communication  in  attentive  silence  ;  but  when 
she  had  done,  pressed  her  hand  and  bowed  his  head,  as  if  in 
assent  to  a  proposal. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  three  ladies  and  Leonard  were  on  their 
road  to  the  neighboring  cottage. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  85 

Violante,  with  her  usual  delicate  intuition,  thought  that  Leon- 
ard and  Helen  must  have  much  to  say  to  each  other ;  and 
(ignorant,  as  Leonard  himself  was,  of  Helen's  engagement  to 
Harley)  began  already,  in  the  romance  natural  to  her  age,  to  pre- 
dict for  them  happy  and  united  days  in  the  future.  So  she 
took  her  step-mother's  arm,  and  left  Helen  and  Leonard  to  follow. 

"  I  wonder,"  she  said,  musingly,  "how  Miss  Digby  became 
Lord  L'Estrange's  ward.  I  hope  she  is  not  very  rich,  nor  very 
high-born." 

"  La,  my  love,"  said  the  good  Jemima,  "that  is  not  like  you  ; 
you  are  not  envious  of  her,  poor  girl !  " 

"Envious!  Dear  mamma,  what  a  word!  But  don't  you 
think  Leonard  and  Miss  Digby  seem  born  for  each  other  ?  And 
then  the  recollections  of  their  childhood — the  thoughts  of  child- 
hood are  so  deep,  and  its  memories  so  strangely  soft !  "  The 
long  lashes  drooped  over  Violante's  musing  eyes  as  she  spoke. 
"And  therefore,"  she  said,  after  a  pause — "therefore  I  hoped 
that  Miss  Digby  might  not  be  very-  rich  nor  very  high-born." 

"  I  understand  you  now,  Violante,"  exclaimed  Jemima,  her 
own  early  passion  for  match-making  instantly  returning  to  her ; 
"  for  as  Leonard,  however  clever  and  distinguished,  is  still  the 
son  of  Mark  Fairfield,  the  carpenter,  it  would  spoil  all,  tf  -Miss 
Digby  was,  as  you  say,  rich  and  high-born.  I  agree  with  you-1 — a 
very  pretty  match — a  very  pretty  match,  indeed.  I  wish  dear  Mrs. 
Dale  were  here  now — she  is  so  clever  in  settling  such  matters." 

Meanwhile  Leonard  and  Helen  walked  side  by  side  a  few 
paces  in  the  rear.  He  had  not  offered  her  his  arm.  They  had 
been  silent  hitherto  since  they  left  Riccabocca's  house. 

Helen  now  spoke  first.  In  similar  cases  it  is  generally  the 
woman,  be  she  ever  so  timid,  who  does  speak  first.  And  here 
Helen  was  the  bolder;  for  Leonard  did  not  disguise  from  himself 
the  nature  of  his  feelings,  and  Helen  was  engaged  to  another; 
and  her  pure  heart  was  fortified  by  the  trust  reposed  in  it. 

"And  have  you  ever  heard  more  of  the  good  Dr.  Morgan, 
who  had  powders  against  sorrow,  and  who  meant  to  be  so  kind  to 
us — though,"  she  added,  coloring,  "we  did  not  think  so  then?' 

"  He  took  my  child-angel  from  me,"  said  Leonard,  with  vis- 
ible emotion;  "and  if  she  had  not  returned,  where  and  what 
should  I  be  now  ?  But  I  have  forgiven  him.  No,  I  have  never 
met  him  since." 

"And  that  terrible  Mr.  Burley?" 

"  Poor,  poor  Burley  !  He,  too,  is  vanished  out  of  my  present 
life.  I  have  made  many  inquiries  after  him;  all  I  can  hear  is 
that  he  went  abroad,  supposed  as  a  correspondent  to  some 


86  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

journal.  I  shall  like  so  much  to  see  him  again,  now  that  per- 
haps I  could  help  him  as  he  helped  me." 

"Helped  you— ah  !" 

Leonard  smiled  with  a  beating  heart,  as  he  saw  again  the  dear 
prudent,  warning  look,  and  involuntarily  drew  closer  to  Helen. 
She  seemed  more  restored  to  him  and  to  her  former  self. 

"  Helped  me  much  by  his  instructions;  more,  perhaps,  by  his 
very  faults.  You  cannot  guess,  Helen, — I  beg  pardon,  Miss 
Digby — but  I  forgot  that  we  are  no  longer  children :  you  cannot 
guess  how  much  we  men,  and  more  than  all  perhaps,  we  writers, 
whose  task  it  is  to  unravel  the  web  of  human  actions,  owe  even 
to  our  own  past  errors;  and  if  we  learned  nothing  by  the  errors 
of  others,  we  should  be  dull  indeed.  We  must  know  where  the 
roads  divide,  and  have  marked  where  they  lead  to,  before  we  can 
ereci:  our  sign-post;  and  books  are  the  sign-posts  in  human  life." 

"  Books !  and  I  have  not  yet  read  yours.  And  Lord  L' Estrange 
tells  me  you  are  famous  now.  Yet  you  remember  me  still — the 
poor  orphan  child,  whom  you  first  saw  weeping  at  her  father's 
grave,  and  with  whom  you  burdened  your  own  young  life,  over- 
burdened already.  No,  still  call  me  Helen — you  must  always1 
be  to  me — a  brother!  Lord  L'Estrafige  feels  that;  he  said  so 
to  me  when  he  told  me  that  we  were  to  meet  again.  He  is  so 
generous,  so  noble.  "  Brother  !  "  cried  Helen,  suddenly,  and 
extending  her  hand,  with  a  sweet  but  sublime  look  in  her  gentle 
face — -"brother,  we  will  never  forfeit  his  esteem;  we  will  both 
do  our  best  to  repay  him  !  Will  we  not  ? — say  so  !  " 

Leonard  felt  overpowered  by  contending  and  unanalyzed  emo- 
tions. Touched  almost  to  fears  by;the  affectionate  address — 
thrilled  by  the  hand  that  pressed  his  own — and  yet  with  a  vague 
fear,  a  consciousness  that  something  more  than  the  words  them- 
selves was  implied — something  that  checked  all  hope.  And  this 
word  "brother,"  once  so  precious  and  so  dear,  why  did  he  shrink 
from  it  now  ? — why  could  he  not  too  say  the  sweet  word  "sister"  ? 

"  She  is  above  me  now  and  evermore  !  "  he  thought  mourn- 
fully; and  the  tones  of  his  voice,  when  he  spoke  again,  were 
changed.  The  appeal  to  renewed  intimacy  but  made  him  more 
distant;  and  to  that  appeal  itself 'he  made  no  direct  answer;  for 
Mrs.  Riccabocca,  now  turning  round,  and  pointing  to  the  cottage 
which  came 'in  view,  with  its  picturesque  gable-ends,  cried  out — 

"  But  is  that  your  house,  Leonard  ?  I  never  saw  anything 
so  pretty." 

"  You  do  not  remember  it  then,"  said  Leonard  to  Helen,  in 
accents  of  melancholy  reproach — "there  where  I  saw  you  last ! 
I  doubted  whether  to  keep  it  exactly  as  it  was,  and  I  said, '  No! 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  87 

the  association  is  not  changed  because  we  try  to  surround  it  with 
whatever  beauty  we  can  create;  the  dearer  the  association,  the 
more  the  Beautiful  becomes  to  it  natural.'  Perhaps  you  don't 
understand  this — perhaps  it  is  only  we  poor  poets  who  do." 

"  I  understand  it,"  said  Helen,  gently.  She  looked  wistfully 
at  the  cottage. 

"  So  changed — I  have  so  often  pictured  it  to  myself — never, 
never  like  this ;  yet  I  loved  it,  commonplace  as  it  was  to  my 
recollection;  and  the  garret,  and  the  tree  in  the  carpenter's  yard." 

She  did  not  give  these  thoughts  utterance.  And  they  now 
entered  the  garden. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

MRS.  FAIRFIELD  was  a  proud  woman  when  she  received  Mrs. 
Riccabocca  and  Violante  in  her  grand  house;  for  a  grand  house 
to  her  was  that  cottage  to  which  her  boy  Lenny  had  brought 
her  home.  Proud,  indeed,  ever  was  Widow.  Fair  field;  but  she 
thought  then,  in  her  secret  heart,  that  if  ever  she  could  receive 
in  the  drawing-room  of  that  grand  house  the  great  Mrs.  Hazel- 
dean,  who  had  so  lectured  her  for  refusing  to  live  any  longer  .in  the 
humble  tenement  rented  of  the  Squire,  the  cup  of  human  bliss 
would  be  filled,  and  she  could  die  contentedly  of  the  pride  of 
it.  She  did  not  much  notice  Helen — her  Attention  was  too  ab- 
sorbed by  the  ladies -who  renewed  their  old  acquaintance  with 
her,  and  she  carried  them  all  over  the  house,  yea,  into  the  very 
kitchen;  and  so,  somehow  or  other,  there  was  a  short  time  when 
Helen  and  Leonard  found  themselves  alone.  It  was  in  the 
study.  Helen  had  unconsciously  seated  herself  in  Leonard's  own 
chair,  and  she  was  gazing  with  anxious  and  wistful  interest  on  the 
scattered  papers,  looking  so  disorderly  (though,  in  truth,  in  thatdis- 
order  there  was  method,  but  method  only  known  totheowner), 
and  at  the  venerable  well-worn  books,  in  all  languages  lying  on 
the  floor,  on  the  chairs — anywhere.  I  must  confess  that  Helen's 
first  tidy  woman-like  idea  was,a  great  desire  to  arrange  the  litter. 
"Poor  Leonard,"  she  thought  to  herself — "the  rest  of  ;the  house 
so  neat,  but  no  one  to  take  care  of  his  own  room  and  of  him  !  " 

As  if  he  divined  her  thought,  Leonard  smiled  and  said,  "  It 
would  be  a  cruel  kindness  to  the  spider,  if  the  gentlest  hand  in 
the  world  tried  to  set  its  cobweb  to-rights." 

HELEN.-; — You  were  not  quite  so  bad  in  the  .old  days. 

LEONARD. — -Yet  even  then,  you  were  obliged  to  take  care  of 
the  rqoney.  I  have  more  books  now,  and  more  money.  My 
present  housekeeper  lets,  me  take  care  of  the  books,  but  she  is 
less  indulgent  as  to  the  money. 


88  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

HELEN  (archly). — Are  you  as  absent  as  ever  ? 

LEONARD. — Much  more  so,  I  fear ;  the  habit  is  incorrigible. 
Miss  Digby — 

HELEN. — Not  Miss  Digby — sister,  if  'you  like. 

LEONARD  (evading  the  word  that  implied  so  forbidden  an 
affinity). — Helen,  will  you  grant  me  a  favor  ?  Your  eyes  and 
your  smile  say,  "yes."  Will  you  lay  aside,  for  one  minute, 
your  shawl  and  bonnet?  What!  can  you  be  surprised  that  I 
ask  it  ?  Can  you  not  understand  that  I  wish  for  one  minute  to 
think  that  you  are  at  home  again  under  this  roof  ? 

Helen  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  seemed  troubled ;  then  she 
raised  them,  with  a  soft  angelic  candor  in  their  dove-like  blue, 
and,  as  if  in  shelter  from  all  thoughts  of  more  warm  affection, 
again  murmured  "brother"  and  did  as  he  asked  her. 

So  there  she  sate,  amongst  the  dull  books,  by  his  table,  near 
the  open  window — her  fair  hair  parted  on  her  forehead — looking 
so  good,  so  calm,  so  happy  !  Leonard  wondered  at  his  own 
self-command.  His  heart  yearned  to  her  with  such  inexpress- 
ible love — his  lips  so  longed  to  murmur — "Ah,  as  now  so  could 
itbeforever!  Is  the  home  too  mean  ?"  Butthat  word  "brother" 
was  as  a  talisman  between  her  and  him. 

Yet  she  looked  so  at  home — perhaps  so  at  home  she  felt ! — 
more  certainly  than  she  had  yet  learned  to  do  in  that  stiff 
stately  house  in  which  &he  was  soon  to  have  a  daughter's 
rights.  Was  she  suddenly  made  aware  of  this,  that  she  so 
suddenly  arose,  and  with  a  look  of  alarm  and  distress  on  her 
face — 

'  But — we  are  keeping  Lady  Lansmere  too  long,"  she  said, 
falteringly.  "We  must  go  now,"  and  she  hastily  took  up  her 
shawl  and  bonnet. 

Just  then  Mrs.  Fairfield  entered  with  the  visitors,  and  began 
making  excuses  for  inattention  to  Miss  Digby,  whose  identity 
with  Leonard's  child-angel  she  had  not  yet  learned. 

Helen  received  these  apologies  with  her  usual  sweetness. 
"  Nay,"  she  said,  "  your  son  and  I  are  such  old  friends,  how 
could  you  stand  on  ceremony  with  me  ? "  ' 

"Old  friends!"  Mrs.  Fairfield  stared  'amazed,  and  then 
surveyed  the  fair  speaker  more  curiously  than  she  had  yet  done. 
"  Pretty  nice-spoken  thing,"  thought  the  widow  ;  "  as  nice-spoken 
as  Miss  Violante,  and  humbler-looking  like — though,  as  to  dress, 
I  never  see  anything  so  elegant  out  of  a  picter." 

Helen  now  appropriated  Mrs.  Riccabocca's  arm  ;  and,  after 
&  kind'  leave-taking  with  the  widow,  the  ladies  returned  toward 
Riccabocca's  house. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  89 

Mrs.  Fairfield,  however,  ran  after  them  with  Leonard's  hat 
and  gloves,  which  he  had  forgotten. 

"'Deed,  boy,"  she  said,  kindly,  yet  scoldingly,  "but  there'd  be 
no  more  fine  books,  if  the  Lord  had  not  fixed  your  head  on 
your  shoulders.  You  would  not  think  it,  marm,"  she  added  to 
Mrs.  Riccabocca,  "but  sin'  he's  left  you,  he's  not  the  cute  lad 
he  was  ;  very  helpless  at  times,  marm  ! " 

Helen  could  not  resist  turning  round,  and  looking  at  Leonard, 
with  a  sly  smile. 

The  widow  saw  the  smikj  and  catching  Leonard  by  the  arm, 
whispered,  "  But,  where  before  have  you  seen  that  pretty  young 
lady  ?  Old  friends  !  " 

"Ah,  mother,"said  Leonard,  sadly,  "it  is  a  long  tale;  you  have 
heard  the  beginning — who  can  guess  the  end  ?  "-^and  he  escaped. 
But  Helenstill  leantonthearm  of  Mrs.  Riccabocca,  and,  in  the  walk 
back,  it  seemed  to  Leonard  as  if  the  winter  had  re-settled  in  the  sky. 

Yet  he  was  by  the  side  of  Violante,  and  she  spoke  to  him  with 
such  praise  of  Helen  !  Alas  !  it  is  not  always  so  sweet  as  folks 
say,  to  hear  the  praises  of  one  we  love.  Sometimes  those  praises 
seem  to  ask  ironically,  "And  what  right  hast  thou  to  hope  because 
thou  lovest?  AM  love  for." 

CHAPTER  V. 

No  sooner  had  Lady  Lansmere  found  herself  alone  with  Ricca- 
bocca and  Harley,  than  she  laid  her  hand  on  the  exile's  arm, 
and,  addressing  him  by  a  title  she  had  not  before  given  him, 
and  from  which  he  appeared  to  shrink  nervously,  said-^-"  Harley, 
in  bringing  me  to  visit  you,; was  forced  to  reveal  to  me  your 
incognito,  for  I  should  have  discovered  it.  You  may  not  reuvem- 
ber  me,  in  spite  of  your  gallantry.  But  I  mixed  more  in  the 
world  than  I  do  now,  during  your  first  visit  to  England,  and  once 
sate  next  to  you  at  dinner  at  Carlton  House.  Nay,  no  compli- 
ments, but  listen  to  me.  Harley  tells  me  you  have  cause  for  some 
alarm  respecting  the  designs  of  an  audacious  and  unprincipled 
adventurer,  I  may  call  him;  for  adventurers  are  of  all  ranks.  Suf- 
fer your  daughter  to  come  to  me,  on  a  visit,  as  long  as  you  please. 
With  me,  at  least,  she  will  be  safe  ;  and  if  you  too,  and  the — " 

"Stop,  my  dear  madam,"  interrupted  Riccabocca,  with  great 
vivacity,  "your  kindness  overpowers  me.  I  thank  you  most 
gratefully  for  your  invitation  to  my  child  ;  but — " 

"  Nay,"  in  his  turn  interrupted  Harley,  "no  buts.  I  was  not 
aware  of  my  mother's  intention  when  she  entered  this  room. 
Bm  since  she  whispered  it  to  me,  I  have  reflected  on  it,  and  am 
convinced  that  it  is  but  a  prudent  precaution.  Your  retreat  is 


90  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

known  to  Mr.  Leslie — he  is  known  to  Peschiera.  .Grant  that 
no  indiscretion  of  Mr.  Leslie's  betrays  the  secret ;  still  I  have 
reason  to  believe  that  the  Count  guesses  Randal's  acquaintance 
with  you.  Audley  Egerton  this  morning  told  me  he  had  gath- 
ered that,  not  from  the  young  man  himself,  but  from  questions 
put  to  himself  by  Madame  di  Negra  ;  and  Peschiera  might,  and 
would,  set  spies  to  track  Leslie  to  every  house  that  he  visits — 
might  and  would,  still  more  naturally,  set  spies  to  track  myself. 
Were  this  man  an  Englishman,  I  should  laugh  at  his  machina- 
tions .;  but  lie  is  an  Italian,  and  has  been  a  conspirator.  What  he 
could  do  I  know  not ;  but  an  assassin  can  penetrate  into  a  camp, 
and  a  traitor  can  creep  through  closed  walls  to  one's  hearth.  With 
my  mother,  Violante  must  be  safe  ;  that  you  cannot  oppose. 
And  why  not  conic  yourself?" 

Riccabocca  had  no  reply  to  these  arguments,  so  far  as  they 
affected  Violante ;  indeed,  they  awakened  the  almost  supersti- 
tious terror  with  which  he  regarded  his  enemy,  and  he  consented 
at  once  that  Violante  should  accept  the  invitation  iproffered. 
But  'hje  refused  it  for  himself  and  Jemima. 

"  To  say  truth,"  said  he,  simply,  "  I  made  a  secret,  vow,  on 
re-entering  England,  that  I  would  associate  Avith  none  who  knew 
the  rank  I  had  formerly  held  in  my  own  land.  I  felt  that  all  my 
philosophy  was  needed  to  reconcile  and  habituate  myself  to  my 
altered  circumstances.  In  order  to  find  in  my  present  existence, 
however  humble,  those  blessings  which  make  all  life  noble — 
dignity  and  peace — it  was  necessary  for  poor  weak  human  nature 
wholly  to  dismiss  the  past  .  It  would  unsettle  me  sadly,  could  I 
come  to  your  house,  renew  awhile,  in  your  kindness  and  respect — 
nay,  in  the  very  atmosphere  of  your  society — the  sense  of  what 
I  ihave  been  ;  and  then  (should  the  more  than  doubtful  chance 
of  recall  from  my  exile  fail  me)  to  awake,  and  find  myself  for 
the  rest  of  life  what  I  am.  And  though,  were  I  alone,  I  might 
trust  myself  perhaps  to  the  danger — yet  my  wife ;  she  is  happy 
and  contented  now;  would  she  be  so  if  you  had  once  spoiled 
her,  for  the  simple  position  of  Dr.  Riccabocca's  wife  ?  Should  I 
not  have. to  listen  to  regrets,  and  hopes,  and  fears,  that  would  prick 
sharpthrough  my  thin  cloak  of  philosophy?  Even  as  it  is,  since  in  a 
tnomentof  weakness  I  confided  my  secret  to  her:,  I  have  had 'my 
rank '  thrown  at  me — with  a  careless  hand,  it  is  true — but  it  hits 
hard  nevertheless.  No  stone  hurts  like  one  taken  from  the  ruins 
of  one's  own  home;  and  the  grander  the  home,  why,  the  -heavier 
.  the  stone !  Protect,  dear  madame — protect  my  daughter,  since 
,her  father  doubts  his  own  power  to  :x3<J  so.  But — ask  no  more." 

Riccabocca  was  immovable  here.     And  the  matter  was  settled 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  91 

as  he  decided,  it  being  agreed  that  Violante  should  be  still  styled 
but  the  daughter  of  Dr.  Riccabocca. 

"And  now,  one  word  more,"  said  Harley.  "  Do  not  confide 
to  Mr.  Leslie  these  arrangements  ;  do  not  let  him  know  where 
Violante  is  placed — at  least,  until  I  authorize  such  confidence 
in  him.  It  is  sufficient  excuse,  that  it  is  no  use  to  know  unless 
he  called  to  see  her,  and  his  movements,  as  I  said  before,  may 
be  watched.  You  can  give  the  same  reason  to  suspend  his 
visits  to  yourself.  Suffer  me,  meanwhile,  to  mature  my  judgment 
on  this  young  man.  In  the  meanwhile,  also,  I  think  that  I  shall 
have  means  of  ascertaining  the  real  nature  of  Peschiera's  schemes. 
His  sister  has  sought  to  know  me  ;  I  will  give  her  the  occasion. 
I  have  heard  some  things  of  her  in  my  last  residence  abroad, 
which  make  me  believe  that  she  cannot  be  wholly  the  Count's 
tool  in  any  schemes  nakedly  villanous ;  that  she  has  some  finer 
qualities  in  her  than  I  once  supposed  ;  and  that  she  can  be  won 
from  his  influence.  It  is  a  state  of  war ;  we  will  carry  it  into 
the  enemy's  camp.  You  will  promise  me,  then,  to  refrain  from 
all  further  confidence  in  Mr.  Leslie  ? " 

"For  the  present,  yes,"  said  Riccabocca,  reluctantly. 

"  Do  not  even  say  that  you  have  seen  me,  unless  he  first  tell 
you  that  I  am  in  England,  and  wish  to  learn  your  residence.  I 
will  give  him  full  occasion  to  do  so.  Pish  !  don't  hesitate  ;  you 
know  your  own  proverb — 

'  Boccha  chiusa,  ed  occhio  aperto 
Non  fece  mai  nissun  deserto.' 

'  The  close  mouth  and  the  Open  eye,'  etc." 

"That's  very  true,"  said  the  Doctor,  much  struck— "very  true. 
' In  boccha  chiusa  non  c1  entrant)  mosche — one  can't  swallow  flies 
if  one  keeps  onejs  mouth  shut.  Corpo  di  Bacco!  that's  very  true 
indeed." 
' 

CHAPTER  VI. 

VIOLANTE  and  Jemima  were  both  greatly  surprised,  as  the 
reader  may  suppose,  when  they  heard,  ort  their  return,  the  arrange- 
ments already  made  for  the  former.  The  Countess  insisted  on 
taking  her  at  once,  and  Riccabocca  briefly  said,  "Certainly, the 
sooner  the  better."  Violante  was  stunned  and  bewildered. 
Jemima  hastened  to  make  up  a  little  bundle  of  things  necessary, 
with  many  a  woman's  sigh  that  the  poor  wardrobe  contained  so 
few  things  befitting.  But  among  the  clothes  she  slipped  a  purse, 
containing  the  savings  of  months,  perhaps  of  years,  and  with  it  a 
few  affectionate  lines,  begging  Violante  to  ask  the  Countess  to  buy 
her  all  that  was  proper  for  her  father's  child.  There  is  always 


92  MY    NOVEL ;    OR 

something  hurried  and  uncomfortable  in  the  abrupt  and  unex- 
pected withdrawal  of  any  member  from  a  quiet  household.  The 
small  party  broke  into  still  smaller  knots.  Violante  hung  on  her 
father,  and  listened  vaguely  to  his  not  very  lucid  explanations. 
The  Countess  approached  Leonard,  arid,  according  to  the  usual 
mode  with  persons  of  quality  addressing  young  authors,  compli- 
mented him  highly  on  the  books  she  had  not  read,  but  which  her 
son  assured  her  were  so  remarkable.  She  was  a  little  anxious  to 
know  where  Harley  had  first  met  with  Mr.  Oran,  whom  he  called 
his  friend  ;  but  she  was  too  high-bred  to  inquires  to  express 
any  wonder  that  rank  should  be  friends  with  .genius.  She  took 
it  for  granted  that  they  had  formed  their  acquaintance  abroad. 

Harley  conversed  with  Helen. — "  You  are  not  sorry  that 
Violante  is  coming  to- us?  She  will  be  just  such  a  companion 
for  you  as  I  could  desire ;  of  your  o\vn  years  too." 

HELEN  (ingenuously). — It  is  hard  to  think. I  am  not  younger 
than  she  is. 

HARLEY. — Why,  my  dear  Helen  ? 

HELEN. — She  is  so  brilliant.  She  tal-ks  so  beautifully.  And  I — 

HARLEY. — And  you  want  but  the  habit  of  talking,  to  do  justice 
to  your  own  beautiful  thoughts. 

Helen  looked  at  him  gratefully,  but  shook  her  head -i  it  was  a 
common  trick  of  hers,  and  always  when  she  was  praised. 

At  last  the  preparations  were  made — the  farewell  was  said. 
Violante  was  in  the  carriage  by  Lady  Lansmere's  side.  Slowly 
moved  on  the  stately  equipage  with  its  four  horses  and  trim 
postilions,  heraldic  badges  on  their  shoulders,  in  the  style  rarely 
seen  in  the  neighborhood  of  the.  metropolis,;and  no,w  fasH  vanish- 
ing even  amidst  distant  counties.' 

.jRiccabocca,  Jemima,  and  Jackeymo,  continued  to  gaze  after 
it  from  the  gate. 

"She  is  gone,"  said  Jackeymo,  brushing  his  eyes  with  his  coat- 
sleeve.  "But  it  is  a  Idad  off  one's  mind." 

"And  another  load  on  one's  heart,"  murmured  Riccabocca. 
"  Don't  cry,  Jemima  ;  it  may  be,  bad  for  you,  and  bad  for  him 
that  is  to  come.  It  is  astonishing  how  the  humors  of  the  mother 
may  affect  the  unborn.  I  should  not  like  to  have  a  son  who  has 
a  more  than  usual  propensity  to  tears." 

The  poor  philosopher  tried  to  smile;  but  it  was  a  bad  attempt. 
He  went  slowly  in,  and  shut  himself  with  his  books.  But  he 
could  not  read.  His  whole  mind  was  unsettled.  And  though, 
like  all  parents,  he  had  been  anxious  to  rid  himself  of  a  beloved 
daughterfor  life,  now  that  she  was  gone  but  for  awhile,  a  string 
accrued  broken  in  the  Music  of  Home. 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  93 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  evening  of  the  same  day,  as  Egerton,  who  was  to  entertain 
a  large  party  at  dinner,  was  changing  his  dress,  Harley  walked 
into  his  room. 

Egerton  dismissed  his  valet  by  a  sign,  and  continued  his  toilet. 

"  Excuse  me,  my  dear  Harley,  I  have  only  ten  minutes  to  givt 
you.  I  expect  one  of  the  royal  dukes,  and  punctuality  is  the  stern 
virtue  of  men  of  business,  and  the  graceful  courtesy  of  princes." 

Harley  had  usually  a  jest  for  his  friend's  aphorisms ;  but  he 
had  none  now.  He  laid  his  hand  kindly  on  Egerton's  shoulder — 
"Before  I  speak  of  my  business,  tell  me  how  you  are — better?" 

"Better — nay,  I  am  always  well.  Pooh  !  I  may  look  a  little 
tired — years  of  toil  will  tell  on  the  countenance.  But  that  matters 
little  ;  the  period  of  life  has  passed  with  me  when  one  cares  how 
one  looks  in  the  glass."  - 

As  he  spoke,  Egerton  completed  his  dress,  and  came  to  the 
hearth,  standing  there,  erect  and  dignified  as  usual,  still  far 
handsomer  than  many  a  younger  man,  and  with  a  form  that 
seemed  to  have  ample  vigor  to  support  for  many  a  year  the  sad 
and  glorious  burthen  of  power. 

"'So  now  to  your  business,  Harley." 

"In  the  first  place,  I  wantjyou  to  present  me,  at  the  earliest  oppor- 
tunity, to  \Madame  di  Negra.  You  say  she  wished  to  know  me." 

"  Are  you  serious  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  then,  she  receives  this  evening.  I  did  not  mean  to  go; 
but  when  my  party  breaks  up — " 

"  You  can  call  for  ine  at  c  The  Travellers.'  Do  !  Next—you 
knew  Lady  Jane  Horton  better  even  than  I  did;  at  least  in  the 
last  year  of  her  life."  Harley  sighed,  and  Egerton  tamed  and 
stirred  the  fire.  "  Pray,  did  you  ever  see  at  her  house,  or  hear 
her  speak  of,  a  Mrs.  Bertram  ?  " 

"Of  whom  ?"  said  Egerton,  in  a  hollow  voice,  his  face  still 
turned  toward  the  fire. 

"  A  Mrs.  Bertram;  but  Heavens!  my  dear  fellow,  what  is  the 
matter?  Are  you  ill?  " 

"  A  spasm  at  the  heart,  that  is  all— don't  ring — I  shall  be 
better  presently — gcr  on  talking.  Mrs. why  do  you  ask?" 

"  Why?  I  haye  hardly  time  to  explain  ;  but  I  am,  as  I  told 
you,  resolved  on  righting  my  old  Italian  friend,  if  Heaven  will 
help  me,  as  it  ever  does  help  the  just  when  they  bestir  them- 
selves; and  this  Mrs.  Bertram  is  mixed  up  in  my  friend's  "affairs." 


94  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  His  !    How  is  that  possible  ? " 

Harley  rapidly  and  succinctly  explained.  Audley  listened 
attentively,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor,  and  still  seem  ing  to 
labor  under  great  difficulty  of  breathing. 

At  last  he  answered,  "  I  remember  something  of  this  Mrs. — 
Mrs. — Bertram.  But  your  inquiries  after  her  would  be  useless. 
I  think  I  have  heard  that  she  is  long  since  dead  ;  nay,  I  am 
sure  of  it." 

"  Dead  ? — that  is  most  unfortunate.  But  do  you  know  any  of 
her  relations  or  friends?  Can  you  suggest  any  mode  of  tracing 
this  packet,  if  it  came  to  her  hands  ?  " 

"No." 

"  And  Lady  Jane  had  scarcely  any  friend  that  I  remember, 
except  my  mother,  and  she  knows  nothing  of  this  Mrs.  Bertram. 
How  unlucky !  I  think  I  shall  advertise.  Yet,  no.  I  could  only 
distinguish  this  Mrs.  Bertram  from  any  other  of  the  same  name, 
by  stating  with  whom  she  had  gone  abroad,  and  that  would 
catch  the  attention  of  Peschiera,  and  set  him  to  counterwork  us." 

"And  what  avails  it?"  said  Egerton.  "She  whom  you  seek  is 
no  more— no  more  ! "  He  paused,  and  went  on  rapidly—"  The 
packet  did  not  arrive  in  England  till  years  after  her  death — was 
no  doubt  returned  to  the  post-office — as  destroyed  long  ago." 

Harley  looked  very  much  disappointed.  Egerton  went  on  in 
a  sort  of  set  mechanical  voice,  as  if  not  thinking  of  what  he  said, 
butispeaking  from  the  dry  practical  mode  of  reasoning  which 
was  habitual  to  him,  and  by  which  themaa  of  the  world  destroys 
the  hopes  of  an  enthusiast.  Then  starting  up  at  'the 'sound  of 
the  first  thundering  knock  at  the  street-door,  he  said,  "Hark  ! 
you  must  excuse  me." 

<.T     1  J  A          J1  T»        I.'      T         '  •  1  A 

I  leave  you,  my  dear  Audley.  But  I  must  again  ask— Are 
you  better  now  ? "  ;  (i^  !t.jvp 

"  Much,  much — quite  well.  I  will  call  for  you— probably 
between,  eleven  and,  twelve." 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

IF  any  one  could  be  more  surprised  at  seeing  Lord  L'Estrange 
at  the  house  of  Madame  di  Negra;,that  evening  than  the  fair 
hostess  herself,  it  was  Randal  Leslie.  Something  instinctively 
told  him  that  this  visit  threatened  interference  with  whatever 
might  be  his  ultimate  projects  in  regard  to  Riccabocca  and 
Violante.  But  Randal  Leslie  was  not  one  of  those  who  shrink 
from  an  intellectual  combat.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  too  confi- 
dent of  his  powers  of  intrigue,  not  t,o  take  a  delight  in  tlieir  exer- 
cise. He  could  not  conceive  that  the  indolent  Harley  could  be 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  95 

a  match  for  his  own  restless  activity  and  dogged  perseverance. 
But  in  a  very  few  moments  fear  crept  on  him.  No  man  of  his 
day  could  produce  a  more  brilliant  effect  than  Lord  L'Estrange, 
when  he  deigned  to  desire  it.  Without  much  pretence  to  that 
personal  beauty  which  strikes  at  first  sight,  he  still  retained  all 
the  charm  of  countenance,  and  all  the  grace  of  manner,  which 
had  made  him  in  boyhood  the  spoiled  darling  of  Society. 
Madame  di  Negra  had  collected  but  a  small  circle  round  her, 
still  it  was  of  the  Slite  of  the  great  world ;  not,  indeed,  those 
more  precise  and  reserved  dames  de  chdteau,  whom  the  lighter 
and  easier  of  the  fair  dispensers  of  fashion  ridicule  as  prudes; 
but,  nevertheless,  ladies  were  there,  as  unblemished  in  reputation 
as  high  in  rank  ;  flirts  and  coquettes,  perhaps — nothing  more  ; 
in  short,  "charming  women  " — the  gay  butterflies  that  hover 
over  the  stiff  parterre.  And  there  were  ambassadors  and  min- 
isters, and  wits  and  brilliant  debaters,  and  first-rate  dandies 
(dandies,  when  first-rate,  are  generally  very  agreeable  men). 
Amongst  all  these  various  persons,  Harley,  so  long  a  stranger  to 
the  London  world,  seemed  to  make  himself  at  home  with  the 
ease  of  an  Alcibiades.  Many  of  the  less  juvenile  ladies  remem- 
bered him,  and  rushed  to  claim  his  acquaintance,  with  nods,  and 
becks,  and  wreathed  smiles.  He  had  a  ready  compliment  for 
each.  And  few  indeed  were  there,  men  or  women,  for  whom 
Harley  L'Estrange  had  not  appropriate  attraction.  Distin- 
guished reputation  as  soldier  and  scholar  for  the  grave  ;  whim 
and  pleasantry  for  the  gay  ;  novelty  for  the  sated  ;  and  for  the 
more  vulgar  natures  was  he  not  Lord  L'Estrange,  unmarried, 
possessed  already  of  a  large  independence,  and  heir  to  an  an- 
cient  earldom,  and  some  fifty  thousands  a- year? 

Not  till  he  had  succeeded  in  the  general  effect — which,  it  must 
be  owned,  he  did  his  best  to  create — did  Harley  seriously  and 
especially  devote  himself  to  his  hostess.  And  then  he  seated 
himself  by  her  side  ;  and,  as  if  in  compliment  to  both,  less 
pressing  admirers  insensibly  slipped  away  and  edged  off. 

Frank  Hazeldean  was  the  last  to  quit  his  ground  behind 
Madame  di  Negra's  chair;  but  when  he  found  that  the  two  began 
to  talk  in  Italian,  and  he  could  not  understand  a  word  they  said, 
he  too — fancying,  poor  fellow,  that  he  looked  foolish,  and  cursing 
his  Eton  education  that  had  neglected,  for  languages  spoken  by 
the  dead,  of  which  he  had  learned  little,  those  still  in  use  among 
the  living,  of  which  he  had  learned  naught — retreated  toward 
Randal,  and  asked  wistfully,  "  Pray,  what  age  should  you  say 
L'Estrange  was  ?  He  must  be  devilish  old,  in  spite  of  his  looks. 
Why,  he  was  at  Waterloo  !  " 


$6  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"He  is  young  enough  to  be  a  terrible  rival,"  answered  Ran- 
dal, with  artful  truth. 

Frank  turned  pale,  and  began  to  meditate  dreadful  blood- 
thirsty thoughts,of  which  hair-triggers  and  Lord's  cricket-ground 
formed  the  staple. 

Certainly  there  was  apparent  ground  for  a  lover's  jealousy,  for 
Harley  and  Beatrice  now  conversed  in  a  low  tone,  and  Beatrice 
seemed  agitated,  and  Harley  earnest.  Randal  himself  grew  more 
and  more  perplexed.  Was  Lord  L'Estrange  really  enamoured 
of  theMarchesa?  If  so,  farewell  to  all  hopes  of  Frank's  marriage 
with  her !  Or  was  he  merely  playing  a  part. in  Riccabocca's  in- 
terest; pretending  to  be  the  lover,  in  order  to  obtain  an  influence 
over  her  mind,  rule  her  through  her  ambition,  and  secure  anally 
against  her  brother  ?  Was  this  finesse  compatible  with  Randal's 
notions  of  Harley's  character?  Was  it  consistent  with  that 
chivalric  and  soldierly  spirit  of  honor  which  the  frank  nobleman 
affected,  to  make  love  to  a  woman  in  mere  ruse  de  guerre? 
Could  mere  friendship  for  Riccabocca  be  a  sufficient  induce- 
ment to  a  man,  who,  whatever  his  weakness  or  his  errors,  seemed 
to  wear  on  his  very  forehead  a  soul  above  deceit,  to  stoop  to 
paltry  means,  even  for  a  worthy  end?  At  this  question  a  new 
thought  flashed  upon  Randal — might. not  Lord  L'Estrange  have 
speculated  himself  upon  winning  Violante?— would  not  that  ac- 
count for  all  the  exertions  he  had  made  on  behalf  of  her  inheri- 
tance at  the  court  of  Vienna — exertions  of  which  Peschiera  and 
Beatrice  had  both  complained?  Those,  objections  which  the 
Austrian  government  might  take  to  Violante's  marriage  with  some 
obscure  Englishman  would  probably  not  exist  against  a  manlike 
Harley  L'Estrange,  whose  family  not  only  belonged  to  the  high- 
est aristocracy  of  England,  but  had  always  supported  opinions  in 
vogue  amongst  the  leading  governments  of  Europe,  Harley  him- 
self, it  is  true,;had  never  taken  part  in  politics,  but  his  notions  were, 
no  doubt,  those  of  a  high-born  soldier,  who  had  fought,  in  alliance 
with|Austria,fortherestorationof  theBourbons.  And  this  immense 
wealth-^which  Violante  might  lose,  if  shemarried  one  like  Randal 
himself — her  marriage  with  the  heir  of  the  Lansmeres  might  actu- 
ally tend  only  to  secure.  Could  Harley,  with  all  his  own  expecta- 
tions,be  indifferent  to  such  a  prize?  And  no  doubt  he  had  learned 
Violante's  rare  beauty  in  his  correspondence  with  Rjccabocca. 

Thus  considered,  it  seemed  natural  to  Randal's  estimate  of 
human  nature,  that  Harley's  more  prudish  scruples  of  honor,  as 
regards  what  is  due  to  women,  could  not  resist  a  temptation  so 
strong.  Mere  friendship  was.  .not  a  motive  powerful  enough  to 
shake  them,  but  ambition  was. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  97 

While  Randal  was  thus  cogitating,  Frank  thus  suffering,  and 
many  a  whisper,  in  comment  on  the  evident  flirtation  between  the 
beautiful  hostess  and  the  accomplished  guest,  reached  the  ears 
both  of  the  brooding  schemer  and  the  jealous  lover,  the  conver- 
sation between  the  two  objects  of  remark  and  gossip  .had  taken 
a  new  turn.  Indeed,  Beatrice  had  made  an  effort  to  change  it. 

"It  is  long,  my  lord, "said  she,  still  speaking  Italian, "  since  I 
have  heard  sentiments  like  those  you  address  to  me;  and  if  I  do 
not  feel  myself  wholly  unworthy  of  them,  it  is  from  the  pleasure 
I  have  felt  in  reading  sentiments  equally  foreign  to  the  language 
of  the  world  in  which  I  live."  She  took  a  book  from  the  table 
as  she  spoke:  "  Have  you  seen  this  work  ?" 

Harley  glanced  at  the  title-page.  "  To  be  sure  I  have,  and  I 
know  the  author." 

"  I  envy  you  that  honor.  I  should  so  like  also  to  know  one 
who  has  discovered  to  me  deeps  in  my  own  heart  which  I  had 
never  explored." 

"  Charming  Marchesa,  if  the  book  has  done  this, believe  me  that 
I  have  paid  you  no  small  compliment — formed  no  over-flatter- 
ing estimate  of  your  nature  ;  for  the  charm  of  the  work  is  but 
in  its  simple  appeal  to  good  and  generous  emotions,  and  it  can 
charm  none  in  whom  those  emotions  exist  not ! " 

"  Nay,  that  cannot  be  true,  or  why  is  it  so  popular  ?  " 

"Because  good  and  generous  emotions  are  more  common  to 
the  human  heart  than  we  are  aware  of  till  the  appeal  comes." 

"  Don't  ask  me  to  think  that!  I  have  found  the  world  so  base." 

"  Pardon  me  a  rude  question  ;  but  what  do  you  know  of  the 
world  ?" 

Beatrice  looked  first  in  surprise  at  Harley,  then  glanced 
round  the  room  with  significant  irony. 

"  As  I  thought;  you  call  this  little  room*  the  world!'  Be  it  so.  I 
will  venture  to  say,  that  if  the  people  in  this  room  were  suddenly 
converted  into  an  audience  before  a  stage,  and  you  were  as  con- 
summate in  the  actor's  art  as  you  are  in  all  others  that  please 
and  command — " 

"Well?" 

"  And  were  to  deliver  a  speech  full  of  sordid  and  base  sen- 
timents, you  would  be  hissed.  But  let  any  other  woman,  with 
half  your  powers,  arise  and  utter  sentiments  sweet  and  womanly, 
or  honest  and  lofty — and  applause  would  flow  from  every  lip,  and 
tears  rush  to  many  a  worldly  eye.  The  true  proof  of  the  inher- 
ent nobleness  of  our  common  nature  is  in  the  sympathy  it  betrays 
with  what  is  noble  wherever  crowds  are  collected.  Never  believe 
the  world  is  base  ;  if  it  were  so,  no  society  could  hold  together 


98  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

for  a  day.     But  you  would  know  the  author  of  this  book  ?     I 
will  bring  him  to  you." 

"Do." 

''And  now,"  said  Harley,  rising,  and  with  his  candid,  win- 
ning smile,  "  do  you  think  we  shall  ever  be  friends  ?  " 

"You  have  startled  me  so,  that  I  can  scarcely  answer.  But 
why  would  you  be  friends  with  me  ? " 

"  Because  you  need  a  friend.     You  have  none  !  " 

"Strange  flatterer  !  "  said  Beatrice,  smiling,  though  very 
sadly  ;  and  looking  up,  her  eyes  caught  Randal's. 

"  Pooh,"  said  Harley,  "  you  are  too  penetrating  to  believe  that 
you  inspire  friendship  there.  Ah,  do  you  suppose  that,  all  the 
while  I  have  been  conversing  with  you,  I  have  not  noticed  the 
watchful  gaze  of  Mr.  Randal  Leslie  ?  What  tie  can  possibly 
connect  you  together,  I  know  not  yet;  but  I  soon  shall." 

"  Indeed,  you  talk  like  one  of  the  old  Council  of  Venice.  You. 
try  hard  to  make  me  fear  you,"  said  Beatrice,  seeking  to  escape 
from  the  graver  kind  of  impression  Harley  had  made  on  her  by 
the  affectation  partly  of  coquetry,  partly  of  levity. 

"And  I,"  said  L'Estrange,  calmly,  "tell  you  already,  that  I 
fear  you  no  more."  He  bowed  and  passed  through  the  crowd  to 
rejoin  Audley,  who  was  seated  in  a  corner  whispering  with  some 
of  his  political  colleagues.  Before  Harley  reached  the  minister, 
lie  found  himself  close  to  Randal  and  young  Hazeldean. 

He  bowed  to  the  first,  and  extended  his  hand  to  the  last.  Ran- 
dal felt  the  distinction,  and  his  sullen,  bitter  pride  was  deeply 
galled — a  feeling  of  hate  toward  Harley  passed  into  his  mind. 
He  was  pleased  to  see  the  cold  hesitation  with  which  Frank  just 
touched  the  hand  offered  to  him.  But  Randal  had  not  been  the 
only  person  whose  watch  upon  Beatrice  the  keen-eyed  Harley  had 
noticed.  Harley  had  seen  the  angry  looks  of  Frank  Hazeldean, 
and  divined  the  cause.  So  he  smiled  forgivingly  at  the  slight 
he  had  received. 

"  You  are  like  me,  Mr.  Hazeldean/'saidhe.  "  You  think  some- 
thing of  the  heart  should  go  with  all  courtesy  that  bespeaks 
friendship — 

1  The  hand  of  Douglas  is  his  own.'  " 

Here  Harley  drew  aside  Randal.  "  Mr.  Leslie,  a  word  with  you. 
If  I  wished  to  know  the  retreat  of  Dr.  Riccabocca,  in  order  to 
render  him  a  great  service,  would  you  confide  to  me  that  secret  ? " 

"  That  woman  has  let  out  her  suspicions  that  I  know  the  ex- 
ile's retreat,"  thought  Randal;  and  with  quick  presence  of  mind, 
he  replied  at  once — 

"  My  Lord,  yonder  stands  a  connection  of  Dr.  Riccabocca's. 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  99 

Mr.  Hazeldean  is  surely  the  person  to  whom  you  should  ad- 
dress this  inquiry." 

"Not  so,  Mr.  Leslie;  for  I  suspect  that  he  cannot  answer  it,  and 
that  you  can.  Well,  I  will  ask  something  that  it  seems  to  me  you 
may  grant  without  hesitation.  Should  you  see  Dr.  Riccabocca, 
tell  him  that  I  am  in  England,  and  so  leave  it  to  him  to  commu- 
nicate with  me  or  not;  but  perhaps  you  have  already  done  so?" 

"Lord  L'Estrange,"  said  Randal,  bowing  low,with  pointed  for- 
mality, "  excuse  me  if  I  decline  either  to  disclaim  or  acquiesce  in 
the  knowledge  you  impute  to  me.  If  I  am  acquainted  with  any  se- 
cret intrusted  to  me  by  Dr.  Riccabocca,  it  is  for  me  to  use  my  own 
discretion  how  best  to  guard  it.  And  for  the  rest,  after  the  Scotch 
earl,  whose  words  your  lordship  has  just  quoted,  refused  to  touch 
the  hand  of  Marmion,  Douglas  could  scarcely  have  called  Mar- 
mion  back  in  order  to  give  him — a  message  !  " 

Harley  was  not  prepared  for  this  tone  in  Mr.  Egerton's/^/^/, 
and  his  own  gallant  nature  was  rather  pleased  than  irritated  by 
a  haughtiness  that  at  least  seemed  to  bespeak  independence  of 
spirit.  Nevertheless,  L'Estrange's  suspicions  of  Randal  were  too 
strong  to  be  easily  set  aside,  and  therefore  he  replied,  civilly,  but 
with  covert  taunt' — 

"  I  submit  to  your  rebuke,  Mr.  Leslie,  though  I  meant  not  the 
offence  you  would  ascribe  to  me.  I  regret  my  unlucky  quota- 
tion yet  the  more,  since  the  wit  of  your  retort  has  obliged  you  to 
identify  yourself  with  Marmion,  who,  though  a  clever  and  brave 
fellow,  was  an  uncommonly — tricky  one."  And  so  Harley, 
certainly  having  the  best  of  it,  moved  on,  and  joining  Egerton, 
in  a  few  minutes  more  both  left  the  room. 

"  What  was  L'Estrange  saying  to  you  ? "  asked  Frank;  "  some- 
thing about  Beatrice,  I  am  sure." 

"  No  ;  only  quoting  poetry." 

"  Then  what  made  you  look  so  angry,  my  dear  fellow  ?  I  know 
it  was  your  kind  feeling  for  me.  As  you  say,  he  is  a  formidable 
rival.  But  that  can't  be  his  own  hair.  Do  you  think  he  wears  a  tou- 
petf  I  am  sure  he  was  praising  Beatrice.  He  is  evidently  very 
much  smitten  with  her.  But  I  don't  think  she  is  a  woman  to  be 
caughtby»w<rrankandfortune  !  Do  you?  Whycan'tybu  speak?" 

"  If  you  do  not  get  her  consent  soon,  I  think  she  is  lost  to  you," 
said  Randal,  slowly;  and  before  Frank  could  recover  his  dismay, 
glided  from  the  house. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

VIOLANTE'S  first  evening  at  the  Lansmeres  had  passed  more 
happily  to  her  than  the  first  evening  under  the  same  roof  had 


IOO  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

done  to  Helen.  True  that  she  missed  her  father  much — Je- 
mima somewhat  ;  but  she  so  identified  her  father's  cause  with 
Harley,  that  she  had  a  sort  of  vague  feeling  that  it  was  to  pro- 
mote the  cause  that  she  was  on  this  visit  to  Harley's  parents. 
And  the  Countess,  it  must  be  owned,  was  more  emphatically 
cordial  to  her  than  she  had  ever  been  .to  Captain  Digby's  or- 
phan. But  perhaps  the  real  difference  in  the  heart  of  either  girl 
was  this,  that  Helen  felt  awe  of  Lady  Lansmere,  and:Violante 
felt  only  love  for  Lord  L'Estrange's  mother.  Violante,  too,  was 
one  of  those  persons  whom  a  reserved  and  formal  person,  like 
the  Countess,  "can  get  on  with,"  as  the  phrase  goes.  Not  so 
poor  little  Helen — so  shy  herself,  and  so  hard  to  coax  into  more 
than  gentle  monosyllables.  And  Lady  Lansmere's  favorite  talk 
was  always  of  Harley.  Helen  had  listened  to  such  talk  with  re- 
spect and  interest.  Violante  listened  to  it  with  inquisitive  eager- 
ness— with  blushing  delight.  The  mother's  heart  noticed  the 
distinction  between  the  two,  and.  no  wonder  that  that  heart 
moved  more  to  Violante  than  to  Helen.  Lord  Lansmere,  too, 
like  most  gentlemen  of  his  age,  clumped  all  young  ladies  to- 
gether, as  a  harmless,  amiable,  but  singularly  stupid  class  of  the 
genus  Petticoat,  meant  to  look  pretty,  play  the  piano,  and  talk 
to  each  other  about  frocks  and  sweethearts.  Therefore,  this  ani- 
mated dazzling  creature,  with  her  infinite  variety  of  look  and  play 
of  mind,  took  him  by  surprise,  charmed  him  into  attention,  and 
warmed  him  into  gallantry.  Helen  sat  in  her  quiet  corner,  at 
her  work,  sometimes  listening  with  almost  mournful,  though  cer- 
tainly unenvious,  admiration  atViolante's  vivid,  yet  unconscious, 
eloquence  of  word  and  thought — sometimes  plunged  deep  into 
her  own  secret  meditations.  And  all  the  while  the  work  went 
on  the  same,  under  the  small  noiseless  fingers.  This  was  one  of 
Helen's  habits  that  irritated  the  nerves  of  Lady  Lansmere.  She 
despised  young  ladies  who  were  fond  of  work.  She  did  not  com- 
prehend how  often  it  is  the  resource  of  the  sweet  womanly  mind, 
not  from  want  of  thought,  but  from  silence  and  the  depth  of  it. 
Violante  was  surprised,  and  perhaps  disappointed,  that  Harley 
had  left  the  house  before  dinner,and  did  not  return  all  the  evening. 
But  Lady  Lansmere,  in  making  excuses  for  his  absence,  on  the  plea 
of  engagements,  found  so  good  an  opportunity  to  talk  of  his  ways 
in  general — of  his  rare  promise  in  boyhood — of  her  regret  at  the 
inaction  of  his  maturity — of  her  hope  to  see  him  yet  do  justice  to 
his  natural  powers,  that  Violante  almost  ceased  to  miss  him. 

And  then  Lady  Lansmere  conducted  her  to  her  room,  and,  kiss- 
ing her  cheek  tenderly,  said,  •'  But  you  are  j  ust  the  person  Hat  ley 
admires — just  the  person  to  rouse  him  from  his  melancholy 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  IOI 

dreams,of  which  his  wild  humors  are  now  but  the  vain  disguise" — 
Violante  crossed  her  arms  on  her  bosom,  and  her  bright  eyes,  deep- 
ened in  to  tenderness,  seemed  to  ask,  "He  melancholy — and  why?" 

On  leaving  Violante's  room,  Lady  Lansmere  paused  before  the 
door  of  Helen's;;  and,  after  musing  a  little  while,  entered  softly. 

Helen  had  dismissed  her  maid  ;.and,  at  the  moment  Lady  Lans- 
mere entered,  she  was  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  her  hands 
clasped  before  her  face. 

Her  form,  thus  seen,  looked  so  youthful  and  child-like— the 
attitude  itself  was  so  holy  and  so  touching,  that  the  proud  and 
cold  expression  on  Lady  Lansmere's  face  changed.  She  shaded 
the  light  involuntarily,  and  seated  herself  in  silence  that  she  might 
not  disturb  the  act  of  prayer. 

When  Helen  rose,  she  was  startled  to  see  the  Countess  seated 
by  the  fire  ;  and  hastily  drew  her  hand  across  her  eyes.  She  had 
been  weeping. 

Lady  Lansmere  did  not,  however,  turn  to  observe  those  traces 
of  tears,  which  Helen  feared  were  too  visible.  The  Countess  was 
too  absorbed  in  her  own  thoughts  ;  and  as  Helen  timidly  ap- 
proached, said — still  with  her  eyes  on  the  clear  low  fire — "I  beg 
your  pardon,  Miss  Digby,  for  my  intrusion  ;  but  my  son  has  left 
it  to  me  to  prepare  Lord  Lansmere  to  learn  the  offer  you  have 
done  Harley  the  honor  to  accept.  I  have  not  yet  spoken  to  my 
lord  ;  it  may  be  days  before  I  find  a  fitting  occasion  to  .do  so ; 
meanwhile,  I  feel  assured  that  your,  sense  of  propriety  will  make 
you  agree  with  me  that  it  is  due  to  Lord  L'Estrange's  father,  that 
strangers  should  not  learn  arrangements  of  such  moment  in  his 
family,  before  his  own  consent  be  obtained." 

Here  the  Countess  came  to  a  full  pause  ;  and  poor  Helen,  find- 
ing herself  called  upon  for  some  reply  to  this  chilling  speech, 
stammered  out,  scarcely  audibly — 

"  Certainly,  madam,  I  never  dreamed  of — " 

"That  is  right,  my  dear,"  interrupted  Lady  Lansmere,  rising 
suddenly,  and  as  if  greatly  relieved.  "1  could  not  doubt  your 
superiority  to  ordinary  girls  of  your  age,  with  whom  these  matters 
are  never  secret  for  a  moment.  Therefore,  of  course,  you  will 
not  mention,  at  present,  what  has  passed  between  you  and  Har- 
ley, to  any  of  the  friends  with  whom  you  may  correspond." 

"  I  have  no  correspondents — no  friends,  Lady  Lansmere,"  said 
Helen,  deprecatingly,  and  trying  hard  not  to  cry. 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,  my  dear  ;  young  ladies  never  should 
have.  Friends,  especially  friends  who  correspond,  are  the  worst 
enemies  they  can  have.  Good-night,  Miss  Digby.  I  need  not 
add,  by  the  way,  that  though  we  are  bound  to  show  all  kindness 


102  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

to  this  young  Italian  lady,  still  she  is  wholly  unconnected  with 
our  family,  and  you  will  be  as  prudent  with  her  as  you  would 
have  been  with  your  correspondents — had  you  had  the  misfortune 
to  have  any." 

Lady  Lansmere  said  the  last  words  with  a  smile,  and  left  an 
ungenial  kiss  (the  stepmother's  kiss)  on  Helen's  bended  brow. 
She  then  left  the  room,  and  Helen  sat  on  the  seat  vacated  by  the 
stately  unloving  form,  and  again  covered  her  face  with  her  hands, 
and  again  wept.  But  when  she  rose  at  last,  and  the  light  fell  upon 
her  face,  that  soft  face  was  sad  indeed,  but  serene — serene,  as  if 
with  some  inward  sense  of  duty— sad,  as  with  the  resignation 
which  accepts  patience  instead  of  hope. 

CHAPTER  X. 

THE  next  morning  Harley  appeared  at  breakfast.  He  was  in 
gay  spirits,  and  conversed  more  freely  with  Violante  than  he  had 
yet  done.  He  seemed  to  amuse  himself  by  attacking  all  she  said, 
and  provoking  her  to  argument.  Violante  was  naturally  a  very 
earnest  person ;  whether  grave  or  gay,  she  spoke  with  her  heart 
on  her  lips,  and  her  soul  in  her  eyes.  She  did  not  yet  compre- 
hend the  light  vein  of  Harley's  irony,  so  she  grew  piqued  and 
chafed;  and  she  was  so  lovely  in  anger;  it  so  brightened  her  beauty 
and  animated  her  words,  that  no  wonder  Harley  thus  maliciously 
teased  her.  But  what,  perhaps,  she  liked  still  less  than  the  teas- 
ing— though  she  could  not  tell  why — was  the  kind  of  familiarity 
that  Harley  assumed  with  her — a  familiarity  as  if  he  had  known 
her  all  her  life — that  of  a  good-humored  elder  brother,  or  a  bach- 
elor uncle.  To  Helen,  on  the  contrary,  when  he  did  not  address 
her  apart,  his  manner  was  more  respectful.  He  did  not  call  for 
by  her  Christian  name,  as  he  did  Violante,  but  "Miss  Digby," 
and  softened  his  tone  and  inclined  his  head  when  he  spoke  to 
her.  Nor  did  he  presume  to  jest  at  the  very  few  and  brief  sen- 
tences he  drew  from  Helen,  but  rather  listened  to  them  with  def- 
erence, and  invariably  honored  them  with  approval.  After  break- 
fast he  asked  Violante  to  play  or  sing;  ancj  when  she  frankly  owned 
how  little  she  had  cultivated  those  accomplishments,he  persuaded 
Helen  to  sit  down  to  the  piano,  and  stood  by  her  side  while  she 
did  so,  turning  over  the  leaves  of  her  music-book  with  the  ready 
devotion  of  an  admiring  amateur.  Helen  always  played  well,  but 
less  well  than  usual  that  day,  for  her  generous  nature  felt  abashed. 
It  was  as  if  she  were  showing  off  to  mortify  Violante.  But  Vi- 
olante, on  the  other  hand,  was  so  passionately  fond  of  music,  that 
she  had  no  feeling  left  for  the  sense  of  her  own  inferiority.  Yet 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  IO$ 

she  sighed  when  Helen  rose  and  Harley  thanked  Miss  Digby  for 
the  delight  she  had  given  him. 

The  day  was  fine.  Lady  Lansmere  proposed  to  walk  in  the  gar- 
den. While  the  ladies  went  upstairs  for  their  shawls  and  bonnets, 
Harley  lighted  his  cigar,  and  stepped  from  the  window  upon  the 
lawn.  Lady  Lansmere  joined  him  before  the  girls  came  out. 

"  Harley,"  said  she,  taking  his  arm,  "  what  a  charming  com- 
panion you  have  introduced  to  us !  I  never  met  with  any  that 
both  pleased  and  delighted  me  like  this  dear  Violante.  Most 
girls  who  possess  some  power  of  conversation,  and  who  have 
dared  to  think  for  themselves,  are  so  pedantic,  or  so  masculine; 
but  she  is  always  so  simple,  and  always  still  the  girl.  Ah, 
Harley ! " 

"Why  that  sigh,  my  dear  mother?" 

"  I  was  thinking  how  exactly  she  would  have  suited  you — how 
proud  I  should  have  been  of  such  a  daughter-in-law — and  how 
happy  you  would  have  been  with  such  a  wife."  . 

Harley  started.  "  Tut,"  said  he,  peevishly, "  she  is  a  mere  child ; 
you  forget  my  years." 

"Why,"  said  Lady  Lansmere,  surprised,  "Helen  is  quite  as 
young  as  Violante." 

"  In  dates — yes.  But  Helen's  character  is  so  staid  ; — what  it 
will  ever  be  ;  and  Helen,  from  gratitude,  respect,  or  pity,  con- 
descends to  accept  the  ruins  of  my  heart ; — while  this  bright  Ital- 
ian has  the  soul  of  a  Juliet,  and  would  expect  in  a  husband  all  the 
passion  of  a  Romeo.  Nay,  mother,  hush.  Do  not  forget  that  I  am 
engaged — and  of  my  own  free  will  and  choice !  Poor  dear  Helen  ! 
Apropos,  have  you  spoken  to  my  father,  as  you  undertook  to  do  ?  " 

"  Not  yet.  I  must  seize  the  right  moment.  You  know  that  my 
lord  requires  management." 

"  My  dear  mother,  that  female  notion  of  managing  us  men,  costs 
you  ladies  a  great  waste  of  time,  and  occasions  us  a  great  deal  of 
sorrow.  Men  are  easily  managed  by  plain  truth.  We  are  brought 
up  to  respect  it,  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  you  !  " 

Lady  Lansmere  smiled  with  the  air  of  superior  wisdom,  and 
the  experience  of  an  accomplished  wife.  "Leave  it  to  me, 
Harley,  and  rely  on  my  lord's  consent." 

Harley  knew  that  Lady  Lansmere  always  succeeded  in  obtain- 
ing her  way  with  his  father;  and  he  felt  that  the  Earl  might 
naturally  be  disappointed  in  such  an  alliance,  and,  without  due 
propitiation,  evince  that  disappointment  in  his  manner  to  Helen. 
Harley  was  bound  to  save  her  from  all  chance  of  such  humilia- 
tion. He  did  not  wish  her  to  think  that  she  was  not  welcomed 
into  his  family;  therefore  he  said,  "  I  resign  myself  to  your  prom- 


104  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

ise  and  your  diplomacy.     Meanwhile,  as  you  love  me,  be  kind 
to  my  betrothed." 
-   "Am  I  not  so  ?" 

"-Hem.  Are  you  as  kind  as  if  she  were  the  great  heiress  you 
believe  Violante  to  be?  " 

"Is  it,"  answered  Lady  Lansmere,  evading  the  question,  "is 
it  because  one  is  an  heiress  and  the  other  is  not  that  you  make 
so  marked  a  difference  in  your  own  manner  to  the  two;  treating 
Violante  as  a  spoiled  child,  and  Miss  Digby  as — " 

"  The  destined  wife  of  Lord  L'Estrange,  and  the  daughter- 
hinlaw  of  Lady  Lansmere — yes." 

;  The.  Countess  suppressed  an  impatient  exclamation  that  rose 
to  her  lips,  for  Harley's  brow  wore  that  serious  aspect  which  it 
rarely  assumed,  save  when  he  was  in; those  moods  in  which  men 
must  be  soothed,  not  resisted.  And  after  a  pause  he  went 
on— "I  am  going  to  leave  you  to-day.  I  have  engaged  apart- 
ments at  the  Clarendon.  I  intended  to  gratify  your  wish,  so 
often  expressed,  that  I  should  enjoy  what  are  called  the  pleas- 
ures of  my  rank,  and  the  privileges  of  single-blessedness — cele- 
brate my  adieu  to  celibacy,  and  blaze  once  more,  with  the  splen- 
dor of  a  setting  sun,  upon  Hyde  Park  and  May  Fair." 

"  You  are  a  positive  enigma.  Leave  our  house,  just  when  you  are 
betrothed  to  its  inmate!  Is  that  the  natural  conduct  of  a  lover?" 

"  How  can  your  woman  eyes  be  so  dull,  and  your  woman  heart 
so::obtuse?"  answered.  Harley,  half-laughing,  half-scolding. 
"  Can  you  not  guess  that  I  wish  that  Helen  and  myself  should 
both  lose  the  association  of  mere  ward  and  guardian;  that  the 
very  familiarity  of.  our  intercourse  under  the  same  roof  almost 
forbids  us  to  be  lovers;  that  we  lose  the  joy  to  meet,  and  the 
pang  to  part.  Don't  you  remember  the  story  of  the  Frenchman, 
who  for  twenty  years  loved  a  lady,  and  never  missed  passing  his 
evening  at  her  house.  She  became  a  widow.  '  I  wish  you  joy,' 
cried  his  friend:  'you  may  now  marry  the  woman  you  have  so 
long  adored.'  '  Alas,'  said  the  poor  Frenchman,  profoundly 
dejected  ;  'and  if  so,  where  shall  I  spend  my  evenings?'" 

Here  Violante  and  Helen  were  seen  in  the  garden,  walking 
affectionately  arm-in-arm. 

"  I  don't  perceive  the  point  of  your  witty,  heartless  anecdote," 
said  Lady  Lansmere,  obstinately.  "  Settle  that,  however,  with 
Miss  Digby.  But,  to  leave  the  very  day  after  your  friend's 
daughter  comes  as  a  guest! — what  will  she  think  of  it." 

Lord  L'Estrange  looked  steadfastly  at  his  mother,  "  Does  it 
matter  much  what  she  thinks  of  me  ? — of  a  man  engaged  to 
another;  and  old  enough  to  be — :" 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  16$ 

"  I  wish  to  Heaven  you  would  not  talk  of  your  age,  Harley; 
it  is  a  reflection  upon  mine;  and  I  never  saw  you  look  so  well 
nor  so  handsome."  With  that  she  drew  him  on  toward  the  young 
ladies;  and,  taking  Helen's  arm,  asked  her,  aside,  "  If  she  knew 
that  Lord  L'Estrange  had  engaged  rooms  at  the  Clarendon;  and 
if  she  understood  .why  ?"  As  while  she  said  this  she  moved  on, 
Harley  was  left  by  Violante's  side. 

"  You  will  be  very  dull  here,  I  fear,  my  poor  child,"  said  he. 

"Dull!  But  why  will  you  call  me  child ?  Am  I  so  very — 
very  child-like  ?  " 

"Certainly  you  are  to  me— ^a  mere  infant.  Have  I  not  seen 
you  one;  have  I  not  held  you  in  my  arms?" 

VIOLANTE. — But  that  was  a  long  time  ago! 

HARLEY. — True.  But  if  years  have  not  stood  still  for  you, 
they  have  not  been  stationary  forme.  There  is  the  same  differ- 
ence between  us  now  that  there  was  then.  And,  therefore,  per- 
mit me  still  to  call  you  child,  and  as  child  to  treat  you! 

VIOLANTE.— I  will  do  no  such  thing.  Do  you  know  that  I 
always  thought  I  was  good-tempered  till  this  morning? 

HARLEY. — Andwhatundeceivedyou?  Didyoubreakyourdoll? 

VIOLANTE  (with  an  indignant  flash  from  her  dark  eyes). — • 
There!— again!— you  delight  in  provoking  me! 

HARLEY. — It  was  the  do.ll,.  then.  Don't  cry;  I  will  get  you 
another. 

Violante  plucked  her  arm  from  him,  and  walked  away  toward 
the  Countess  in  speechless  scorn.  Harley's  brow  contracted,  in 
thought  and  in  gloom.  He  stood  still  for  a  moment  or  so,  and 
then  joined  the  ladies. 

"I  am  trespassing  sadly  on  your  morning;  but  I  wait  for  a 
visitor, :  whom  J  sent  to  before  you  were  up.  He  is  to  be  here  at 
twelve.  With  your  permission,  I  will  dine  with  you  to-morrow, 
and  you  will  invite  him  to  meet  me." 

"  Certainly.  And  who  is  your  friend?  I  guess — the  young 
author?" 

"  Leonard  Fairfield,"  cried  Violante,  who  had  conquered,  or 
felt  ashamed  of  her  short-lived  anger. 

''Fairfield!  "  repeated  Lady  Lansmere.  "  I  thought,  Harley, 
you  said  the  name  was  Oran  ?  " 

"He  has  assumed  the  latter  name.  He  is  the  son  of  Mark 
Fairfield,  who  married  an  Avenel.  Did  you  recognize  no  family 
likeness  ?— none  in  those  eyes — mother  ?  "  said  Harley,  sinking 
his  voice  into  a  whisper. 

"  No,"  answered  the  Countess,  falteringly. 

Harley,  observing  that  Violante  was  new  speaking  to  Helen 


106  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

about  Leonard,  and  that  neither  was  listening  to  him,  resumed 
in  the  same  law  tone, — "  And  his  mother — Nora's  sister — shrank 
from  seeing;me!  That  is  the  reason  why  I  wished  you  not  to  call. 
She  has  not  told  the  young  man  why  she  shrank  from  seeing  me; 
nor  have  I  explained  to  him  as  yet.  Perhaps  I  never  shall." 

"Indeed,  dearest  Harley,"  said  the  Countess,  with  great  gentle- 
ness, "  I  wish  you  too  much  to  forget  the  folly — well,  I  will  not  say 
that  word-^-the  sorrows  of  your  boyhood,  not  to  hope  that  you  will 
rather  strive  against  such  painful  memories  than  renew  them  by 
unnecessary  confidence  to  anyone ;  least  of  all  to  the  relation  of — " 

"  Enough! — don't  name  her;  the  very  name  pains  me.  And 
as  to  confidence,  there  are  but  two  persons  in  the  world  to  whom 
I  ever  bare  the  old  wounds — yourself  and  Egerton.  Let  this 
pass.  Ha! — a  ring  at  the  bell;  that  is  he!  " 

CHAPTER  XI. 

LEONARD  entered  on  the  scene  and  joined  the  party  in  the 
garden.  The  Countess,  perhaps  to  please  her  son,  was  more 
than  civil — she  was  markedly  kind  to  him.  She  noticed  him 
more  attentively  than  she  had  hitherto  done;  and,  with  all  her 
prejudices  of  birth,  was  struck  to  find  the  son  of  Mark  Fail-field 
the  carpenter  so  thoroughly  the  gentleman.  He  might  not  have 
the  exact  tone  and  phrase  by  which  Convention  stereotypes  those 
born  and  schooled  in  a  certain  world;  but  the  aristocrats  of 
Nature  can  dispense  with  such  trite  minutiae.  And  Leonard 
had  lived — of  late  at  least — in  the  best  society  that  exists  for 
the  polish  of  language  and  the  refinement  of  manners, — the  so- 
ciety in  which  the  most  graceful  ideas  are  clothed  in  the  most 
graceful  forms, — the  society  which  really,  though  indirectly, 
gives  the  law  to  courts, — the  society  of  the  most  classic  authors 
in  the  various  ages  in  which  literature  has  flowered  forth  from 
civilization.  And  if  there  was  something  in  the  exquisite  sweet- 
ness of  Leonard's  voice,  look  and  manner,  which  the  Countess 
acknowledged  to  attain- that  perfection  in  high  breeding,  which, 
under  the  name  of  "  suavity,"  steals  its  way  into  the  heart,  so 
her  interest  in  him  was  aroused  by  a  certain  subdued  melancholy 
which  is  rarely  without  distinction,  and  never  without  charm. 
He  and*  Helen  exchanged  but  few  words.  There  was  but  one 
occasion  in  which  they  could  have  spoken  apart,  and  Helen  her- 
self contrived  to  elude  it.  His  face  brightened  at  Lady  Lans- 
mere's  cordial  invitation,  and  he  glanced  at  Helen  as  he  accepted 
it;  but  her  eye  did  not  meet  his  own. 

"And  now,"  said  Harley,  whistling  to  Nero,  whom  his  ward 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  107 

was  silently  caressing,  "  I  must  take  Leonard  away.  Adieu!  all 
of  you,  till  to-morrow  at  dinner.  Miss  Violante,  is  the  doll  to 
have  blue  eyes  or  black  ?" 

Violante  turned  her  own  black  eyes  in  mute  appeal  to  Lady 
Lansmere,  and  nestled  to  that  lady's  side,  as  if  in  refuge  from 
unworthy  insult. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

"LET  the  carriage  go  to  the  Clarendon,"  said  Harley  to  hit 
servant  ;  "I  and  Mr.  Oran  will  walk  to  town.  Leonard,  I  think 
you  would  rejoice  at  an  occasion  to  serve  your  old  friends,  Dr. 
Riccabocca  and  his  daughter?" 

"Serve  them! — Oh,  yes."  And  there  instantly  returned  to 
Leonard  the  recollection  of  Violante's  words  when,  on  leaving 
his  quiet  village,  he  had  sighed  to  part  from  all  those  he  loved  ; 
and  the  little  dark-eyed  girl  had  said,  proudly,  yet  consolingly, 
"  But  to  SERVE  those  you  love  !  "  He  turned  to  L'Estrange 
with  beaming,  inquisitive  eyes. 

"I  said  to  our  friend, "resumed  Harley,  "that  I  would  vouch 
for  your  honor  as  my  own.  I  am  about  to  prove  my  words,  and 
to  confide  the  secrets  which  your  penetration  has  indeed  divined  ; 
our  friend  is  not  what  he  seems."  Harley  then  briefly  related 
to  Leonard  the  particulars  of  the  exile's  history,  the  rank  he  had 
held  in  his  native  land,  the  manner  in  which,  partly  through  the 
misrepresentations  of  a  kinsman  he  had  trusted, partly  through  the 
influence  of  a  wife  he  had  loved,  he  had  been  drawn  into  schemes 
which  he  believed  bounded  to  the  emancipation  of  Italy  from  a 
foreign  yoke,  by  the  united  exertions  of  her  best  and  bravest  sons. 

"A  noble  ambition,"  interrupted  Leonard,  manfully.  "And 
pardon  me,  my  Lord,  I  should  not  have  thought  that  you  would 
speak  of  it  in  a  tone  that  implies  blame." 

"The  ambition  in  itself  was  noble,"  answered  Harley,  "but 
the  cause  to  which  it  was  devoted  became  defiled  in  this  instance 
in  its  dark  channel  through  Secret  Societies.  It  is  the  misfor- 
tune of  all  miscellaneous  political  combinations,  that  with  the 
purest  motives  of  their  more  generous  members  are  ever  mixed 
the  most  sordid  interests  and  the  fiercest  passions  of  mean  con- 
federates. When  those  combinations  act  openly,  and  in  day- 
light, under  the  eye  of  Public  Opinion,  the  healthier  elements 
usually  prevail ;  where  they  are  shrouded  in  mystery, — where 
they  are  subjected  to  no  censor  in  the  discussion  of  the  impartial 
and  dispassionate, — where  chiefs  working  in  the  dark  exact 
blind  obedience,  and  every  man  who  is  at  war  with  law  is  at 
once  admitted  as  a  friend  of  freedom, — the  history  of  the  world 


Io8  MY    NOVEL  ;   OR, 

tells  us  that  patriotism  soon  passes  away.  Where  all  is  in  public, 
public  virtue,  by  the  natural  sympathies  of  the  common  mind, 
and  by  the  wholesome  control  of- shame, .is  likely  to  obtain 
ascendancy  ;  where  all  is  in  private,  and  shame  is  but  for  him 
who  refuses  the  abnegation  of  his  conscience,  each  man  seeks 
the  indulgence  of  his  private  vice.  And  hence,  in  Secret  Soci- 
eties (from  which  may  yet  proceed  great  danger  to  all  Europe), 
we  find  but  foul  and  hateful  Eleusinia, 'affording  pretexts  to  the 
ambition  of  the  great;  to  the  license  of  the  penniless,  to  the 
passions  of  the  revengeful,  to  the  anarchy  of  the  ignorant.  In 
a-word,  the  societies  of  these  Italian  Carbonari  did  but  engender 
schemes  in  which  the  abler  chiefs  disguised  new  forms  of  des- 
potism, and  in  which  the  revolutionary  many  looked  .forward  to 
the  overthrow  of  all  the  institutions  that  stand  between  Law  and 
Chaos.  Naturally,  therefore,"  (added.  L'Estrange,.dry.ly),  "when 
their  schemes  were  detected,  and  the  conspiracy  foiled,  it  was 
for  the  silly  honest  men  entrapped  into  the  league  to  suffer— the 
leaders  turned  king's  evidence,  and  the  common  mercenaries 
became — banditti.''  Harley  then  proceeded  to  state  that  it  was 
just  when  the  soi-disant  Riccabocca  had  discovered  the  true 
nature  and  ulterior  views  of  the  conspirators  he  had  joined,  and 
actually  withdrawn  from  their  councils,  that  he  was  denounced 
by  the  kinsman  who  had  duped  him  into  the  enterprise  and  who 
now  profited  by  his  treason.  Harley  next  spoke  of  the  packet 
despatched  by  Riccabocca's  dying  wife,  as  it  was  supposed  to 
Mrs.  Bertram;  and  of  .the  hopes  he  founded  on  the  con  tents  of 
that  packet,  if  discovered.  He  then  referred  to  the  design  which 
had  brought  Peschiera  to  England — a  design  which  that  person- 
age had  avowed  with  such  effrontery  to  his  companions  at  Vienna, 
that  he  had  publicly  laid  wagers  on  his  success. 

"  But  these  men  can  know  nothing  of  England — of  the  safety  of 
English  laws,"  said  Leonard,naturally.  "We  takeit  for  gran  ted  that 
Riccabocca,  if  I  am  still  so  to  call  him,  refuses  his  consent  to  the 
marriage  between  his  daughter  and  his  foe.  'Where,  then,  the  dan- 
ger ?  This  Count,  even  if  Violante  .were  not  under  your  mother's 
roof,  could  not  get  an  opportunity  to  see  her.  He  could  not  attack 
the  house  and  carry  her  off  like  a  feudal  baron  in  the  middle  ages." 

"All  this  is  very  true,"  answered  Harley.  "Yet  I  have  found 
through  life  that  we  cannot  estimate  danger  by  external  circum- 
stances, but  by  the  character  of  those  from  whom  it  is  threatened. 
This  Count  is  a  man  of  singular  audacity,  of  no  mean  natural 
talents — talents  practised  in  every  art  of  duplicity  and  intrigue; 
one  of  those  men  whose  boast  it  is  that  they  succeed  in  whatever 
they  undertake ;  and  he  is,  here,  urged  on  the  one  hand  by  all  that 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  ICQ 

can  whet  the  avarice,  and  on  the  other,  by  all  that  can  give  in- 
vention tO'despair.  Therefore,  thoiigh  I  cannot  guess  what  plan 
he  may  possibly  adopt,  I  never  doubt  that  some  plan,  formed 
with  cunning  and  pursued  with  daring,  will  be  embraced  the 
moment  he  discovers  Violante's  retreat,  unless,  indeed,  we  can 
forestall  all  peril  by  the  restoration  of  her  father,  and  the  detec- 
tion of:  the  fraud- and  falsehood  to  which  Peschiera  owes  the 
fortune  he  appropriates.  Thus,  while  we  must  prosecute  to  the 
utmost  our  inquiries  for  the  missing  documents,  so  it  should  be 
our  care  to  possess  ourselves,  if  possible,  of  such  knowledge  of 
the  Count's  machinations  as  may  enable  us  to  defeat  them.  Now, 
rt'was  with  satisfaction  that  I  learned  in  Germany  that  Peschiera' s 
sister  was  in  London.  I  knew  enough  both  of  his  disposition  a-nd 
of  the  intimacy  between  himself  and  this  lady,  to  make  me  think 
it  probable  he  will  seek  to  make  her  his  instrument  and  accom- 
plice, should  he  require  one.-  Peschiera  (as  you  may  suppose 
by  his  audacious  wager)  is  not  one  of  those  secret  villains  who 
would  cut  off  their  right  hand  if  it  could  betray  the  knowledge 
of  what  was  done  by.the  left — rather  one  of  those  self-confident, 
vaunting  knaves  of  high  animal  spirits,  and  conscience  so  obtuse 
that  it  clouds  their  intellect — who  must  have  some  one  to  whom 
they  can  boast  of  their  abilities  and  confide  their  projects.  And 
Peschiera  has  done  all  he  can  to  render  this  poor  woman  so  wholly 
dependent  on  him,  as  to  be  his  slave  and  his  tool.  But  I  have 
learned  certain  traits  in  Tier  character  that  show  it  to  be  impres- 
sionable to  good,  and  with  tendencies  to  honor.  Peschiera  had 
taken  advantage  of  the  admiration  she  excited,  some  years  ago, 
in  a  rich  young  Englishman,  to  entice  this  admiref  into  gambling, 
and  sought  to  make  his  sister  both  a  decoy  and  an  instrument 
in  his  designs  of  plunder.  She  did  not  encourage  the  addresses 
of  our  countryman,  but  she  warned  him  of  the  snare  laid  for 
him,  and  entreated  him  to  leave  the  place,  lest  her  brother  should 
discover  and  punish  her  honesty. 

"  The  Englishman  told  me  this  himself.  In  fine,  my  hope  of 
detaching  this  lady  from  PesChiera's  interests,  and  inducing  her 
to  forewarn  us  of  his  purpose,  consists  but  in  the  innocent  and,  I 
hope,  laudable  artifice,  of  redeeming  herself — of  appealing  to,  and 
calling  into  disused  exercise,  the  better  springs  of  her  nature." 

Leonard  listened  with  admiration  and  some  surprise  to  the 
singularly  subtle  and  sagacious  insight  into  character  which 
Harley  evinced  in  the  brief  clear  strokes  by  which  he  had  thus 
depicted  Peschiera  and  Beatrice,  and  was  struck  by  the  boldness 
with  which  Harley  rested  a  whole  system  of  action  upon  a  few 
deductions  drawn  from  his  reasonings  on  human  motive  and 


110  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

characteristic  bias.  Leonard  had  not  expected  to  find  so  much 
practical  acuteness  in  a  man  who,  however  accomplished,  usually 
seemed  indifferent,  dreamy,  and  abstracted  to  the  ordinary  things 
of  life.  But  Harley  L' Estrange  was  one  of  those  whose  powers 
lie  dormant  till  circumstance  supplies  to  them  all  they  need  for 
activity — the  stimulant  of  a  motive. 

Harley  resumed — "After  a  conversation  I  had  with  the  lady 
last  night,  it  occurred  to  me  that  in  this  part  of  our  diplomacy 
you  could  render  us  essential  service.  Madame  di  Negra — such 
is  the  sister's  name — has  conceived  an  admiration  for  your 
genius,  and  a  strong  desire  to  know  you  personally.  I  have 
promised  to  present  you  to  her  ;  and  I  shall  do  so  after  a  pre- 
liminary caution.  The  lady  is  very  handsome  and  very  fascinat- 
ing. It  is  possible  that  your  heart  and  your  senses  may  not  be 
proof  against  her  attractions." 

"  Qh,  do  not  fear  that.! "  exclaimed  Leonard,  with  a  tone  of 
conviction  so  earnest  that  Harley  smiled. 

"  Forewarned  is  not  always  forearmed  against  the  might  of 
beauty,  my  dear  Leonard  ;  so  I  cannot  at  once  accept  your 
assurance.  But  listen  to  me !  Watch  yourself  narrowly,  and 
if  you  find  that  you  are  likely  to  be  captivated,  promise,  on  your 
honor,  to  retreat  at  once  from  the  field.  I  have  no  right,  for 
the  sake  of  another,  to  expose  you  to  danger ;  and  Madame  di 
Negra,  whatever  may  be  her  good  qualities,  is  the  last  person 
I  should  wish  to  see  you  in  love  with." 

"In  love  with  her  !     Impossible  ! " 

"  Impossible  is  a  strong  word,"  returned  Harley ;  "still,  I  own 
fairly  (and  this  belief  alone  warrants  me  in  trusting  you  to  her  fasci- 
nations) that  I  do  think,  as. far  as  one  man  can  judge  of  another, 
that  she  is  not  the  woman  to  attract  you;  and,  if  filled  by  one  pure 
and  generous  object  in  your  intercourse  with  her,  you  will  see  her 
with  purged  eyes.  Still,  I  claim  your  promise  as  one  of  honor." 

"I  give  it,"  said  Leonard,  positively.  "But  how  can  I  serve 
Riccabocca  ?  How  aid  in — " 

"  Thus,"  interrupted  Harley.-^"  The  spell  of  your  writings  is 
that,  unconsciously  to  ourselves,  they  make  us  better  and  nobler. 
And  your  writings  are  but  the  impressions  struck  off  from  your 
mind.  Your  conversation,  when  you  are  aroused,  has  the  same 
effect.  And  as  you  grow  more  familiar  with  Madame  di  Negra, 
I  wish  you  to  speak  of  your  boyhood,  your  youth.  Describe  the 
exile  as  you  have  seen  him — so  touching  amidst  foibles,  so  grand 
amidst  the  petty  privations  of  his  fallen  fortunes,  so  benevolent 
while  poringiover  his  hateful  Machiavelli,  so  stingless  in  his  wis- 
dom of  the  serpent,  so  playfully  astute  in  his  innocence  of  th« 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  Ill 

dove — I  leave  the  picture  to  your  knowledge  of  humor  and  pathos. 
Describe  Violante  brooding  over  her  Italian  poets,  and  filled  with 
dreams  of  her  fatherland  ;  describe  her  with  all  the  flashes  of 
her  princely  nature,  shining  forth  through  humble  circumstance 
and  obscure  position  ;  waken  in  your  listener  compassion,  re- 
spect, admiration  for  her  kindred  exiles; — and  I  think  our  work 
is  done.  She  will  recognize  evidently  those  whom  her  brother 
seeks.  She  will  question  you  closely  where  you  met  with  them — 
where  they  now  are.  Protect  that  secret ;  say  at  once  that  it  is 
not  your  own.  Against  your  descriptions  and  the  feelings  they 
excite,  she  will  not  be  guarded  as  against  mine.  And  there  are 
other  reasons  why  your  influence  over  this  woman  of  mixed  na- 
ture may  be  more  direct  and  effectual  than  my  own." 

"Nay,  I  cannot  conceive  that." 

"  Believe  it  without  asking  me  to  explain,"  answered  Harley. 
For  he  did  not  judge  it  necessary  to  say  to  Leonard,  "  I  am  high- 
born and  wealthy — you  a  peasant's  son  and  living  by  your  exer- 
tions. This  woman  is  ambitious  and  distressed.  She  might 
have  projects  on  me  that  would  counteract  mine  on  her.  You 
she  would  but  listen  to,  and  receive,  through  the  sentiments'  of 
good  or  of  poetical  that  are  in  her — you  she  would  have  no  in- 
terest to  subjugate,  no  motive,  to  ensnare. 

"And  now,"  said  Harley,  turning  the  subject,  "I  have  another 
object  in  view.  This  foolish  sage  friend  of  ours,  in  his  bewilder- 
ment and  fear,  has  sought  to  save  Violante  from  one  rogue  by 
promising  her  hand  to  a  man  who,  unless  my  instincts  deceive 
me,  I  suspect  much  disposed  to  be  another.  Sacrifice  such  ex- 
uberance of  life  and  spirit  to  that  bloodless  heart,  to  that  cold 
and  earthward  intellect !  By  Heaven,  it  shall  not  be  !  " 

"  But  whom  can  the  exile  possibly  have  seen  of  birth  and  for- 
tunes to  render  him  a  fitting  spouse  for  his  daughter  ?  Whom, 
my  lord,  except  yourself?  " 

"Me  !  "  exclaimed  Harley,  angrily,  and  changing  color.  "I 
worthy  of  such  a  creature  ?  I — with  my  habits  !  I — silken  ego- 
tist that  I  am  !  And  you,  a  poet,  to  form  such  an  estimate  of 
one  who  might  be  the  queen  of  a  poet's  dream." 

"  My  lord,  when  we  sat  the  other  night  round  Riccabocca's 
hearth— when  I  heard  her  speak,  and  observed  you  listen,  I  said 
to  myself,  from  such  knowledge  of  human  nature  as  conies,  we 
know  not  how,to  us  poets— I  said, '  Harley  L'Estrange  has  looked 
long  and  wistfully  on  the  heavens,  and  he  now  hears  the  mur- 
mur of  the  wings  that  can  waft  him  toward  them.'  And  then 
I  sighed,  for  I  thought  how  the  world  rules  us  all  in  spite  of  our- 
selves, and  I  said,  '  What  pity  for  both  that  the  exile's  daughter 


ii2  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

is  not  the  worldly  equal  of  the  peer's  son ! '  And  you  too  sighed, as  I 
thus  thought;  and  I  fancied  that,  while  you  listened  to  the  music  of 
the  wing,  you  felt  the  iron  of  the  chain.  But  the  exile's  daughter -is 
your  equal  in  birth,  and  you  are  her  equal  in  heart  and  in  soul." 

"  My  poor  Leonard,  you  rave,"  answered  Harley,  calmly;  "and 
if  Violante  is  not  to  be  some  young  prince's  bride,  she  should 
be  some  poet's." 

" Poet's  !  Oh,  no  ! "  said  Leonard,  with  a  gentle  laugh.  "Poets 
need  repose  where  they  love  !" 

Harley  was  struck  by  the  answer,  and  mused  over  it  in  silence. 
"  I  comprehend,"  thought  he  ;  "it  is  a  new  light  that  dawns  on 
me.  What  is  needed  by  the  man,  whose  whole  life  is  one  strain 
after  glory— whose  soul  sinks,  in  fatigue,  to  the  companionship 
of  earth — is  not  the  love  of  a  nature  like  his  own.  He  is  right — 
it  is  repose  !  While  I ! — it  is  true— boy  that  he  is,  his  intuitions 
are  wiser  than  all  my  experience  !  It  is  excitement — energy — 
elevation,  that  Love  should  bestow  on  me.  But  I  have  chosen; 
and;  at  least,  with  Helen,  my  life  will  be  calm,  and  my  hearth 
sacred.  Let  the  rest  sleep  in  the  same  grave  as  my  youth." 

"  But,"  said  Leonard,  wishing  kindly  to  arouse  his  noble  friend 
from  a  reverie  which  he  felt  was  mournful,  though  he  did  not 
divine  its  true  cause — "but you  have  not  yet  told  me  the  name 
of  the  signorin'a's  suitor.  May  I  know?" 

"  Probably  one  you  never  heard  of.  Randal  Leslie— a  place- 
man. You  refused  a  place; — you  were  right." 

"  Randal  Leslie  ?  Heaven  forbid !  "  cried  Leonard,  reveal- 
ing his  surprise  at  the  name. 

"Amen  \     But  what  do  you  know  of  him  ?  " 

Leonard  related  the  story  of  Burley's  pamphlet. 

Harley  seemed  delighted  to  hear  his  suspicions  of  Randal 
confirmed.  "The  paltry  pretender! — and  yet  I  fancied  that  he 
might  be  formidable !  However,  we  must  dismiss  him  for  the 
present; — we  are  approaching  Madame  di  Negra's  house.  Pre- 
pare yourself,  and  remember  your  promise." 

ff^o}  l>».,J»0/{  X   .-  .     :  [•  j-.-j 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

SOME  days  have  passed  by.  Leonard  and  Beatrice  di  Negra 
have  already  made  friends.  Harley  is  satisfied  with  his  young 
friend's  report.  He  himself  has  been  actively  occupied.  He 
has  sought,  but  hitherto  in  vain,  all  trace  of  Mrs.  Bertram  ;  he 
has  put  that  investigation  into  the  hands  of  his  lawyer,  and  his 
lawyer  has  not  been  more  fortunate  than  himself.  Moreover, 
Harley  has  blazed  forth  again  in  the  London  world,  and  promises 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  113 

again  de  faire  fureur ;.  but  he  has  always  found  time  to  spend 
some  hours  in  the  twenty-four  at  his  father's  house.  He  has 
continued  much  the  same  tone  with  Violante,  and  she  begins  to 
accustom  herself  to  it,  and  reply  saucily.  His  calm  courtship 
to  Helen  flows  on  in  silence.  Leonard,  too,  has  been  a  frequent 
guest  at  the  Lansmeres:  all  welcome  andlike  him  there.  Pesch- 
iera  has  not  evinced  any  signs  of  the  deadly  machinations  as- 
cribed to  him.  He  goes  less  into  the  drawing-room  world;  for 
in  that  world  he  meets  Lord  L'Estrange;  and  brilliant  and  hand- 
some though  Peschiera  be,  Lord  L'Estrange,  like  Rob  Roy  Mac- 
gregor,  is  "on  his  native  heath,"  and  has. the  decided  advantage 
over  the  foreigner.  Peschiera,  Jiowever,  shines'in  the  clubs,  and 
plays  high.  Still  scarcely  an  evening  passes  in  which  he  and 
Baron  Levy  do  not  meet. 

Audley  Egerton  has  been  intensely  occupied  with  affairs.  Only 
seen  once  by  Harley.  Harley  then  was  about  to  deliver  himself 
of  his  sentiments  respecting  Randal  Leslie,  and  to  commuoicate 
the  story  of  Burley  and  the  pamphlet.  Egerton  stopped  him  short. 

"  My  dear  Harley,  don't  try  to  set  me  against  this  young  man. 
I  wish  to  hear  nothing  in  his  disfavor.  In  the  first  place.it  would 
not  alter  the  line  of  conduct  I  mean  to  adopt  with  regard  to  him. 
He  is  my  wife's  kinsman;  I  charged  myself  with  his  career,  as  a 
wish  of  hers,  and  therefore  as  a  duty  to  myself.  In  attaching 
him  so  young  to  my  own  fate,  I  drew  him  necessarily  away  from 
the  professions  in  which,  his  industry  and  talents  (for  he  has  both 
in  no  common  degree)  would  have  secured  his  fortunes;  there? 
fore,  be  he  bad,  be  he  good,  I  shall  try  to  provide  for  him  as  I 
best  can;  and,  moreover,  cold  as  I  am  to  him,  and  worldly  though 
perhaps  he  be,  I  have  somehow  or  other  conceived  an  interest 
in  him — a  liking  to  him.  He  has  been  under  my  roof,  he  is  de- 
pendent on  me;  he  has  been  docile  and  prudent,  and  lam  alone 
childless  man;  therefore,  spare  him,  since  in  so  doing  you  spare 
me;  and  ah,  Harley,  I  have  so  many  cares  on  me  now,  that — " 

"  Oh,  say  no  more,  my  dear,  dear  Audley,"  cried  the  generous 
friend;  "how  little  people  know  you  !  " 

Auxiley's  hand  trembled.  Certainly  his  nerves  began  to  show 
wear  and  tear.  • 

Meanwhile,  the  object  of  this  dialogue — the  type  of  perverted 
intellect — of  mind  without  heart— of  knowledge  which  had  no 
aim  but  power — was  in  a  state -of  anxious  perturbed  gloom.  He 
did  not  know  whether  wholly  to  believe  Levy's  assurance  of  his 
patron's  ruin.  He  could  not  believe  it  when  he  saw  that  great 
house  in  Grosvenor  Square,  its  hall  crowded  with  lacqueys,  its 
sideboard  blazing  with  plate;  when  no  dun  was  ever  seen  in  the 


114  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

antechamber ;  when  not  a  tradesman  was  ever  known  to  call  twice 
for  a  bill.  He  hinted  to  Levy  the  doubts  all  these  phenomena  sug- 
gested to  him;  but  the  Baron  only  smiled  ominously,  and  said — 

"  True,  the  tradesmen  are  always  paid;  but  the  how  is  the  ques- 
tion !  Randal,  mon  cher,  you  are  too  innocent.  I  have  but  two 
pieces  of  advice  to  suggest,  in  the  shape  of  two  proverbs — '  Wise 
rats  run  from  a  falling  house,'  and,  'Make  hay  while  the  sun 
shines.'  Apropos,  Mr.  Avenel  likes  you  greatly,  and  has  been 
talking  of  the  borough  of  Lansmere  for  you.  He  has  contrived 
to  get  together  a  great  interest  there.  Make  much  of  him." 

Randal  had  indeed  been  to  Mrs:  Avenel's  soiree  dansante,  and 
called  twice  and  found  her  at  home,  and  been  very  bland  and 
civil,  and  admired  the  children.  She  had  two,  a  boy  and  a  girl, 
very  like  their  father,  with  open  faces  as  bold  as  brass.  And  as 
all  this  had  won  Mrs.  Avenel's  good  graces,  so  it  had  propitiated 
her  husband's.  Avenel  was  shrewd  enough  to  see  how  clever 
Randal  was.  He  called  him  "smart," and  said  "he  would  have 
got  on  in  America,"  which  was  the  highest  praise  Dick  Avenel 
ever  accorded  to  any  man.  But  Dick  himself  looked  a  little 
care-worn  ;  and  this  was  the  first  year  in  which  he  had  murmured 
at  the  bills  of  his  wife's  dressmaker,  and  said,  with  an  oath,  that 
"there  was  such  a  thing  as  going  too  much  ahead." 

Randal  had  visited  Dr.  Riccabocca,  and  found  Violante  flown. 
True  to  his  promise  to  Harley,  the  Italian  refused  to  say  where, 
and  suggested,  as  was  agreed,  that  for  the  present  it  would  be 
more  prudent  if  Randal  suspended  his  visits  to  himself.  Leslie, 
not  liking  this  proposition,  attempted  to  make  himself  still  nec- 
essary, by  working  on  Riccabocca's  fears  as  to  that  espionage 
on  his  retreat,  which  had  been  among  the  reasons  that  had  hurried 
the  sage  into  offering  Randal  Violante'shand.  But  Riccabocca 
had  already  learned  that  the  fancied  spy  was  "but  his  neighbor 
Leonard  ;  and,  without  so  saying,  he  cleverly  contrived  to  make 
the  supposition  of  such  espionage  an  additional  reason  for  the 
cessation  of  Leslie's  visits.  Randal  then,  in  his  own  artful,  quiet, 
roundabout  way,  had  sought  to  find  out  if  any  communication  had 
passed  between  L' Estrange  and  Riccabocca.  Brooding  over 
Harley's  words  to  him,  he  suspected  there  had  -been  such  com- 
munication, with  his  usual  penetrating  astuteness.  Riccabocca, 
here,  was  less  on  his  guard,  and  rather  parried  the  sidelong  ques- 
tions than  denied  their  inferences. 

Randal  began  already  to  surmise  the  truth.  Where  was  it 
likely  Violante  should  go  but  to  the  Lansmeres  ?  This  con- 
firmed his  idea  of  Harley's  pretensions  to  her  hand.  With  such 
a  rival,  what  chance  had  he?  Randal  never  doubted  for  a  mo- 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  1 15 

ment  that  the  pupil  of  Machiavelli  would  "throw  him  over,"  if 
such  an  alliance  to  his  daughter  really  presented  itself.  The 
schemer  at  once  discarded  from  his  projects  all  further  aim  on 
Violante  ;  either  she  would  be  poor,  and  he  would  not  have  her  ; 
or  she  would  be  rich,  and  her  father  would  give  her  to  another. 
As  his  heart  had  never  been  touched  by  the  fair  Italian,  so  the 
moment  her  inheritance  became  more  doubtful,  it  gave  him  no 
pang  to  lose  her ;  but  he  did  feel  very  sore  and  resentful  at  the 
thought  of  being  supplanted  by  Lord  L'Estrange, — the  man  who 
had  insulted  him. 

Neither,  as  yet,  had  Randal  made  any  way  in  his  designs  on 
Frank.  For  several  days  Madame  di  Negra  had  not  been  at 
home  either  to  himself  or  young  Hazeldean  ;  and  Frank,  though 
very  unhappy,  was  piqued  and  angry  ;  and  Randal  suspected, 
and  suspected,  and  suspected,  he  knew  not  exactly  what,  but 
that  the  devil  was  not  so  kind  to  him  there  as  that  father  of  lies 
ought  to  have  been  to  a  son  so  dutiful.  Yet,  with  all  these  dis- 
couragements, there  was  in  Randal  Leslie  so  dogged  and  deter- 
mined a  conviction  of  his  own  success — there  was  so  great  a 
tenacity  of  purpose  under  obstacles,  and  so  vigilant  an  eye  upon 
all  chances  that  could  be  turned  to  his  favor,  that  he  never  once 
abandoned  hope,  nor  did  more  than  change  the  details  in  his  main 
schemes.  Out  of  calculations  apparently  the  most  far-fetched 
and  improbable,  he  had  constructed  a  patient  policy  to  which  he 
obstinately  clung.  How  far  his  reasonings  and  patience  served 
to  his  ends,  remains  yet  to  be  seen.  But  could  our  contempt  for 
the  baseness  of  Randal  himself  be  separated  from  the  faculties 
which  he  elaborately  degraded  to  the  service  of  that  baseness, 
one  might  allow  that  there  was  something  one  could  scarcely  de- 
spise in  this  still  self-reliance,  this  inflexible  resolve.  Had  such 
qualities,  aided  as  they  were  by  abilities  of  no  ordinary  acuter 
ness,  been  applied  to  objects  commonly  honest,  one  would  have 
backed  Randal  Leslie  against  any  fifty  picked  prize-men  from  the 
colleges.  But  there  are  judges  of  weight  and  metal  who  do  that 
now,  especially  Baron  Levy,  who  says  to  himself,  as  he  eyes  that 
pale  face  all  intellect,  and  that  spare  form  all  nerve,  "This  is  a 
man  who  must  make  his  way  in  life ;  he  is  worth  helping." 

By  the  words  "  worth  helping,"  Baron  Levy  meant  "  worth 
getting  into  my  power,  that  he  may  help  me." 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

BUT  Parliament  had  met.  Events  that  belonged  to  history 
had  contributed  yet  more  to  weaken  the  administration.  Randal 


n6  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

Leslie's  interest  became  absorbed  in  politics ;  for  the  stake  to 
him  was  his  whole  political  career.  Should  Audley  lose  office, 
and  for  good,  Audley  could  aid  him  no  more ;  but  to  abandon 
his  patron,  as  Levy  recommended,  and  pin  himself,  in  the  hope 
of  a  seat  in  Parliament,  to  a  stranger,  an  obscure  stranger,  like 
Dick  Avenel — that  was  a  policy  not  to  be  adopted  at  a  breath. 
Meanwhile,  almost  every  night,  when  the  House  met,  that  pale 
face  and  spare  form,  which  Levy  so  identified  with  shrewdness 
and  energy  might  be  seen  amongst  the  benches  appropriated  to 
those  more  select  strangers  who  obtain  the  Speaker's  order  of 
admission.  There,  Randal  heard  the  great  men  of  that  day,  and 
with  the  half-contemptuous  surprise  at  their  fame,  which  is  com- 
mon enough  amongst  clever  well-educated  young  men,  who  know 
not  what  it  is  to  speak  in  the  House  of  Commons.  He  heard 
much  slovenly  English,  much  trite  reasoning,  some  eloquent 
thoughts,  and  close  argument,  often  delivered  in  a  jerking  tone 
of  voice  (properly  called  the  Parliamentary  twang),  and  often 
accompanied  by  gesticulations  that  would  have  shocked  the 
manager  of  a  provincial  theatre.  He  thought  how  much  better 
than  these  great  dons  (with  but  one  or  two  exceptions)  he  him- 
self could  speak — with  what  more  refined  logic — with -what  more 
polished  periods — how  much  more  like  Cicero  and  Burke!  Very 
probably  he  might  have  so  spoken,  and  for  that  very  reason  have 
made  that  deadest  of  all  dead  failures — a  pretentious  imitation 
of  Burke  and  Cicero.  One  thing,  however,  he  was  obliged  to  own, 
viz.,  that  in  a  popular  representative  assembly  it  is  not  precisely 
knowledge  which  is  power,  or  if  knowledge^  it  is  but  the  knowl- 
edge of  that  particular  assembly,  and  what  will  best  take  with 
it ; — passion,  invective,  sarcasm,  bold  declamation,  shrewd  com- 
mon sense,  the  readiness  so  rarely  found  in  every  profound  mind-^- 
he  owned  that  all  these  were  the  qualities  that  told  ;  -when  a  man 
who  exhibited  nothing  but  "  knowledge,"  in  the  ordinary  sense 
of  the  word,  stood  an  imminent  chance  of  being  coughed  down. 
There  at  his  left — last  but  one  in  the  row  of  the  ministerial 
chiefs — Randal  watched  Audley  Egerton,  his  arms  folded  on  his 
breast,  his  hat  drawn  over  his  brows,  his  eyes  fixed  with  steady 
courage  on  whatever  speaker  in  the  Opposition  held  possession  of 
the  floor.  And  twice  Randal  heard  Egerton  speak,  and  marvelled 
much  at  the  effect  that  minister  produced.  For  of 'those  qualities 
enumerated  above,  and  which  Randal  had  observed  to  be  more 
sure  of  success,  Audley  Egerton  only  exhibited  to  a  marked  de- 
gree— the  common  sense  and  the  readiness.  .  And  yet,  though 
but  little  applauded  by  noisy  cheers,  no  speaker  seemed  more  to 
satisfy  friends,  and  command  respect  from  foes.  The  true  secret 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  Iiy 

was  this,  which  Randal  might  well  not  divine,  since  that  young 
person,  despite  his  ancient  birth,  his  Eton  rearing,  and  his  re- 
fined air,  was  not  one  of  Nature's  gentlemen  ; — the  true  secret 
was, that  Audley  Egerton  moved,looked,  and  spoke  like  a  thorough 
gentleman  of  England.  A  gentleman  of  more  than  average  talents 
and  of  long  experience,  speaking  his  sincere  opinions — not  a 
rhetorician  aiming  at  effect.  Moreover,  Egerton  was  a  con- 
summate man  of  the  world.  He  said,  with  nervous  simplicity, 
what  his  party  desired  to  be  said,  and  put  what  his  opponents 
felt  to  be  the  strong  points  of  the  case.  Calm  and  decorous,  yet 
spirited  and  energetic,  with  little  variety  of  tone,  and  action  sub- 
dued and  rare,  but  yet  signaled  by  earnest  vigor,  Audley  Eger- 
ton impressed  the  understanding  of  the  dullest,  and  pleased  the 
taste  of  the  most  fastidious. 

But  once,  when  allusions  were  made  to  a  certain  popular  ques- 
tion, on  which  the  premier  had  announced  his  resolution  to  re- 
fuse all  concession,  and  on  the  expediency  of  which  it  was  an- 
nounced that  the  cabinet  was  nevertheless  divided — and  when 
such  allusions  were  coupled  with  direct  appeals  to  Mr,  Egerton, 
as  "  the  enlightened  member  of  a  great  commercial  constituency," 
and  with  a  flattering  doubt  that  "that  Right  Honorable -gentle- 
man, member  for  that  great  city,  identified  with  the  cause -of  the 
Burgher  class,  could  be  so  far  behind  the  spirit  of  the  age  as  his 
official  chief," — Randal  observed  that  Egerton  drew  his  hat  still 
more  closely  over  his  brows,  and  turned  to  whisper  with  one  of 
his  colleagues.  He  .could  not  be#<?/ :up  to  speak. 

That  evening  Randal  walked  home  with  Egerton,and  intimated 
his  surprise  that  the  minister  had  declined  what  seemed  to  him 
a  good  occasion  for  one-  of  those  brief,  weighty  replies  by  which 
Audley  was  chiefly  distinguished — an  occasion  to  which  he  had 
been  loudly  invited  by  the  "hears"  of  the  House. 

"  Leslie,"  answered  the  statesman^  briefly,  "  I  owe  all  my  suc- 
cess in  Parliament  .to  this  rule — I  have  never  spoken  against 
my  convictions.  I  intend  to  abide  by  it  to  the  last." 

"  But  if  the  question  at  issue  comes  before  the  House,  you 
will  vote  against  it  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  I  vote  as  a  member  of  the  cabinet.  But  since  I 
am  not  leader  and  mouth-piece  of  the  party,  I  retain  as  an  in- 
dividual the  privilege  to  speak  or  ke.ep  silence." 

"Ah,  my  dear  Mr,  Egerton,"  exclaimed  Randal, "  forgive  me. 
But  this  question,  right  or  wrong,  has  got  such  hold  of  the  public 
mind.  So  little,  if  conceded  in  time,  would  give  content;  and  it  is 
so  clear  (if  I  may  judge  b.y  the  talk  I  hear  everywhere  I  go)  that  by 
refusing  allconcession,  the  Government  must  fall,  that  I 


Il8  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

"So  do  I  wish,"  interrupted  Egerton,  with  a  gloomy,  impatient 
sigh — "  so  do  I  wish  J  But  what  avails  it  ?  If  my  advice  had  been 
taken  but  three  weeks  ago — now  it  is  too  late — we  could  have 
doubled  the  rock;  we  refused,  we  must  split  upon  it." 

This  speech  was  so  unlike  the  discreet  and  reserved  minister, 
that  Randal  gathered  courage  to  proceed  with  an  idea  that  had 
occurred  to  his  own  sagacity.  And  before  I  state  it,  I  must  add 
that  Egerton  had  of  late  shown  much  more  personal  kindness 
to  his  protegt;  whether  his  spirits  were  broken,  or  that  at  last, 
close  and  compact  as  his  nature  of  bronze  was,  he  felt  the  im- 
perious want  to  groan  aloud  in  some  loving  ear,  the  stern  Aud- 
ley seemed  tamed  and  softened.  So  Randal  went  on. 

"  May  I  say  what  I  have  heard  expressed  with  regard  to  you 
and  your  position — in  the  streets — in  the  clubs?" 

•"  Yes,  it  is  in  the  streets  and  the  clubs  that  statesmen  should 
go  to, school.  Say  on." 

"  Well,  then,  I  have  heard  it  made  a  matter  of  wonder  why 
you,  and  one  or  two  others  I  will  not  name,  do  not  at  once  re- 
tire from  the  ministry,  and  on  the  avowed  ground  that  you  side 
with  the  public  feeling  on  this  irresistible  question." 

"Eh!" 

"  It  is  clear  that  in  so  doing  you  would  become  the  most  popu- 
lar man  in  the  country — clear  that  you  would  be  summoned  back 
to  power  on  the  shoulders  of  the  people.  No  new  cabinet  could 
be  formed  without  you,  and  your  station  in  it  would  perhaps  be 
higher,  for  life,  than  that  which  you  may  now  retain  but  for  a 
few  weeks  longer.  Has  not  this  ever  occurred  to  you  ?  " 

"  Never,"  said  Audley,  with  dry  composure. 

Amazed  at  such  obtuseness,  Randal  exclaimed,  "  Is  it  pos- 
sible !  And  yet,  forgive  me  if  I  say  I  think  you  are  ambitious, 
and  love  power." 

'•  No  man  more  ambitious;  and  if  by  power  you  mean  office, 
it  has  grown  the  habit  of  my  life,  and  I  shall  hot  know  what  to 
do  without  it." 

"  And  how,  then,  has  what  seems  to  me  so  obvious  never  oc- 
curred to  you  ? " 

"  Because  you  are  young,  and  therefore  I  forgive  you;  but  not 
the  gossips  who  could  wonder  why  Audley  Egerton  refused  to  be- 
tray the  friends  of  his  whole  career,  and  to  profit  by  the  treason." 

"  But  one  should  love  one's  country  before  a  party." 

"  No  doubt  of  that;  and  the  first  interest  of  a  country  is  the 
honor  of  its  public  men." 

"  But  men  may  leave  their  party  without  dishonor  !  " 

"  Who  doubts  that?  Do  you  suppose  that  if  I  were  an  ordinary 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  1*9 

independent  member  of  Parliament,  loaded  with  no  obligations, 
charged  with  no  trust,  I  could  hesitate  fora  moment  what  course 

to  pursue?  Oh,  that  I  were  but  the  member  for !  Oh,  that  I 

had  the  full  right  to  be  a  free  agent!  But  if  a  member  of  a  cabinet 
a  chief  in  whom  thousands  confide,  because  he  is  outvoted  in  a 
council  of  his  colleagues,  suddenly  retires,  and  by  so  doing  breaks 
up  the  whole  party  whose  confidence  he  has  enjoyed,  whose  re- 
wards he  has  reaped,  to  whom  he  owes  the  very  position  which  he 
employs  to  their  ruin — own  that  though  his  choice  may  be  honest, 
it  is  one  which  requires  all  the  consolations  of  conscience." 

"  But  you  will  have  those  consolations.  And,"  added  Randal 
energetically,  "  the  gain  to  your  career  will  be  so  immense  !  " 

"That  is  precisely  what  it  cannot  be,"  answered  Egerton, 
gloomily.  "  1  grant  that  I  may,  if  I  choose,  resign  office  with  the 
present  Government,  and  so  at  once  destroy  that  government ; 
for  my  resignation  on  such  ground  would  suffice  to  do  it.  I  grant 
this;  but  for  that  very  reason  I  could  not  the  next  day  take  office 
with  another  administration.  I  could  not  accept  wages  for  deser- 
tion. No  gentleman  could!  and  therefore — "  Audley  stopped 
short,  and  buttoned  his  coat  over  his  broad  breast.  The  action 
was  significant;  it  said  that  the  man's  mind  was  made  up. 

In  fact,  whether  Audley  Egerton  was  right  or  wrong  in  his 
theory,  depends  upon  much  subtler,  and  perhaps  loftier,  views  in 
the  casuistry  of  political  duties,  than  it  was  in  his  character  to 
take.  And  I  guard  myself  from  saying  anything  in  praise  or  dis- 
favor of  his  notions,  or  implying  that  he  is  a  fit  or  unfit  example  in 
a  parallel  case.  I  am  but  describing  the  man  as  he  was,  and  as  a 
man  like  him  would  inevitably  be,  under  the  influences  in  which 
he  lived,  and  in  that  peculiar  world  of  which  he  was  sd  emphati- 
cally a  member.  Ce  nest  pas  moi  qui  parlt,  c*est  Marc  Aurtle. 

He  speaks,  not  I. 

Randal  had  no  time  for  further  discussion.  They  now  reached 
Egerton's  house,  and  the  minister,  taking  the  chamber  candle- 
stick from  his  servant's  hand,  nodded  a  silent  good-night  to 
Leslie,  and  with  a  jaded  look  retired  to  his  room. 

: 

CHAPTER  XV. 

BUT  not  on  the  threatened  question  was  that  eventful  cam- 
paign of  Party  decided.  The  Government  fell  less  in  battle  than 
skirmish.  It  was  one  fatal  Monday — a  dull  question  of  finance 
and  figures.  Prosy  and  few  were  the  speakers.  •  All  the  Gove'rn- 
ment  silent,  save  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  and  another 
business-like  personage  connected  with  the  Board  of  Trade, 


120  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

whom  the  House  would  hardly  condescend  to  hear.  The  House 
was  in  no  mood  to  think  of  facts  and  figures.  Early  in  the  evening, 
between  nine  and  ten,  the  Speaker's  sonorous  voice  sounded, 
"  Strangers  must  withdraw  !  "  And  Randal,  anxious  and  fore- 
boding, descended  from  his  seat  and  went  out  of  the  fatal  doors. 
He  turned  to  take  a  last  glance  at  Audley  Egerton.  The  whipper- 
in  was  whispering  to  Audley;  and  the  minister  pushed  back  his 
hat  from  his  brows,  and  glanced  round  the  House  and  up  into 
the  galleries,  as  if  to  calculate  rapidly  the  relative  numbers  of  the 
two  armies  in  the  field;  then  he  smiled  bitterly,  and  threw  him- 
self back  into  his  seat.  That  smile  long  haunted  Leslie. 

Amongst  the  strangers  thus  banished  with  Randal,  while  the 
division  was  being  taken,  were  many  young  men,  like  himself 
connected  with  tlxe  administration — some  by  blood,  some  by 
place.  Hearts  beat  loud  in  the  swarming  lobbies.  Ominous 
mournful  whispers  were  exchanged.  "  They  say  the  Government 
will  have  a  majority  of  ten."  "  No;  I  hear  they  will  certainly  be 

beaten."  "  H-> says  by  fifty."  "  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  a  Lord 

of  the  Bedchamber;  "it  is  impossible.  I  left  five  Government 
members  dining  at  the  '  Travellers.'  "  "No  one  thought  the  divi- 
sion would  be  so  early."  "A  , trick  of  the  Whigs — shameful." 
"Wonder;  some  one  was  not  set.  up  to  talk  for  time;  very  odd 

P* did  not. speak;  howev.er,  he  is  so  cursedly  rich,  he  do.es  riot 

care  whether  he  is  .out  or  in."  "Yes;  and  Audley  Egerton  too, 
just  such  another;  glad,  no  doubt,,  to  be  set  free  to  look  after  his 
property;  very  different  tactics  if  we  .had  men  to  whom  office 
was  as  necessary  as  it:  is — to  me  !  "  said '  a  candid  young  place- 
man. .Suddenly  the  silent  Leslie  felt  a  friendly  grasp  on  his 
arm.  He  turned  and  saw  Levy. 

"  Did  I  not  tell  you  ?  "  said  the  Baron,  with  aaexulting  smile. 

"  You  are  sure,  then,  that  the  Government  will  be  out-voted?" 

"I  spent  the  morning  in  going  over 'the  list  of  members  with  a 
parliamentary  client  of  mine,  who  knows  them  alias  a  shepherd 
does  his  sheep.  Majority  for  the  Opposition  atleast  twenty-five." 

"And  in  that  case  must  the  Government  resign,  sir  ?  "  asked 
the  candid  young  placeman,  who  had  been  listening  to  the 
smart  well-dressed  Baron,  "his, soul  planted  in  his  ears." 

"  Of  course,  sir,"  replied  tHe  Baron,  blandly,  and  offering 
his  snuff-box  (true  Louis  Quince,  with;  a;rn.iniature  of_  Madame 
de  Pompadour,  set  in  pearls);  "  you  are;a  friend  to  the  pres- 
ent ministers  ?  You  could  not  wish  them  to  be  mean  enough 
to  stay  in  ??'  Randal  drew  aside  the  Baron. 

"  If  Audley's  affairs  are  as  you  state,  what  can  he  dp  ?" 

"  I  shall  ask  him  that  question  to-morrow,"  answered  the 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  121 

Baron,  with  a  look  of  visible  hate.  "  And  I  have  come  here  just 
to  see  how  he  bears  the  prospect  before  him." 

"  You  will  not  discover  that  in  his  face.  And  those  absurd 
scruples  of  his!  If  he  had  but  gone  out  in  time — to  come  in 
again  with  the  New  Men  !  " 

"  Oh,  of  course,  our  Right  Honorable  is  too  punctilious  for 
that!  "  answering  the  Baron,  sneering. 

Suddenly  the  doors  opened — in  rushed  the  breathless  expect- 
ants. "What  are  the  numbers  ?  What  is  the  division  ?" 

"  Majority  against  ministers/'  said  a  member  of  Opposition, 
peeling  an  orange,  "twenty-nine." 

The  Baron,  too,  had  a  Speaker's  order;  and  he. came  into  the 
House  with  Randal,  and  sat  by  his  side.  But,  to  their  disgust,  some 
member,  was  talking  about  the  other  motions  before  the  House. 

"What!  has  nothing  been  said  as  to  the  division?"  asked  the 
Baron  of  .a  young  country  member,  who  was  talking  to  some 
non  parliamentary  friend  in  the  bench  before  Levy.  The  county 
member  was  one  of  the  Baron's  pet  eldes.t  sons — had  dined  often 
with  Levy — was  under  "obligations"  to  him.  The  young  legislator 
looked  very  much  ashamed  of  Levy's  friendly  pat  on  his  shoulder, 

and  answered,  hurriedly,  "O  yes;  H asked,  'if,  after  such  an 

expression  of  the  House,  it  was  the  intention  of  ministers  to  retain 
their  places,  and  carry  on  the  business  of  the  Government  ? ' ' 

"Just  like  H — — !  Very  inquisitive  mind!  And  what  was  the 
answer  he  got  ? " 

:     "None,"  said  the  county  member  ;  and  returned  in  haste  to 
his  proper  seat  in  the  body  of  the  House,. 

"  There  comes  Egerton,"  said  the  Baron.  And,  indeed,  as 
most  of  the  members  were  now;  leaving  :the  House,  tp  talk  over 
affairs  at  clubs  or  in  saloons,  and  spread  through  town  the  great 
tidings,  Audley  Egerton's  tall  head  was  seen  towering  above  the 
rest.  And  Levy  turned  away  disappointed.  For  not  only  was  the 
minister's  handsome  face,  though  pale,  serene  and  cheerful,  but 
there  was  an  obvious  courtesy,  a,  marked  respect,  in  the  mode  in 
which  that  assembly: — heated  though  it  was — made  way  for  the 
fallen  minister  as  he  passed  through  the  jostling  crowd.  And  the 
f  rank,urbane  nobleman  whoaf  terward,f  rom  the  force,  not  of-  talent 
but  of  character,became  the  leader  in  that  House^pressed  the  hand 
of  his  old  opponent,  as  they  met  in  the  throng  near  thedoors,  and 
said  aloud,"!  shall  not  be  a  proud  man  if  everllive  to  haveoffice; 
but  I  shall  be  proud  if  ever  I  leave  it  with  as  little  to  .be  said  against 
me  as  your  bitterest  opponents  can  say  against  you,  Egerton." 

"I  wonder,"  exclaimed  the  Baron  aloud,  and  leaning  over  the 
partition  that  divided  him  from  the  throng  below,  so  that  his 


122  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

voice  reached  Egerton — and  there  was  a  cry  from  formal  indig- 
nant members,  "Order  in  the  strangers'  gallery !  "  "I  wonder 
what  Lord  L'Estrange  will  say  ? " 

Audley  lifted  his  dark  brows,  surveyed  the  Baron  for  an  in- 
stant with  flashing  eyes,  then  walked  down  the  narrow  defile 
between  the  last  benches,  and  vanished  from  the  scene  in  which, 
alas  !  so  few  of  the  most  admired  performers  leave  mere  than 
an  actor's  short-lived  name  ! 

CHAPTER   XVI. 

BARON  LEVY  did  not  execute  his  threat  of  calling  on  Egerton 
the  next  morning.  Perhaps  he  shrank  from  again  meeting  the 
flash  of  those  indignant  eyes.  And  indeed  Egerton  was  too  busied 
all  the  forenoon  to  see  any  one  upon  public  affairs,  except  Har- 
ley,  who  hastened  to  console  or  cheer  him.  When  the  House 
met,  it  was  announced  that  the  ministers  had  resigned,  only 
holding  their  offices  till  their  successors  were  appointed.  But 
already  there  was  some  reaction  in  their  favor  ;  and  when  it 
became  generally  known  that  the  new  administration  was  to  be 
formed  of  men,  few  indeed  of  whom  had  ever  before  held  office, 
the  common  superstition  in  the  public  mind,  that  the  govern- 
ment is  like  a  trade,  in  which  a  regular  apprenticeship  must  be 
served,  began  to  prevail  ;  and  the  talk  at  the  clubs  was,  that  the 
men  could  not  stand;  that  the  former  ministry,  with  some  modi- 
fication, would  be  back  in  a  month.  Perhaps  that  too  might  be  a 
reason  why  Baron  Levy  thought  it  prudent  not  prematurely  to 
offer  vindictive  condolences  to  Mr.  Egerton.  Randal  spent  part 
^of  his  morning  in  inquiries  as  to  what  gentlemen  in  his  situation 
meant  to  do  with  regard  to  their  places;  he  heard  with  great  sat- 
isfaction that  very  few  intended  to  volunteer  retirement  from 
their  desks.  As  Randal  himself  had  observed  to  Egerton,  "their 
country  before  their  party!  " 

Randal's  place  was  of  great  moment  to  him  ;  its  duties  were 
easy,  its  salary  amply  sufficient  for  his  wants,  and  sufficed  to  de- 
fray such  expenses  as  were  bestowed  on  the  education  of  Oliver 
and  his  sister.  For  I  am  bound  to  do  justice  to  this  young  man — 
indifferent  as  he  was  toward  his  species  in  general,  the  ties  of 
family  were  strong  with  him;  and  he  stinted  himself  in  many 
temptations  most  alluring  to  his  age,  in  the  endeavor  to  raise 
the  dull  honest  Oliver  and  the  loose-'haired  pretty  Juliet  some- 
what more  to  his  own  level  of  culture  and  refinement.  Men  es- 
sentially griping  and  unscrupulous  often  do  make  the  care  for 
their  family  an  apology  for  their  sins  against  the  world.  Even 
Richard  III.,  if  the  chroniclers  are  to  be  trusted,  excused  the 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  I2J 

murder  of  his  nephews  by  his  passionate  affection  for  his  son. 
With  the  loss  of  that  place,  Randal  lost  all  means  of  support, 
save  what  Audley  could  give  him;  and  if  Audley  were  in  truth 
ruined!  Moreover,  Randal  had  already  established  at  the  office 
a  reputation  for  ability  and  industry.  It  was  a  career  in  which, 
if  he  abstained  from  party  politics,  he  might  rise  to  a  fair  station 
and  to  a  considerable  income.  Therefore,  much  contented  with 
what  he  learned  as  to  the  general  determination  of  his  fellow- 
officials,  a  determination  warranted  by  ordinary  precedent  in 
such  cases,  Randal  dined  at  a  club  with  good  relish,-  and  much 
Christian  resignation  for  the  reverse  of  his  patron,  and  then 
walked  to  Grosvenor  Square,  on  the  chance  of  finding  Audley 
within.  Learning  that  he  was  so,  from  the  porter  who  opened 
the  door,  Randal  entered  the  library.  Three  gentlemen  were 
seated  there  withEgerton;  one  of  the  three  was  Lord  L'Estrange, 
the  other  two  were  members  of  the  really  defunct,  though  nomi- 
nally still  existing,  Government.  He  was  about  to  withdraw  from 
intruding  on  this  conclave,  when  Egerton  said  to  him  gently, 
"Come  in,  Leslie;  I  was  just  speaking  about  yourself." 

"About  me, sir?" 

"Yes;  about  you  and  the  place  you  hold.  I  had  asked  Sir 

(pointing  to  a  fellow-minister)  whether  I  might  not,  with  pro- 
priety, request  your  chief  to  leave  some  note  of  his  opinion  of 
your  talents,  which  I'know  is  high,  and  which  might  serve  you 
with  his  successor." 

"Oh,  sir,  at  such  a  time  to  think  of  me  !  "  exclaimed  Randal, 
and  he  was  genuinely  touched. 

"But,"  resumed  Audley,  with  his  usual  dryness,  "Sir ,  to 

my  surprise,  thinks  that  it  would  better  become  you  that  yott 
should  resign.  Unless  his  reasons,  which  he  has  not  yet  stated, 
are  very  strong,  such  would  not  be  my  advice." 

"My  reasons,"  said  Sir ,with  official  formality,  "are  simply 

these:  I  have  a  nephew  in  a  similar  situation;  he  will  resign,  as 
a  matter  of  course.  Every  one  in  the  public  offices  whose  rela- 
tions and  near  connections  hold  high  appointments  in  the  Gov- 
ernment, will  do  so.  I  do  not  think  Mr.  Leslie  willlike  to  feel 
himself  a  solitary  exception." 

"Mr.  Leslie  is  no  relation  of  mine — not  even  a  near  connec- 
tion," answered  Egerton. 

"But  his  name  is  so  associated  with  your  own — hehas  resided 
so  long  in  your  house — is  so  well  known  in  society  (and  don't 
think  I  compliment  when  I  add,  that  we  hope  so  well  of  him), 
that  I  can't  think  it  worth  his  while  to  keep  this  paltry  place, 
which  incapacitates  him  too  from  a  seat  in  Parliament." 


124  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Sir was  one.Of  those  terribly  rich  men,  to  whom  all  con- 
siderations of  mere  bread  and  cheese  are  paltry.  But  I  must  add 
that  he  supposed  Egerton  to  be  still  wealthier  than  himself,  and 

sure  to  provide  handsomely  for  Randal,  whom  Sir rather 

liked  than  not;  and  for  Randal's  own  sakje,  Sir  — ; —  thought  it 
would  lower  him  in  the  estimation  of  Egerton  himself,  despite 
that  gentleman's  advocacy,  if  he  did  not  follow  the  example  of 
his  avowed  and  notorious  patron. 

"You  see,  Leslie,"  said  Egerton,  checking  Randal's  meditated 
reply,  "that  nothing  can  be  said  against  your  honor  if  you  stay 
where  you  are;  it  is  a  mere  question  of  expediency;  I  will  judge 
that  for  you;  keep  your  place." 

Unhappily  the  other  member  of  the  Government,  who  had 
hitherto  been  silent,iwas  a  literary  man.  Unhappily,  while  this 
talk  had  proceeded,  he  had  placed  his  hand  upon  Randal  Les- 
lie's celebrated  pamphlet,  which  lay  on  the  library  table  ;  and, 
turning  over  the  leaves,  the  whole  spirit  and  matter  of  that 
masterly  composition  in  defence  of  the  administration  (a  com- 
position steeped  in  all  the  essence  of;  party)  recurred  to  his  too 
faithful  recollection.  He,  too,  liked  Randal ;  he  did  more— he 
admired  the  author  of  that  striking 'and  effective  pamphlet. 
And  therefore,  rousing  himself  from  the  sublime  indifference  he 
had  before  felt  for  the  fate  of  a  subaltern,  he  said,  with  abland 
and  complimentary  smile,  "  No  ;  the  writer  of  this  most  able 
publication  is  no  ordinary  placeman.  His  opinions  also  are  too 
vigorously  stated;  this  fine  irony  on  the  very  person  who  in  all 
probability  will  be  the  chief  in  his  office,  has  excited  too  lively  an 
attention  to  allow  him  the  sedet ceternu mque  sedebil  on  an  official 
stool.  Ha,ha!  this  is  so  good!  Read  it,L'Estrange.  What  say  you?" 

Harley  glanced  over  the  page  pointed  out  to  him.  The  original 
was  in  one  of  Burley's  broad,  coarse,  but  telling  burlesques, 
strained  fine  through  Randal's  more  polished  satire.  It  was  cap- 
ital. Harley  smiled,  and  lifted  his  eyes  to  Randal.  The  unlucky 
plagiarist's  face  was  flushed — the  beads  stood  on  his  brow.  Har- 
ley was  a  good  hater;  he  loved  too  warmly  not  to  err  on  the  oppo- 
site side;  but  he  was  one.  of  those  men  who  forget  hate  when  its 
object  is  distressed  and  humbled.  He  put  down  the  pamphlet 
and  said,  "I  am  no  politician;  but  Egerton  is  so  well  known  to 
be  fastidious  and  over-scrupulous  in  all  points  of  official  eti- 
quette, that  Mr.  Leslie  cannot  follow  a  safer  counsellor." 

"  Read  that  yourself,  Egerton,"  said  Sir ;  and  he  pushed 

the  pamphlet  to  Audley. 

Now  Egerton  had  a:dim  recollection  that  that  pamphlet  was 
unlucky;  but  he  had  skimmed  over  its  contents  hastily,  and  at 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  125 

that  moment  had  forgotten  allabout  it.  He  took  up  the  too  famous 
work  with  a  reluctant  hand,  but  he  read  attentively  the  passages 
pointed  out  to  him,  and  then  said  gravely  and  sadly — 

"Mr.  Leslie,jl  retract  my  advice.  I  believe  Sir is  right;  that 

the  nobleman  here  so  keenly  satirized  will  be  the  chief  in  your 
office.  I  doubt  whether  he  will  not  compel  your  dismissal ;  at 
all  events,  he  could  scarcely  be  expected  to  promote  your  advance- 
ment. Under  the  circumstances,  I  fear  you  have  no  option  as  a — " 
Egert6n  paused  a  moment,  and,  with  a  sigh  that  seemed  to  settle 
the  question,  concluded  with — "as  a  gentleman." 

NeverdidJackCade,neverdidWatTyler,feelamoredeadlyhate 
to  that  word  "gentleman, "than  the  well-born  Leslie  feltth  en  ;buthe 
bowed  his  head,  and  answered  with  his  usual  presence  of  mind— 

"  You  utter  my  own  sentiment." 

"You  think  we  are  right,  Harley  ?"  asked  Egerton,  with  an 
irresolution  that  surprised  all  present. 

"  I  think,"  answered  Harley,  with  a  compassion  for  Randal  that 
was  almost  over-generous,  and  yet  with  an  Equivoque  on  the  words, 
despite  the  compassion — "I  think  whoever  has  served  Audley  Eg- 
erton, never  yet  has  been  a  loser  by  it;  and  if  Mr.  Leslie  wrote  this 
pamphlet,hemust  have  well  served  Audley  Egerton.  If  he  undergoes 
the  penalty,  we  may  safely  trust  to  Egerton  for  the  compensation." 

"  My  compensation  has  long  since  been  made,"  answered  Ran- 
dal, with  grace  ;  "  and  that  Mr.  Egerton  could  thus  have  cared  for 
my  fortunes,  at  an  hour  so  occupied,  is  a  thought  of  pride  which — " 

"Enough,  Leslie  !  enough!"  interrupted  Egerton,  rising  and 
pressing  \\\s protfgfs  hand.  "See  me  before  you  go  to  bed." 

Then  the  two  other  ministers  rose  also  and  shook  hands  with 
Leslie,  and  told  him  he  had  done  the  right  thing,  and  that  they 
hoped  soon  to  see  him  in  Parliament;  and  hinted,  smilingly, 
that  the  next  administration  did  not  promise  ta  be  very  long- 
lived  ;  and  one  asked  him  to  dinner,  and  the  other  to  spend  a 
week  at  his  country  seat.  And  amidst  these  congratulations  at 
the  stroke  that  left  him  penniless,  the  distinguished  Pamphleteer 
left  the  room.  How  he  cursed  big  John  Burley  ! 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

IT  was  past  midnight  when  Audley  Egerton  summoned  Randal. 
The  statesman  was  then  alone,  seated  before  his  great  desk,  with 
its  manifold  compartments,  and  engaged  on  the  task  of  transfer- 
ring various  papers  and  letters,  some  t&thewaste-basket/someto 
the  flames,  some  to  two  great  iron  chests,  with  patent  locks,  that 
stood,  open-mouthed,  at  his  feet.  Strong,  stern,  and  grim,  looked 


126  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

those  iron  chests,  silently  receiving  the  relics  of  power  departed  ; 
strong,  stern,  and  grim  as  the  grave.  Audley  lifted  his  eyes  at 
Randal's  entrance,  signed  to  him  to  take  a  chair,  continued  his 
task  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  turning  round,  as  if  by  an  effort 
he  plucked  himself  from  his  master-passion — Public  Life, — he 
said,  with  deliberate  tones— 

"  I  know  not,  Randal  Leslie,  whether  you  thought  me  needlessly 
cautious,  or  wantonly  unkind,  when  I  told  you  never  to  expect 
from  me  more  than  such  advance  to  your  career  as  m,y  then 
position  could  effect — never  to  expect  from  my  liberality  in  life, 
nor  from  my  testament  in  death — an  addition  to  your  private 
fortunes.  I  see  by  your  gesture  what  would  be  your  reply,  and  I 
thank  you  for  it.  I  now  tell  you,  as  yet  in  confidence,  though 
before  long  it  can  be  no  secret  to  the  world,  that  my  pecuniary 
affairs  have  been  so  neglected  by  me  in  my  devotion  to  those  of 
the  State,  that  I  am  somewhat  like  the  man  who  portioned  out 
his  capital  at  so  much  a  day,  calculating  to  live  just  long  enough 
to  make  it  last.  Unfortunately  he  lived  too  long."  Audley 
smiled — but  the  smile  was  as  cold  as  a  sunbeam  upon  ice — and 
went  on  with  the  same  firm  unfaltering  accents:  "  The  prospects 
that  face  me  I  am  prepared  for  ;  they  do  not  take  me  by  surprise. 
I  knew  long  since  how  this  would  end,  if  J  survived  the  loss  of 
office.  I  knew  it  before  you  came  to  me,  and  therefore  1  spoke  to 
you  as  I  didjudging.it  manful  and  right  to  guard  you  against  hopes 
which  you  might  otherwise  have  naturally  entertained.  On  this 
head,  I  need  say  no  more.  It  may  excite  your  surprise,  possibly 
your  blame,  that  I,  esteemed  methodical  and  practical  enough  in 
the  affairs  of  the  State,  should  be  so  imprudent  as  to  my  own." 

"  Oh,  sir!   you  owe  no  account  to  me." 

"  To  you,  at.  least,  as  much  as  to  any  one.  I  am  a  solitary 
man  ;  my  few  relations  need  nothing  from  me.  I  had  a  right 
to  spend  what  I  possessed  as  I  pleased  ;  and  if  I  have  spent  it 
recklessly  as  regards  myself,  I  have  not  spent  it  ill  in  its  effect 
on  others.  It  has  been  my  object  for  many  years  to  have  no 
Private  Life — to  dispense  with  its  sorrows,  joys,  affections  ;  and 
as  to  its  duties,  they  did  not  exist  for  me — I  have  said."  Me- 
chanically, as  he  ended,  the  minister's  hand  closed  the  lid  of  one 
of  the  iron  boxes,  and  on  the  closed  lid  he  rested  his  firm  foot. 
"But  now,"  he  resumed, "I  have  failed  to  advance  your  career. 
True,  I  warned  you  that  you  drew  into  a  lottery  ;  but  you  had 
more  chance  of  a  prize  than  a  blank.  A  blank,  however,  it  has 
turnedout,  and  the  question  becomesgrave — Whatare  you  todo?" 

Here,  seeing  that  Egerton  came  to  a  full  pause,  Randal  an- 
_swered,  readily — 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  127 

"Still,  sir,  to  go  by  your  advice." 

"My  advice,"  said  Audley,  with  a  softened  look,  "would  per- 
haps be  rude  and  unpalatable,  I  would  rather  place  before  you 
an  option.  On  the  one  hand,  recommence  life  again.  I  told  you 
that  I  would  keep  your  name  on  your  college  books.  You  can  re- 
turn— you  can  take  your  degree — after  that,  you  can  go  to  thebar — 
you  have  just  the  talents  calculated  to  succeed  in  that  profession. 
Success  will  be  slow,  it  is  true  ;  but,  with  perseverance,  it  will  be 
sure.  And, believe  me,  Leslie,  Ambition  isonly  sweet  while  it  is  but 
the  loftier  name  for  Hope.  Who  would  care  for  a  fox's  brush  if  it 
had  not  been  rendered  a  prize  by  the  excitement  of  the  chase  ?" 

"  Oxford — again !  It  is  a  long  step  back  in  life,"  said  Randal, 
drearily,  and  little  heeding  Egerton's  unusual  indulgence  of 
illustration.  "A  long  step  back — and  to  what  ?  To  a  profes- 
sion in  which  one  never  begins  to  rise  till  one's  hair  is  gray. 
Besides,  how  live  in  the  meanwhile  ?  " 

"  Do  not  let  that  thought  disturb  you.  The  modest  income 
that  suffices  for  a  student  at  the  bar,  I  trust,  at  least,  to  insure 
you  from  the  wrecks  of  my  fortune." 

"  Ah,  sir,  I  would  not  burden  you  farther.  What  right  have  I 
to  such  kindness,  save  my  name  of  Leslie  ?  "  And,  in  spite  of  him- 
self, as  Randal  concluded,  a  tone  of  bitterness,  that  betrayed  re- 
proach, broke  forth.  Egerton  was  too  much  the  man  of  the  world 
not  to  comprehend  the  reproach,  and  not  to  pardon  it. 

"  Certainly,"  he  answered,  calmly,  "as  a  Leslie  you  are  en- 
titled to  my  consideration,  and  would  have  been  entitled  per- 
haps to  more,  had  I  not  so  explicitly  warned  you  to  the  con- 
trary. But  the  bar  does  not  seem  to  please  you  ?" 

"What  is  the  alternative,  sir?  Let  me  decide  when  I  hear 
it,"  answered  Randal,  sullenly.  He  began  to  lose  respect  for 
the  man  who  owned  he  could  do  so  little  for  him,  and  who  evi- 
dently recommended  him  to  shift  for  himself. 

If  one  could  have  pierced  into  Egerton's  gloomy  heart  as  he 
noted  the  young  man's  change  of  tone,  it  may  be  a'  doubt 
whether  one  would  have  seen  there  pain  or  pleasure — pain,  for 
merely  from  the  force  of  habit  he  had  begun  to  like  Randal — or 
pleasure,  at  the  thought  that  he  might  have  reason  to  withdraw 
that  liking.  So  lone  and  stoical  had  grown  the  man,  who  had 
made  it  his  object  to  have  no  private  life  !  Revealing,  however, 
neither  pleasure  nor  pain,  but  with  the  composed  calmness  of  a 
judge  upon  the  bench,  Egerton  replied — 

"  The  alternative  is  to  continue  in  the  course  you  have  begun, 
and  still  to  rely  on  me." 

"  Sir,  my  dear  Mr.  Egerton,"  exclaimed  Randal,  regaining  all 


1 28  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

his  usual  tenderness  of  look  and  voice,  "  rely  on  you  !    But  that 
is  all. I  ask  !    Only—" 

,    "Only,  you  would  say,  I  am  going  out  of  power,  and  you 
don't,  see  the  chance  of  my  return  ?" 

"I  did  not  mean  that." 

"  Permit  me  to  suppose  that  you  did  ;  very  true  ;  but  the  party 
I  belong  to  is  as  sure  of  return  as  the  pendulum  of  that  clock  is 
sure  to  obey  the  mechanism  that  moves  it  from  left  to  right.  Our 
successors  propose  to  come  in  upon  a  popular  question.  All 
administrations  who  do  that  are  necessarily  short-lived.  Either 
they  do  not  go  far  enough  to  please  present  supporters.,  or  they 
go  so  far  as  to  arm  new  enemies  in  the  rivals  who  outbid  them 
with  the  people.  'Tis  the  history  of  all  revolutions,  and  of  all  re- 
forms. Our  own  administration  in  reality  is  destroyed1  for  hav- 
ing passed  what  was  called  a  popular  measure  .a  year  ago,  which 
lost  us  half  our  friends,  and  refusing  to  propose  another  popular 
measure  this  year,  in  the  which  we  are  outstripped  by  the  man 
who  halloo'd  us  on  to  the  last.  Therefore,  whatever  our  succes- 
sors do,  we  shall,  by  the  law  of  .reaction,  have  another  experiment 
of  power  afforded  to  ourselves.  It  is  but  a  question  of  time  ;  you 
can  wait  for  it.;  whether  I  can  is  uncertain.  But  if  I  die  before 
that  day  arrives,  I  have  influence  enough  still  left  with  those 
w.ho  will  come  in,  to  obtain  a  promise  of  a  better  provision  for 
you  than  that  which  you  have  lost.  .The  promises  of  public 
men  are  proverbially  uncertain.  But  I  shall  intrust  your  cause  to 
a  man  who  never  failed  a  friend;  and  :whose  rank  will  enable 
him  to  see.  that  justice,  is  done  to_you — I  speak  of  Lord  L'Es- 
trange." 

"  Oh, not  him.;  he  is  unjust  to  me  ;  he  dislikes  me  ;  he — " 
i  "May  dislike  you  (he  has  whims),  but  he  loves  me;  and 
though  for  no  other  human  being  but  you  would  I  ask  Harley 
L'Estrange  a  favor,  yet  iovyou  I  will,"  said  Bgerton,  betraying,  for 
the  first  time  in  that  dialogue,  a  visible  emotion-^"  for  you,  aLes- 
lie,  a  kinsman,  however  remote,  to  the  wife  from  whom  I  received 
my  fortune  !  And,  despite  of  all  my  cautions,  it  is  possible  that  in 
wasting  that  fortune  I  may  have  wronged  you.  Enough !  You  have 
now  before  you  the  two  options,  much  as  you  had  at  first ;  but 
you  have  at  presqnt  more  experience  to  aid  you  in  your  choice. 
You  are  a  man-,;  and  with  more  brains  than  most  men  ;  think 
over  it  well  and  decide  for  yourself..  Now  to  bed,  and  postpone 
thought  till  the  morrow.  Poor  Randal,  you  look  pale  !  " 

Audley,  as  he  said  the  last  words,  put  his  hand  on  Randal's 
shoulder,  almost  with  a  father's  gentleness  ;  and  then  suddenly 
(drawing  himself  up,-  as  the  hard,  inflexible  expression,  stamped 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  1 29 

on  that  face  by  years,  returned,  he  moved  away  and  resettled  to 
Public  Life  and  the  iron  box. 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

EARLY  the  next  day,  Randal  Leslie  was  in  the  luxurious  busi- 
ness-room of  Baron  Levy.  How  unlike  the  cold  Doric  sim- 
plicity  of  the  statesman's  library.  Axminster  carpets  three 
inches  thick,  portieres  a  la  Fran  false  before  the  doors;  Parisian 
bronzes  on  the  chimney-piece;  and  all  the  receptacles  that 
lined  the  room,  and  contained  title-deeds,  and  post-obits,  and 
bills,  and  promises  to  pay,  and  lawyer-like  japan-boxes,  with 
many  a  noble  name  written  thereon  in  large  white  capitals — 
"making  ruin  pompous  " — all  these  sepulchres  of  departed 
patrimonies  veneered  in  rosewood  that  gleamed  with  Frencli 
polish,  and  blazed  with  ormolu.  There  was  a  coquetry,  aii  air 
of  petit-maf'tre,  so  diffused  over  the  whole  room,  that  you  could 
not,  for  the  life  of  you,  recollect  you  were  with  an  usurer! 
Plutus  wore  the  aspect  of  his  enemy  Cupid  ;  and  how  realize 
your  idea  of  Harpagon  hi  tfiat  Baron,  with  his  easy  French 
"Mon  cher"  and  his  white  warni  hands  that  pressed  yours  so 
genially,  and  his  dress  so  exquisite,  even  at  the  earliest  morn  ? 
No  man  ever  yet  saw  that  Baron  in  a  dressing-gown  and  slip- 
pers !  As  one  fancies  sonic  feudal  baron  of  old  (not  half  so 
terrible)  everlastingly  clad  in  mail,  ;so  all  one's  notions  of  this 
grand  marauder  of  civilization  were  inseparably  associated  with 
varnished  boots  and  a  camellia  in  the  buttonhole. 

"And  this  is  all  that  he  does  for  you  !"  cried  the  Baron,  pressing 
together  the  points  of  his  ten  taper  fingers.  "Had  hebutletyou  con- 
clude your  career  at  Oxford,  I  have  heard  enough  of  your  scholar- 
ship to  know  that  you  would  have  taken  high  honors — :been  secure 
of  a  fellowship — have  betaken  yourself  with  content  to  a  slow  and 
laboriousprofession,andpreparedyourselftodieonthewoolsack." 

"  He  proposes  to  me  now  to  return  to  Oxford,"  said  Randal. 
"  It  is  not  too  late  !  " 

"  Yes,  it  is,"  said  the  Baron.  "  Neither  individuals  nor  nations 
ever  go  back  of  their  own  accord.  There  must  be  an  earth- 
quake before  a  river  recedes  to  its  source." 

"  You  speak  well,"  answered  Randal,  "  and  I  cannot  gainsay 
you.  But  now  !  " 

"  Ah,  i\\znow  is  the  grand  question  in  life — th»  then  is  obso- 
lete, gone  by — out  of  fashion  ;  and  now,  mon  cher,  you  come  to 
ask  my  advice?" 

"  No,  Baron,  I  came  to  ask  your  explanation." 

"Of  what?" 


130  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

"I  want  to  know  why  you  spoke  to  me  of  Mr.  Egerton's  ruin; 
why  you  spoke  to  me  of  the  lands  to  be  sold  by  Mr.  Thornhill; 
and  why  you  spoke  to  me  ot  Count  Peschiera.  You  touched  on 
each  of  those  points  within  ten  minutes— you  omitted  to  indi- 
cate what  link  can  connect  them." 

"  By  Jove,"  said  the  Baron,  rising,  and  with  more  admiration 
in  his  face  than  you  could  have  conceived  that  face,  so  smiling 
and  so  cynical,  could  exhibit — "  by  Jove,  Randal  Leslie,  but  your 
shrewdness  is  wonderful.  You  really  are  the  first  young  man  of 
your  day;  and  I  will  'help  you,'  as  I  helped  Audley  Egerton. 
Perhaps  you  will  be  more  grateful." 

Randal  thought  of  Egerton's  ruin.  The  parallel  implied  by  the 
Baron  did  not  suggest  to  him  the  rare  enthusiasm  of  gratitude. 
However,  he  merely  said,  "Pray,  proceed — I  listen  to  you  with 
interest." 

"  As  for  politics,  then,"  said  the  Baron,  "  we  will  discuss  that 
topic  later.  I  am  waiting  myself  to  see  those  new  men  get  on. 
The  first  consideration  is  for  your  private  fortunes.  You  should 
buy  this  ancient  Leslieproperty — Rood  and  Dulmansberry — only 
^20,000  down  ;  the  rest  may  remain  on  mortgage  for  ever — or 
at  least  till  I  find  yo"u  a  rich  wife — as  in  fact  I  did  for  Egerton. 
Thornhill  wants  the  ^20,000  now — wants  them  very  much." 

"And  where,"  said  Randal,  with  an  iron  smile,  "  are  the 
^"20,000  you  ascribe  to.  come  from  ?" 

"Ten  thousand  shall  come  to  you  the  day  Count  Peschiera  mar- 
ries the  daughter  of  his  kinsman  with  your  help  and  aid — -the  re- 
maining ten  thousand  I  will  lend  you.  No  additional  burden. 
What  say  you — shall  it  be  so?" 

"  Ten  thousand  pounds  from  Count  Peschiera  !  "  said  Randal, 
breathing  hard.  "  You  cannot  be  serious!  Such  a  sum— for  what  ? 
— for  a  mere  piece  of  information  ?  How  otherwise  can  I  aid  him? 
There  must  be  trick  arid  deception  intended  here." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  answered  Levy,  "I  will  give  you  a  hint. 
There  is  such  a  thing  in  life  as  being  over-suspicious.  If  you 
have  a  fault,  it  is  that.  The  information  you  allude  to  is,  of  course, 
the  first  assistance  you  are  to  give.  Perhaps  more  may  be 
needed — perhaps  not.  Of  that  you  will  judge  yourself,  since  the 
;£  1 0,000  are  contingent  on  the  marriage  aforesaid." 

"Over-suspicious  or  not,"  answered  Randal,  "the  amount  of 
the  sum  is  too  improbable,  and  the  security  is  too  b,ad,  forme  to 
listen  fo  this  proposition,  even  if  I  could  descend  to — " 

"Stop,  mon  cher.  Business  first,  scruples  afterward.  The  se- 
curity too  bad — what  security?" 

"The  word  of  Count  Peschiera." 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  131 

"He  has  nothing  to  do  with  it — he  need  know  nothing  about 
it.  'Tis  my  word  you  doubt.  I  am  your  security." 

Randal  thought  of  that  dry  witticism  in  Gibbon,  "Abu  Rafe 
says  he  will  be  witness  for  this  fact,  but  who  will  be  witness  for 
Abu  Rafe?"  but  he  remained  silent,  only  fixing  on  Levy  those 
dark  observant  eyes,  with  their  contracted  wary  pupils. 

"  The  fact  is  simply  this,"  resumed  Levy:  ".Count  di  Peschiera 
has  promised  to  pay  his  sister  a  dowry  of  ^"20,000,  in  case  he  has 
the  money  to  spare.  He  can  only  have  it  to  spare  by  the  mar- 
riage we  are  discussing.  On  my  part,  as  I  manage  his  affairs  in 
England  for  him,  I  have  promised  that,  for  the  said  sum  of  ^20,- 
ooo,  I  will  guarantee  the  expenses  in  the  way  of  that  marriage, 
and  settle  with  Madame  di  Negra.  Now,  though  Peschiera  is  a 
very  liberal,  warm-hearted  fellow,  I  don't  say.  that  he  would  have 
named  so  large  a  sum  for  his  sister's  d6wry,  if  in  strict  truth  he 
did  not  owe  it  to  her.  It  is  the  amount  of  her  own  fortune,  which, 
by  some  arrangements  with  her  late  husband,  not  exactly  legal, 
he  possessed  himself  of.  If  Madame  di  Negra  went  to  law  with 
him  for  it,  she  could  get  it  back.  I  have  explained  this  to  him; 
and,  in  short,  you  now  understand  why  the  sum  is  thus  assessed. 
But  I  have  bought  up  Madame  di  Negra's  debts.  I  have  bought 
up  young  Hazeldean's  (for  we  must  make  a  match  between  th'ese 
two  a  part  of  our  arrangements);  I  shall  present  to  Peschiera, 
and  to  those  excellent  young  persons,  an  accooint  that  will  absorb 
the  whole  ;£ 20,000.  That  sum  will  come  into  my  hands.  If  I  set- 
tle the  claims  against  them  for  half  the  money,'which,'making  my- 
self the  sole  creditor,  I  have  the  right  to  do,  the  moiety  will  remain. 
And  if  I  choose  to  give  it  to  you  in  return  for  the  services  which 
provide  Peschiera  with  aprincely  fortune — discharge  the  debts  of 
his  sister— and  secure  her  a  husband  in  my  promising  youngclient, 
Mr.  Hazeldean,  that  is  my  look-out — all  parties  are  satisfied,  and 
no  one  need  ever  be  the  wiser.  The  sum  is  large,no  doubt;  it  an- 
swers tome  to  give  it  to  you;  does  it  answer  to  you  to  receive  it?  " 

Randal  was  greatly  agitated  ;  but,  vile  as  he  was  and  systemat- 
ically as  in  thought  he  had  brought  himself  to  regard  others 
merely  as  they  could  be  made  subservient  to  his  own  interest, 
still  with  all  who  have  not  hardened  themselves  in  actual  crime, 
there  is  a  wide  distinction  between  the  thought  and  the  act;  and 
though,  in  the  exercise  of  ingenuity  and  cunning,  he  would  have 
had  few  scruples  in  that  moral  swindling  which  is  mildly  called 
"outwitting  another,"  yet  thus  nakedly  and  openly  to  'accept  a 
bribe  for  a  deed  of  treachery  toward  the  poor  Ltalian  who  had  so 
generously  trusted  him — he  recoiled.  He  was  nerving  himself  to 
refuse,  when  Levy  opening  his  pocket-book,  glanced  over  the 


132  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

memoranda  therein,  and  said,  as  to  himself,  "  Rood  Manor — • 
Dulmansberry,  sold  to  the  Thornhills  by  Sir  Gilbert  Leslie,  knight 
of  the  shire  ;  estimated  present  net  rental  ,£2,250.  7s.  od.  It  is 
the  greatest  bargain  I  ever  knew.  And  with  this  estate  in  hand, 
and  your  talents,  Leslie,  I  don't  see  why  you  should  not  rise 
higher  than  Audley  Egerton.  He  was  poorer  than  you  once  ! " 

The  old  Leslie  lands — a  positive  stake  in  the  country — the  res- 
toration of  the  fallen  family ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  either  long 
drudgery  at  the  bar, — -a  scanty  allowance  on  Egerton's  bounty — 
his  sister  wasting  her  youth  at  slovenly,  dismal  Rood — Oliver  de- 
based into  a  boor  !— or  a  mendicant's  dependence  on  the  con- 
temptuous pity  of  Harley  L'Estrange — Harley,  who  had  refused 
his  hand  to  him — Harley,  who  perhaps  would  become  the  hus- 
band of  Violante  !  Rage  seized  him  as  these  contrasting  pictures 
rose  before  his  view.  He  walked  to  and  fro  in  disorder,  striving 
to  recollect  his  thoughts,  and  reduce  himself  from  the  passions 
of  the  human  heart  into  a  mere  mechanism  of  calculating  intel- 
lect. "I  cannot  conceive,"  said  he,  abruptly,  "  why  you  should 
tempt  me  thus— what  interest  it  is  to  you  ! " 

Baron  Levy  smiled,  and  put  up  his  pocket-book.  He  saw  from 
that  moment  that  the  victory  was  gained. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  he,  with  the  most  agreeable  bonhomie,  "  it 
is  very  natural  that  you  should  think  a  man  would  have  a  personal 
interest  in  whatever  he  does  for  another.  1  believe  that  view  of 
human  nature  is  called  utilitarian  philosophy,  and  is  much  in  fash- 
ion at  present.  Let  me  try  and  explain  to  you.  In  this  affair  I 
shan't  injure  myself.  True,  you  will  say,  if  I  settle  claims,  which 
amount  to  ^20,000,  for  ^"10,000,  I  might  put  the  surplus  into 
my  own  pocket  instead  of  yours.  Agreed.  But  I  shall  not  get  the 
^£20,000,  nor  repay  myself  Madame  di  Negra's  debts  (whatever 
I  may  do  as  to  Hazeldean's),  unless  the  Count  gets  the  heiress. 
You  can  help  in  this.  I  want  you  ;.  and!  don't  think  I  could  get 
you  by  a  less  offer  than  I  make.  I  shall  soon  pay  myself  back 
the  ;£io,coo  if  the  Count  gets  hold  of  the  lady  and  her  fortune. 
Brief — I  see  my  way  here  to  my  own  interests.  Do  you  want  more 
reasons — you  shall  have  them.  I  am  now  a  very  rich  man.  How 
have  I  become  so  ?  Through  attaching  myself  from  the  first  to 
persons  of  expectations,  whether  from  fortune  or  talent.  I  have 
made  connections  in  society,  and  society  has  enriched  me.  I  have 
still  a  passion  for  making  money.  Quevoulez-vous?  It  is  my  pro- 
fession, my  hobby.  It  will  be  useful  to  me  in  a  thousand  ways, 
to  secure  as  a  friend  a  young  man  who  will  have  influence  with 
other  young  men,  heirs  to  something  better  than  Rood  Hall.  You 
may  succeed  in  public  life.  A  man  in  public  life  may  attain  to 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  133 

the  knowledge  of  state  secrets  that  are  very  profitable  to  one  who 
dabbles  a  little  in  the  Funds.  We  can  perhaps  hereafter  do  bus- 
iness together  that  may  put  yourself  in  a  way  of  clearing  off  all 
mortgages  on  these  estates — on  the  encumbered  possession  of 
which  I  shall  soon  congratulate  you.  You  see  I  am  frank  ;  'tis 
the  only  way  of  coming  to  the  point  with  so  clever  a  fellow  as  you. 
And  now,  since  the  less  we  rake  up  the  mud  in  a  pond  from  which 
we  have  resolved  to  drink,  the  better,  let  us  dismiss  all  other 
thoughts  but  that  of  securing  our  end.  Will  you  tell'Peschiera 
where  the  young  lady  is,  or  shall  I  ?  Better  do  it  yourself ;  reason 
enough  for  it,  that  he  has  confided  to  you  his  hope,  and  asked 
you  to  help  him  ;  why  should  not  you  ?  Not  a  word  to  him  about 
our  little  arrangement ;  he  need  never  know  it.  You  need  never 
be  troubled."  Levy  rang  the  bell  :  "  Order  my  Carriage  round." 

Randal  made  no  objection.  He  was  death-like  pale,  but  there 
was  a  sinister  expression  of  firmness  on  his  thin  bloodless  lips. 

"The  next  point,"  Levy  resumed,  "is  to  hasten  the  match  be- 
tween Frank  and  the  fair  widow.  How  does  that  stand  ?" 

"  She  will  not  see  me,  nor  receive  him." 

"  Oh,  learn  why  !  And  if  you  find  on  either  side  there  is  a 
hitch,  just  let  me  know;  I  will  soon  remove  it." 

"  Has  Hazeldean  consented  to  the  post-obit  ?  " 

V  Not  yet ;  I  have  not  pressed  it ;  I  wait  the  right  moment, 
if  necessary." 

"  It  will  be  necessary." 

"  Ah,  you  wish  it.     It  shall  be  so." 

Randal  Leslie  again  paced  the  room,  and  ;after  a  silent  self- 
commune,  carne  up  close  to  the  Baron,  and  said — 

"  Look  you,  sir,  I  am  poor  and  ambitious;  you  have  tempted 
me  at  the  right  moment,  and  with  the  right  inducement.  I  suc- 
cumb. But  what  guarantee  have  I  that  this  money  will  be  paid 
— these  estates  made  mine  upon  the  conditions  stipulated  ?" 

"  Before  anything  is  settled,"  replied  the  Baron,  "go  and  ask 
my  character  of  any  of  your  young  friends,  Borrowell,  Spend- 
quick — whom  you  please  ;  you  will  hear  me  abused,  of  course; 
but  they  will  all  say  this  of  me,  that  when  I  pass  my  word,  I 
keep  it.  When  I  say,  lMon  cher,  you  shall  have  the  money,'  a 
man  has  it;  if  I  say,  'I  renew  your  bill  for  six  months,'  it  is  re- 
newed. "Tis  my  way  of  doing  business.  In  all  cases  my  word 
is  my  bond.  In  this  case,  where  no  writing  can  pass  between 
us,  my  only  bond  must  be  my  word.  Go,  then,  make  your 
mind  clear  as  to  your  security,  and  come  here  and  dine  at  eight. 
We  will  call  on  Peschiera  afterward." 

"Yes,"  said  Randal,  "I  will  at  all  events  take  the  day  to 


134  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

consider.  Meanwhile,  I  say  this — I  do  not  disguise  from  my- 
self the  nature  of  the  proposed  transaction,  but  what  I  have 
once  resolved  I  go  through  with.  My  sole  vindication  to  myself 
is,  that  if  I  play  here  with  a  false  die,  it  will  be  for  a  stake  so 
grand,  as,  once  won,  the  magnitude  of  the  prize  will  cancel  the 
ignominy  of  the  play.  It  is  not  this  sum  of  money  for  which  I 
sell  myself — it  is  for  what  that  sum  will  aid  me  to  achieve. 
And  in  the  marriage  of  young  Hazeldean  with  the  Italian  wo- 
man, I  have  another,  and  it  may  be,  a  larger  interest.  1  have 
slept  on  it  lately — I  wake  to  it  now.  Insure  that  marriage,  ob- 
tain the  post-obit  from  Hazeldean,  and  whatever  the  issue  of 
the  more  direct  scheme  for  which  you  seek  my  services,  rely  on 
my  gratitude,  and  believe  that  you  will  have  put  me  jn  the  way 
to  render  gratitude  of  avail.  At  eight  I  will  be  with  you." 

Randal  left  the  room. 

The  Baron  sat  thoughtful.  "  It  is  true,"  said  he  to  himself, 
"  this  young  man  is  the  next  of  kin  to  the  Hazeldean  estate,'  if 
Frank  displease  his  father  sufficiently  to  lose  his  inheritance ; 
that  must  be  the  clever  boy's  design.  Well,  in  the  long  run,  I 
should  make  as  much,  or  more,  out  of  him  than  out  of  the  spend- 
thrift Frank.  Frank's  faults  are  those  of  youth.  He  will  re- 
form and  retrench.  But  this  man  !  No,  I  shall  have  him  for 
life.  And  should  he  fail  in  this  project,  and  have  but. this 
encumbered  property — a  landed  proprietor  mortgaged  up  to  his 
ears — why,  he  is  my  slave,  and  I  shall  foreclose  when  I  wish,  or 
if  he  prove  useless; — no,  I  risk  nothing.  And  if  I  did— if  I 
lost  ten  thousand  pounds — what  then  ?  I  can  afford  it  for  re- 
venge ! — afford  it  for  the  luxury  of  leaving  Audley  Egerton 
alone  with  penury  and  ruin,  deserted,  in  his  hour  of  need,  by 
the  pensioner  of  his  bounty— as  he  will  be  by  the  last  friend  of 
his  youth — when  it  so  pleases  me — me  whom  he  has  called 
'scoundrel!'  and^  whom  he — "  Levy's  soliloquy  halted  there, 
for  the  servant  entered  to  announce  the  carriage.  And  the 
Baron  hurried  his  hand  over  his  features,  as  if  to  sweep  away 
all  trace  of  the  passions  that  distorted  their  smiling  effrontery. 
And  so,  as  he  took  up  his  cane  and  his  gloves,  and  glanced  at 
the  glass,  the  face  of  the  fashionable  usurer  .:was  once  more  as 
varnished  as  his  boots. 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

• 

WHEN  a  cleverman  resolves  on  a  villanous  action,  he  hastens, 
by  the  exercise  of  his  cleverness,  to  get  rid  of  the  sense  of  his 
villany.  With  more  than 'his  usual  alertness,  Randal  employed 
the  next  hour  or  two  in  ascertaining  how  far  Baron  Levy  mer- 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  13$ 

ited  the  character  he  boasted,  and  how  far  his  word  might  be 
his  bond.  He  repaired  to  young  men  whom  he  esteemed  better 
judges  on  these  points  than  Spendquick  and  Borrowell — young 
men  who  resembled  the  Merry  Monarch,  inasmuch  as 

"  They  never  said  a  foolish  thing, 
And  never  did  a  wise  one." 

There  are  many  such  young  men  about  town— sharp  and  able 
in  all  affairs  except  their  own.  No  one  knows  the  world  better, 
nor  judges  of  character  more  truly,  than  your  half-beggared 
roue.  From  all  these  Baron  Levy  obtained  much  the  same  testi- 
monials ;  he  was  ridiculed  as  a  would-be  dandy,  but  respected 
as  a  very  responsible  man  of  business,  and  rather  liked  as  a 
friendly,  accommodating  species  of  the  Sir  Epicure  Mammon, 
who  very  often  did  what  were  thought  handsome,  liberal  things; 
and,  "in  short,"  said  one  of  these  experienced  referees,  "he  is 
the  best  fellow  going — for  a  money-lender !  You  may  always 
rely  on  what  he  promises,  and  he  is  generally  very  forbearing 
and  indulgent  to  us  of  good  society;  perhaps  for  the  same  reason 
that  our  tailors  are; — to  send  one  of  us  to  prison  would  hurt 
his  custom.  His  foible  is  to  be  thought  a  gentleman.  I  be- 
lieve, much  as  I  suppose  he  loves  money,  he  would  give  up  half  his 
fortune  rather  than  do  anything  for  which  we  could  cut  him.  He 

allows  a  pension  of  three  hundred  a-year  to  Lord  S- •-.  True;  he 

washisman  of  business  for  twenty  years, and  beforethenS was 

rather  a  prudent  fellow,  and  had  fifteen  thousand  a-year.  He  has 
helped  on,  too,lmany  a  clever  young  man ;  the  best  boroughmonger 
you  ever  knew.  He'  likes  having  friends  in  Parliament.  In  fact, 
of  course,  he  is  a  rogue;  but  if  one  wants  a  rogue,  one  can't  find  a 
pleasanter.  I  should  like  to  see  him  on  the  French  stage— a 
prosperous  Macaire ;  Le  Maitre  could  hit  him  off  to  the  life. 

From  information  in  these  more  fashionable  quarters,  glea'ned 
with  his  usual  tact,  Randal  turned  to  a  source  less  elevated,  but 
to  which  he  attached  more  importance.  Dick  Avenel  associated 
with  the  Baron — Dick  Avenel  must  be  in  his  clutches.  Now 
Randal  did  justice  to  that  gentleman's  practical  shrewdness. 
Moreover,  Avenel  was  by  profession,  a  man  of  business.  He 
must  know  more  of  Levy  than  these  men  of  pleasure  could  \ 
and,  as  he  was  a  plain-spoken  person,  and' evidently  honest,  ia 
the  ordinary  acceptation  of  the  word,  Randal  did  not  doubt 
that  out  of  Dick  Avenel  he  should  get  the  truth. 

On  arriving  in  Eton  Square,  and  asking  for  Mr.  Avenel,  Ran- 
dal was  at  once  ushered  into  the  drawing-room.  The  apartment 
was  not  in  such  good,  solid,  mercantile  taste  as  had  characterized 
Avenel's  more  humble  bachelor's  residence  at  Screwstown.  The 


136  MY   NOVEL  ;    OR 

taste  now  was  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Avenel's;  and,  truth  to  say, 
no  taste  could  be  worse.  Furniture  of  all  epochs  heterogene- 
ously  clumped  together — here'a  sofa  a  la  renaissance  in  Gobelin — 
there  a  rosewood  console  from  Gillow — a  tall  mock  Elizabethan 
chair  in  black  oak,  by  the  side  of  a  modern  Florentine  table  of 
mosaic  marbles.  "All  kinds  of  colors  in  the  room,  and  all  at 
war  with  each  other.  Very  bad  copies  of  the  best-known  pictures 
in  the  world,  in  the  most  gaudy  frames,  and  imprudently  labelled 
by  the  names  of  their  murdered  originals — "Raffaele,"  "Cor- 
reggio,"  "  Titian,"  "  Sebastian  del  Piombo."  Nevertheless,  there 
had  been  plenty  of  money  spent,  and  there  was  plenty  to  show 
for  it.  Mrs.  Avenel  was  seated  on  her  sofa  a  la  renaissance, 
with  one  of  her  children  at  her  feet,  who  was  employed  in  read: 
ing  a  new  Annual  in  crimson  silk  binding.  Mrs.  Avenel  was  in 
an  attitude  as  if -sitting  for  her  portrait. 

Polite  society  is  most  capricious  in  its  adoptions  or  rejections. 
You  see  many  a  vulgar  person  firmly  established  in  the  beau 
mo  tide  ;  others,  with  very  good  pretensions  as  to  birth,  fortune, 
etc.,  either,  rigorously  excluded,  or  only  permitted  a  peep  over 
the  pales.  The  Honorable  Mrs.  Avenel  belonged  to  families 
unquestionably  noble,  both  by  her  own  descent  and  by  her  first 
marriage;  and  if  poverty  had  kept  her  down  in  her  earlier  career, 
she  now,  at  least,  did  not  want  wealth  to  back  her  pretensions. 
Nevertheless,  all  the  dispensers  of  fashion  concurred  in  refusing 
their  support  to  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Avenel.  One  might  sup- 
pose i,t  was  solely  on  account  of  her  plebeian  husband;  but  in- 
deed not  so.  Many  a  woman  of  high  family  can  marry  a  low-born 
man  not  so  presentable  as  Avenel,  and,  by  the  help  of  his  money, 
get  the  fine  world  at  her  feet.  But  Mrs.  Avenel  had  not  that 
art.  She  was  still  a  very  handsome  showy  woman;  and  as  for 
dress,  no  duchess  could  be  more  extravagant.  Yet  these  very 
circumstances  had  perhaps  gone  against  her  ambition;  for  your 
quiet  |ittle  plain  woman,  provoking  no  envy,  slips  into  the  coteries, 
when  a  handsome  flaunting. lady — who,  once  s,een  in  your  draw- 
ing-room, can  be  no  more  overlooked  than  a  scarlet  poppy 
amidst  a  violet  bed — is  pretty  sure  to  be  weeded  out  as  ruth- 
lessly as  a  poppy  would  be  in  a  similar  position. 

Mr.  Avenel  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  rather  moodily,  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  and  whistling  to  himself.  To  say  truth,  that 
active  mind  of  his  was  very  much  bored  in  London,  at  least 
durijpg  the  fore  part  of  the  day.  He  hailed  Randal's  entrance 
with  a  smile  of  relief,  and  rising  and  posting  himself  before  the 
fire — a  coat-tail  under  each  arm — he  scarcely  allowed  Randal 
to  shake  hands  with  Mrs.  Avenel,  and  pat  the  child  on  the 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  137 

murmuring,  "Beautiful  creature."  (Randal  was  ever  civil  to 
children-  that  sort  of  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing  always  is — don't 
be  taken  in,  O  you  foolish  young  mothers!)  Dick,  I  say,  scarcely 
allowed  his  visitor  these  preliminary  courtesies, 'before  he  plunged 
far  beyond  depth  of  wife  and  child,  into  the  political  ocean. 
"Things  now  were  coming  right — a  vile  oligarchy  was  to  be 
destroyed.  British  respectability  and  British  talent  were  to  have 
fair  play."  To  have  heard  him,  you  would  have  thought  the 
day  fixed  for  the  millennium  !  "And  what,  is  more,"  said  Avenel, 
bringing  down  the  fist  of  his  right  hand  upon  the  palm  of  his  left, 
"if  there  is  to  be  a  new  parliament,  we  must  have  new  men — not 
worn-out  old  brooms  that  never.sweep  clean,  but  men  who  under- 
stand to  govern  the  country,  sir.  J  INTEND  TO  COME  IN  MYSELF!" 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Avenel,  hooking  in  a  .word  at  last,:"I  am 
sure,  Mr.  Leslie,  you  will  think  I  did  right.  I  persuaded  Mr. 
Avenel  that,  with  his  talents  and  property,  h;e  ought,  for  the  sake 
of  his.  country,  to  make  a  sacrifice  ;  and  then  you  know  his 
opinions  now  are  all  the  fashion,  Mr.  Leslie;  formerly  they  would 
h,a,ye  been  called  shocking  and  vulgar  !  " 

Thus  saying,  she  looked  with  fond  pride  at  Dick's  comely  face, 
which  at  that  moment,  however,  was  all  scowl  and  frown.  I 
must  do  justice  to  Mrs.  Avenel;  she  was  a  weak,  silly  woman  in 
some  things,  and  a  cunning  one  in  others;  but  she  was  a  good 
wife,  as  wives  go.  Scotchwomen  generally  are. 

"Bother  .'"said  Dick;  "whatdo  women  know  about  politics?  I 
wish you'dmind  the  child-;— it  iscrumpling  up,  and  play  ingalmighty 
smash  with  that  flim-flam  book,  which  cost  me  one  pound  one." 

Mrs.  Avenel  submissively  bowed  her  head,  and  removed  the 
Annual  from  the  hands  of  the  young  destructive;  the  destruct- 
ive set  up  a  squall,  as  destructives  usually  do  when  they  don't 
have  .their  own,  way.  Dick  clapped  his  hands  to  his  ears. 
"  Whe-e-ew,  I  can't  stand  .this  ;  come  and  take  a  walk.  Leslie  ; 
I  want  stretching!"  He  stretched  himself  as  he  spoke,  first 
half-way  up  to  the  ceiling,  and  then  fajrly  out  of  the  room. 

Randal,  with  his  May  Fair  manner,  turned  toward  Mrs.  Ave- 
nel as  if  to  apologize  for  her  husband  and  himself. 

"  Poor  Richard!"  said  she,  "  he  is  in  one  of  his  humors — all 
men  ha.ve  them.  Come  and  see  me  again  soon.  When  does 
AJmack's  open  ?  " 

"  Nay,  I  ought  to  ask  you  that  question,  you  who  know  every- 
thing that  goes  o.n  in  our  set,"  said  the  young  serpent.  Any 
tree  planted  in  "our  set,"  if  it  had  been:but  ,:a  crab-tree,  would 
have  tempted  Mr.  Avenel's  Eve  to  jump  at  its  boughs. 

"Are you  coming,  there  ?"  cried  Dick,  from  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 


138  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 


CHAPTER  XX. 

"I  HAVE  just  been  at  our  friend  Levy's,"  said  Randal,  when 
he  and  Diek  were  outside  the  street-door.  "  He,  like  you,  is  full 
of  politics— pleasant  man— for  the  business  he  is  said  to  do." 

"  Well,"  said  Dick,  slowly,  "  I  suppose  he  is  pleasant,  but 
make  the  best  of  it — and  still—" 

"  Still  what,  my  dear  Avenel  ? "  (Randal  here  for  the  first  time 
discarded  the  formal  Mister.) 

MR.  AVENEL.— Still  the  thing  is  not  pleasant. 

RANDAL  (with  his  soft  hollow  laugh). — You  mean  borrowing 
money  upon  more  than  five  per  cent. 

"t)h, curse  the  percentage.  I  agree  with  Bentham  on  theUsury 
Laws — no  shackles  in  trade  for  me,  whether  in  money  or  anything 
else.  That's  not  it.  But  when  one  owes  a  fellow  money  even  at  two 
percent.,  and 'tis  not  convenient  to  pay  him,  why,  somehow  or  other, 
it  makes  one.feel  small ;  it  takes  the  British  Liberty  out  of  a  man ! " 

"  I  should  have  thought  you  more  likely  to  lend  money  than 
to  borrow  it." 

"Well,  I  guess  you  are  right  there,  as  a  general  rule.  But  I 
tell  you  what  it  is,  sir;  there  is  too  great  a  mania  for  competition 
getting  up  in  this  old  rotten  country  of  ours.  I  am  as  liberal  as 
most  men.  I  like  competition  to  a  certain  extent,  but  there  is 
too  much  of  it,  sir — too  much  of  it." 

Randal  looked  sad  and  convinced.  But  if  Leonard  had  heard 
Dick  Avenel,  what  would  have  been  his  amaze?  Dick  Avenel 
rail  against  competition!  Think  there  could  be  too  much  of  it! 
Of  course,  "heaven  and  earth  are  coming  together,"  said  the 
spider,  when  the  housemaid's  broom  invaded  its  cobweb.  Dick 
was  airfor  sweeping  away  other  cobwebs;  but  he  certainly  thought 
heaven  and  earth  coming  together  when  he  saw  a  great  Turk's- 
head  besom  poked  up  at-  his  own. 

Mf.'A'Venel,  in:his  genius  for  speculation  and  improvement, 
had  established  a  factory  at  Screwstown,  the  first  which  had  ever 
eclipsed  the  church  spire  with  its  Titanic  chimney.  It  succeeded 
well  at  first.  Mr.  Avenel  transferred -to  this  speculation  nearly 
all  his  capital.  "  Nothing'/'1  quoth  he,  ''paid  sudh  an  interest. 
Manchester  was  getting  worn  out — time  to  show  what  Screws- 
town  could  do.  Nothing  like  competition."  But  by-and-by  a 
still  greater  capitalist  than  Dick  Avenel,  finding  out  that  Screws- 
town  was  at  the  mouth  of  a  coal-mine,  and  that  Dick's  profits 
'vere  great,  erected  a( -still  uglier  edifice,  with  a  still  taller  chim- 
ney. And-  having  been  brought  up  to  the  business,  and  making 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  l$g 

his  residence  in  the  town,  while  Dick  employed  a  foreman  and 
flourished  in  London,  this  infamous  competitor  so  managed  first 
to  share,  and  then  gradually  to  sequester,  the  profits  which  Dick 
had  hitherto  monopolized,  that  no  wonder  Mr.  Avenel  thought 
competition  should  have  its  limits.  "  The  tongue  touches  where 
the  tooth  aches,"  as  Dr.  Riccabocca  would  tell  us.  By  little  and 
little  our  juvenile  Talleyrand  (I  beg  the  elder  great  man's  par- 
don) wormed  out  from  Dick  this  grievance,  and  in  the  grievance 
discovered  the  origin  of  Dick's  connection  with  the  money-lender. 

"But  Levy,"  said  Avenel,  candidly,  "is  a  decentish  chap  in 
his  way— -friendly  too.  Mrs.  A.  finds  him  useful;  brings  some 
of  your  young  highflyers  to  her  soirees.  To  be  sure,  they  don't 
dance— stand  all  in  a  row  at  the  door, like  mutes  at  a  funeral.  Not 
but  what  they  have  been  uncommon  civil  to  me  lately — Spend- 
quick  particularly.  By  the  bye,  I  dine  with  him  to-morrow.  The  ar- 
istocracy are  behindhand — not  smart, sir — not  uptothe  mark;  but 
when  a  man  knows  how  to  take  'em,  they  beat  the  New  Yorkers  in 
good  manners.  I'll  say  that  for  them.  I  have  no  prejudice." 

"  I  never  saw  a  man  with  less;  no  prejudice  even  against  Levy." 

"No,  not  a  bit  of  it!  Every  one  says  he's  a  Jew;  he  says  he's 
not.  I  don't  care  a  button  what  he  is.  His  money  is  English — 
that's  enough  for  any  man  of  a  liberal  turn  of  mind.  His  charges, 
too,  are  moderate.  To  be  sure,  he  knows  I  shall  pay  them;  only 
what  I  don't  like  in  him  is  a  sort  of  a  way  he  has  of  mon-cher- 
ing  and  my  good-fellowing  one,  to  do  things  quite  out  of  the 
natural  way  of  that  sort  of  business.  He  knows  that  I  have  got 
Parliamentary  influence,  I  could  return  a  couple  of  members 
for  Screwstown,  and  one,  or  perhaps  two,  for  Lansmere,  where  I 
have  of  late  been  cooking  up  an  interest;  and  he  dictates  to — 
no,  not  di-c fates — but  tries  to  humbug  me  into  putting  in  his  own 
men.'  Howeve^-m one  respect,  we  are  likely  to  agree.  He  says 
you  want  to  come  to  Parliament.  You  seem  a  smart  young  fel- 
low; but  you  must  throw  over  that  stjff  red-tapist  of  yours,  and 
go  with  Public  Opinion',  and — -Myself." 

"You  are  very  kind,  Avenel;  -perhaps  when  we  come  to  com- 
pare opinions,  we  may  find  that  we  agree  entirely.  Still,  in  Eger- 
ton's  present  position,  delicacy  tOihim^however,  we'll  not  discuss 
that  now.  But  you  really  think  I  might  come  in  for  Lansmere— 
against  the  L'Estrange  interest,  too,  which  must  be  strong  there  ?" 

"It  was  very  strong,  but  I've  smashed  it,  I  calculate." 

"Would  a  contest  there  cost  very  much?" 

"  Well,  I  guess  you  must  come  down  with -the  ready.  But,  as 
you  say,  tim-e  enough  to  discuss  that  when  you  have  squared  your 
account  wit'x.  'delicacy' ;  come  to  me  then,  and  we'll  go  into  it," 


140  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Randal,  having  now  squeezed  his  orange  dry,  had  no  desire  to 
waste  his  time  in  brushing  up  the  rind  with  his  coat-sleeve,  so 
he  unhooked  his  arm  from  Avenel's,  and,  looking  .at  his  watch, 
discovered  he  should  be  just  in  time  for. an  appointment  of  the 
most  urgent  business — hailed  a  cab,  and  drove  off. 

Dick  looked  hipped  and  disconsolate  at  being  left  alone ;  he 
yawned  very  loud,  to  the  astonishment  of  three  prim  old  maiden 
Belgravians  who  were  passing  that  way;  and  then  his  mind  began 
to  turn  toward  his  factory  at  Screwstown,  which  had  led  to  his 
connection  with  the  Baron;  and  he  thought  over  a  letter  he  had 
just  received  from  his  foreman  thatmoinjng,  informing  him  that 
it  was  rumored  at  Screwstown  that  Mr.  Dyce,  his  rival,  was  about 
to  have  new  machinery  on  an  improved  principle;  and  that  Mr. 
Dyce  had  already  gone  up  to  town;,  it  was  supposed  with  the  in- 
tention of  concluding  a  purchase  for  a  patent  discovery  to  be 
applied  to  the  new  machinery,  and  which  that  gentleman  had 
.publicly  declared,  in  the  corn-market,  "would  shut  up  Mr.  Ave- 
nel's factory  before  the  year  was  out."  As  this  menacing  epistle 
recurred  to  him,  Dick  felt  his  desire  to  yawn  incontinently 
checked.  His  brow  grew  very  dark,  and  he  walked,  with  restless 
strides,  on  and  on,  till  he  found  himself  in  the  Strand..  He  then 
got  into  an  omnibus,  and  proceeded  to, the  city,  wherein  he  spent 
the  rest  of  the  day,  looking  over  machines  and  foundries,  and 
trying  in  vain  to  find  out  what  diabolical  invention  the  over-com- 
petition of  Mr.  Dyce  had  got  hold  of,  "  If,"  said  Dick  Avenel 
ito.  himself,  as  he  returned  fretfully,  home  ward— "if  a  man. like 
me,  who  has  done  so  much  for  British-  industry  and  go-ahead 
principles,  is  to  be  catawampously  champed  up  by  i  mercenary 
selfish  cormorant  qf  a  capitalist  like  that  interloping  blockhead 
.in  drab  breeches,  Tom  Dyce,  all  I  can  say  is,  .that  the  sooner  this 
cursed  old  country  goes  to,  the  dogs,  the  better  pleased  I  shall 
be.  I  wash  my  hands  of  it." 

CHAPTER   XXI. 

RANDAL'S  mind  was  made  up.  All  he  had  learned  in  regard 
to  Levy  had  confirmed  his  resolves  or  dissipated  his  scruples. 
,He  had  started  from  the  improbability  that  Peschiera  would 
offer,  and  the  still  greater  improbability  that  Peschiera  would 
pay  him,  ten  thousand  pounds  for  such  information  or  aid  as  he 
could  bestow  in  furthering  the  Count's  object.  But  when  Levy 
took  such  proposals  entirely  oiv.himself,  the  main  question  to 
Randal  became  'this— Could  it.  be  Levy's  interest  to  make  so 
considerable  a  sacrifice  ?  Had  the  Baron  implied  only  friendly 
sentiments  as  his  motives,  Randal  would  have  felt  sure  he  was 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  14! 

to  be  taken  in  ;  but  the  userer's  frank  assurance  that  it  would 
answer  to  him  in  the  long  run  to  .concede  to  Randal  terms  so 
advantageous,  altered  the  case,  and  led  our  young  philosopher 
to  look  at  the  affair  with  calm  contemplative  eyes.  Was  it  suffi- 
ciently obvious  that  Levy  counted  on  an  adequate  return  ?  Might 
he  calculate  on  reaping  help  by  the  bushel  if  he  sowed  it  by 
the  handful  ?  The  result  of  Randal's  cogitations  was,  that  the 
Baron  might  fairly  deem  himself  no  wasteful  sower.  In  the  first 
place,  it  was  clear  that  Levy,  not  without  reasonable  ground, 
believed  that  he  could  soon  replace,  with  exceeding  good  interest, 
any  sum  he  might  advance  to  Randal,  out  of  the  wealth  which 
Randal's  prompt  information  might  bestow  on  Levy's,client,  the 
Count ;  and,  secondly,  Randal's  self-esteem  was  immense,  and 
could  lie  but  succeed  in  securing  a  pecuniary  independence  on 
the  instant,  to  free  him  from  the  slow  drudgery  of  the  bar,  or 
from  a  precarious  reliance  on  Audley  Egerton,  as  a  politician  out 
of  power,  his  convictions  of  rapid. triumph  in  public  life  were  as 
strong  as  if  whispered  by  an  angel,  or  promised  by  a. fiend.  On 
such  triumphs,  with  all  the  social  position  they  would  secure, 
Levy  might  well  calculate  for  repayment  by  a  thousand  indirect 
channels.  Randal's  sagacity  detected  that,  through  all  thegood- 
natured  or  liberal  actions  ascribed  to  the  usurer,  Levy  had 
steadily  pursued  his  own  interests, — he  saw  that  Levy  meant  to 
get  him  into  his  power,  and  use  his  abilities  as  instruments  for 
digging  new  mines,  in  which  Baron  Levy  would  claim  the  right 
of  large  royalties.  But  at  that  thought  Randal's  pale  lip  curled 
disdainfully  ;  he  confided  too  much  in  his  own  powers  not  to 
think  that  he  could  elude  the  grasp  of  the  usurer,  whenever  it 
suited  him  to  do  so.  Thus,  on  a  survey,  all  conscience  hushed 
itself, — his  mind  rushed  buoyantly  on  to  anticipations  of  the 
future.  He  saw  the  hereditary  Estates  regained — no  matter 
how  mortgaged, — for  the  moment  still  his  own — legally  his  own, — 
yielding  for  the  present  what  would  suffice  for  competence  to 
one  of  few  wants,  and  freeing  his  name  from  that  title  of  Adven- 
turer, which  is  so  prodigally  given  in  rich  old  countries  to  those 
who  have  no  estates  but  their  brains.  He  thought  of  Violante 
but  as  the  civilized  trader  thinks  of  a  trifling  coin,  of  a  glass 
bead,  which  he  exchanges  with  some  barbarian  for  gold  dust  ;• — 
he  thought  of  Frank  Hazeldean  married  to  the  foreign  woman 
of  beggared  means,  and  repute  that  had  known  the  breath  of 
scandal, — married,  and  living  on  post-obit  instalments  of  the 
Casino  property  ; — he  thought  of  the  poor  Squire's. resentment, — 
his  avarice  swept  from  the  lancls:  annexed  to  Rpod  on  to  the 
broad  fields  of  Hazeldean  ; — he  thought  of  Avenel  of  Lansmere, 


14*  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

of  Parliament ; — with  one  hand  he  grasped  fortune,  with  the  next 
power.  "And  yet  I  entered  on  life  with  no  patrimony  (save  a 
ruined  hall  and  a  barren  waste) — no  patrimony  but  knowledge. 
I  have  but  turned  knowledge  from  books  to  men  ;  for  books 
may  give  fame  after  death,  but  men  give  us  power  in  life."  And 
all  the  while  he  thus  ruminated,  his  act  was  speeding  his  purpose. 
Though  it  was  but  in  a  miserable  hack  cab  that  he  erected  airy 
scaffoldings  round  airy  castles,  still  the  miserable  hack  cab  was 
flying  last  to  secure  the  first  foot  of  solid  ground  whereon  to 
transfer  the  mental  plan  of  the  architect  to  foundations  of  posi- 
tive lime  and  clay.  The  cab  stopped  at  the  door  of  Lord  Lans- 
mere's  house.  Randal  had  suspected  Violante  to  be  there ;  he 
resolved  to  ascertain.  Randal  descended  from  his  vehicle,  and 
rang  the  bell.  The  lodge-keeper  opened  the  great  wooden  gates. 

"  I  have  called  to  see  the  young  lady  staying  here— the  foreign 
young  lady." 

Lady  Lansmere  had  been  too  confident  of  the  security  of  her 
roof  to  condescend  to  give  any  orders  to  her  servants  with  regard 
to  her  guest,  and  the  lodge-keeper  answered  directly, — 

"At  home,  I  believe,  sir.  I  rather  think  she  is  in  the  garden 
with  my  lady." 

"I  see,"  said  Randal.  And  he  did  see  the  form  of  Violante 
at  a  distance.  "  But  since  she  is  walking,  I  will  not  disturb  her 
at  present.  I  will  call  another  day." 

The  lodge-keeper  bowed  respectfully,  Randal  jumped  into  his 
cab— "To  Curzon  Street— quick  !" 
. 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

HARLEY  had  made  one  notable  oversight  in  that  appeal  to 
Beatrice's  better  and  gentler  nature,  which  he  intrusted  to  the 
advocacy  of  Leonard,— a  scheme  in  itself  very  characteristic  of 
Harley's  romantic  temper,  and  either  wise  or  foolish,  according 
as  his  indulgent  theory  of  human  idiosyncrasies  in  general,  and 
of  those  peculiar  to  Beatrice  di  Negra  in  especialywas  the  dream  of 
an  enthusiast,  or  the  inductive  conclusion  of  a  sound  philosopher. 

Harley  had  warned  Leonard  not  to  fall  in  love  with  the  Ital- 
ian,— he  had  forgotten  to  warn  the  Italian  not  to  fall  in  love 
with  Leonard  ;  nor  had  he  ever  anticipated  the  probability  of 
that  event.  This  is  not  to  be  very  much  wondered  at ;  for  if 
there  be  anything  on  which  the  most  sensible  men  are  dull-eyed, 
where  those  eyes  are  not  lighted  by  jealousy,  it  is  as  to  the  proba- 
bilities of  another  male  creature  being  beloved.  All,  the  least 
vain  of  the  whiskered  gender,  think  it  prudent  to  guard  them- 
selves against  being  too  irresistible  to  the  fair  sex ;  and  each 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  143 

says  of  his  friend,  "Good  fellow  enough,  but  the  last  man  for 
that  woman  to  fall  in  love  with  ! " 

But  certainly  there  appeared  on  the  surface  more  than  ordinary 
cause  for  Harley's  blindness  in  the  special  instance  of  Leonard. 

Whatever  Beatrice's  better  quaiities,she  was  generally  esteemed 
worldly  and  ambitious ;  she  was  pinched  in  circumstances, — 
she  was  luxurious  and  extravagant ;  how  was  it  likely  that  she 
could  distinguish  any  aspirant  of  the  humble  birth  and  fortunes, 
of  the  young  peasant  author?  As  a  coquette,  she  might  try  to 
win  his  admiration,  and  attract  his.fancy;  but  her  own  heart 
would  surely  be  guarded  in  the  triple  mail  of  pride,  poverty,  and 
the  conventional  opinions  of  the  world  in  which  she  lived.  Had 
Harley  thought  it  possible  that  Madame  di  Negra  could  stoop 
below  her  station,  and  love,  not  wisely,  but  too  well,  he  would 
rather  have  thought  that  the  object  would  be  some  brilliant 
adventurer  of  fashion, — someone  who  could  turn  against  herself 
all  the  arts  of  deliberate  fascination,  and  all  the  experience  be- 
stowed by  frequent  conquest.  Cne  so  simple  as  Leonard — so 
young  and  so  new!  Harley  L'Estrange  would  have  smiled  at  him- 
self, if  the  idea  of  that  image  subjugating  the  ambitious  woman 
to  the  disinterested  love  of  a  village  maid,  had  once  crossed  his 
mind.  Nevertheless,  so  it  was,  and  precisely  from  those  causes 
which  would  have  seemed  to  Harley  to  forbid  the  weakness. 

It  was  that  fresh,  pure  heart,— it  was  that  simple,  earnest- 
sweetness, — it  was  that  contrast  in  look,  in  tone,  in  sentiment, 
and  in  reasonings,  to  all  that  had  jaded  and  disgusted  her  in  the 
circle  of  her  admirers, — it  was  all  this  that  captivated  Beatrice 
at  the  first  interview  with  Leonard.  Here  was  what  she  had 
confessed  to  the  sceptical  Randal  she  had  dreamed  and  sighed 
for.  Her  earliest  youth  had  passed  into  abhorrent  marriage, 
without  the  soft,innocent  crisis  of  human  life — virgin  love.  Many 
a  wooer  might  have  touched  her  vanity,  pleased  her  fancy, excited 
her  ambition — her  heart  had  never  been  awakened  :  it  woke  now. 
The  world,  and  the  years  that  the  world  had  wasted,  seemed  to 
fleet  away  as  a  cloud.  She  was  as  if  restored  to  the  blush  and 
the  sigh  of  youth — the  youth  of  the  Italian  maid.  As  in  the 
restoration  of  our  golden  age  is  the  spell  of  poetry  with  us  all, 
so  such  was  the  spell  of  the  poet  himself  on  her. 

Oh,  how  exquisite  was  that  brief  episode  in  the  life  of  the 
woman  palled  with  the  "hack  sights  and  sounds"  of  worldly 
life  !  How  strangely  happy  were  those  hours,  when,  lured  on 
by  her  silent  sympathy,  the  young  scholar  spoke  of  his  early 
struggles  between  circumstance  and  impulse,  musing  amidst  the 
flowers,  and  hearkening  to  the  fountain  ;  or  of  his  wanderings 


144  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

in  the  desolate,  lamp-lit  streets,  while  the  vision  of  Chatterton's 
glittering  eyes  shone  dread  through  the  friendless  shadows.  And 
as  he  spoke,  whether  of  his  hopes  or  his  fears,  her  looks  dwelt 
fondly  on  the  young  face,  that  varied  between  pride  and  sadness — 
pride  ever  so  gentle,  and  sadness  ever  so  nobly  touching. 
She  was  never  weary  of  gazing  on  that  brow,  with  its  quiet 
power;  but  her  lids  dropped  before  those  eyes,with  their  serene, 
unfathomable  passion.  She  felt,  as  they  haunted  her,  what  a 
deep  and  holy  thing  love  in  such  souls  must  be.  Leonard  never 
spoke  to  her  of  Helen — that  reserve  every  reader  can  compre- 
hend. To  natures  like  his,  love  is  a  mystery ;  to  confide  it  is  to 
profane.  But  he  fulfilled  his  commission  of  interesting  her  in 
the  exile  and  his  daughter.  And  his  description  of  them  brought 
tears  to  her  eyes.  She  inly  resolved  not  to  aid  Peschierain  his 
designs  on  Violante.  She  forgot  for  the  moment  that  her  own 
fortune  was  to  depend  on  the  success  of  those  designs. — Levy 
had  arranged  so  that  she  was  not  reminded  of  her  poverty  by 
creditors — she  knew  not  how  ;  she  knew  nothing  of  business; 
she  gave  herself  up  to  the  delight  of  the  present  hour,  and  to 
vague  prospects  of  a  future,  associated  with  that  young  image — 
with  that  face  of  a  guardian  angel  that  she  saw  before  her,  fairest 
in  the  moments  of  absence  ;  for  in  those  moments  came  the  life 
of  fairy-land, when  we  shut  our  eyes  on  the  world,  and  see  through 
the  haze  of  golden  reverie.  Dangerous,  indeed,  to  Leonard  would 
have  been  the  soft  society  of  Beatrice  di  Negra,  had  not  his  heart 
been  wholly  devoted  to  one  object,  and  had  not  his  ideal  of 
woman  been  from  that  object  one  sole  and  indivisible  reflection. 
But  Beatrice  guessed  not  this  barrier  between  herself  and  him. 
Amidst  the  shadows  that  he  conjured  up  from  his  past  life,  she 
beheld  no  rival  form.  She  saw  him  lonely  in  the  world  as  she 
was  herself.  And  in  his  lowly  birth,  his  youth,  in  the  freedom 
from  presumption  which  characterized  him  in  all  things  (save 
that  confidence  in  his  intellectual  destinies,which  is  the  essential 
attribute  of  genius),  she  but  grew  the  bolder  by  the  belief  that, 
even  if  he  loved  her,  he  would  not  dare  to  hazard  the  avowal. 
And  thus,  one  day,  yielding,  as  she  had  ever  been  wont  to 
yield,  to  the  impulse  of  her  quick  Italian  heart — how  she  never 
remembered — in  what  words  she  never  could  recall — she  spoke 
—she  owned  her  love — she  pleaded,  with  tears  and  blushes,  for 
love  in  return.  All  that  passed  was  to  her  as  a  dream — a  dream 
from  which  she  woke  with  a  fierce  sense  of  agony,  of  humilia- 
tion— woke  as  the  woman  "scorned."  No  matter  how  gratefully, 
how  tenderly  Leonard  had  replied — the  reply  was  refusal.  For 
the  first  time  she  learned  she'had  a  rival;  that  all  he  could  give 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  145 

of  love  was  long  since,  from  his  boyhood,  given  to  another.  For 
the  first  time  in  her  life  that  ardent  nature  knew  jealousy,  its 
torturing  stings,  its  thirst  for  vengeance,  its  tempest  of  loving 
hate.  But,  to  outward  appearance,  silent  and  cold  she  stood  as 
marble.  Words  that  sought  to  soothe  fell  on  her  ear  unheeded: 
they  were  drowned  by  the  storm  within.  Pride  was  the  first  feel- 
ing which  dominated  the  warring  elements  that  raged  in  her 
soul.  She  tore  her  hand  from  that  which  clasped  hers  with  so 
loyal  a  respect.  She  could  have  spurned  the  form  that  knelt  at 
her  feet,  not  for  love,  but  for  pardon.  She  pointed  to  the  door 
with  the  gesture  of  an  insulted  queen.  She  knew  no  more  till  she 
was  alone.  Then  came  that  rapid  flash  of  conjecture  peculiar  to 
the  storm  of  jealousy;  that  which  seems  to  single  from  all  nature 
the  one  object  to  dread  and  to  destroy;  the  conjecture  so  often 
false;  yet  received  at  once  by  our  convictions  as  the  revelation 
of  instinctive  truth.  He  to  whom  she  had  humbled  herself  loved 
another;  whom  but  Violante?—  whom  else,  young  and  beautiful, 
had  he  named  in  the  record  of  his  life?  —  None  !  And  he  had 
sought  to  interest  her,  Beatrice  di  Negra,  in  the  object  of  his 
love;  —  hinted  at  dangers,  which  Beatrice  knew  too  well;  implied 
trust  in  Beatrice's  will  to  protect.  Blind  fool  that  she  had  been! 
This,  then,  was  the  reason  why  he  had  come,  day  after  day,  to 
Beatrice's  house;  this  was  the  charm  that  had  drawn  him  thither; 
this->—  she  pressed  her  hands  to  her  burningjtemples,  as  if  to  stop  the 
torture  of  thought.  Suddenly  a  voice  was  heard  below,  the  door 
opened,  and  Randal  Leslie  entered. 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

PUNCTUALLY  at  eight  o'clock  that  evening,  Baron  Levy  wel- 
comed the  new  ally  he  had  secured.  The  pair  dined  en  tfte-ct-Me, 
discussing  general  matters  till  the  servants  left  them  to  their 
wine.  Then  said  the  Baron,  rising  and  stirring  the  fire  —  then 
said  the  Baron,  briefly  and  significantly  — 


"  As  regards  the  property  you  spoke  of,"  answered  Randal, 
"I  am  willing  to  purchase  it  on  the  terms  you  name.  The  only 
point  that  perplexes  me  is  how  to  account  to  Audley  Egerton, 
to  my  parents,  to  the  world,  for  the  power  of  purchasing  it." 

"True,"  said  the  Baron,  without  even  a  smile  at  the  ingenious 
and  truly  Greek  manner  in  which  Randal  had  contrived  to  de- 
note his  meaning,  and  conceal  the  ugliness  of  it  —  "  true,  we 
must  think  of  that.  If  we  could  manage  to  conceal  the  real  name 
of  the  purchaser  for  a  year  or  so  —  it  might  be  easy  —  you  maybe 
supposed  to  have  speculated  in  the  Funds;  or  Egerton  maydie$ 


146  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR; 

and  people  may  believe  that  he  had  secured  to  you  something 
handsome  from  the  ruin  of  his  fortune." 

"  Little  chance  of  Egerton's  dying." 

"Humph!"  said  the  Baron.  "However,  this  is  a  mere  detail, 
reserved  for  consideration.  You  can  now  tell  us  where  the  young 
lady  is  ? " 

"Certainly.  I  could  not  this  morning — I  can  now.  I  will  go  with 
you  to  the  Count.  Meanwhile,  I  have  seen  Madame  diNegra;  she 
will  accept  Frank  Hazeldean,  if  he  will  but  offer  himself  at  once." 

"  Will. he  not?" 

"  No!  I  have  been  to  him.  He  is  overjoyed  at  my  representa- 
tions, but  considers  it  his  duty  to  ask  the  consent  of  his  parents. 
Of  course  they  will  not  give  it;  and  if  there  be  delay,  she  will 
retract.  She  is  under  the  influence  of  passions,  on  the  duration 
of  which  there  is  no  reliance." 

"  What  passions  ?     Love  ?"  fiu.-t 

"  Love  ;  but  not  for  .Hazeldean.  The  passions  that  bring  her 
to  accept  his  hand  are  pique  and  jealousy.  She  believes,  in  a 
word,  that  one,  who  seems  to  have  gained  the  mastery  over  her 
affections  with  a  strange  suddenness,  is  but  blind  to  her  charms 
because  dazzled  by  Violante's.  She  is  prepared  to  aid  in  all  that 
can  give  her  rival  to  Peschiera;  and  yet,  such  is  the  inconsistency 
of  woman,"  added  the  young  philosopher,  with  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulders,  "  that  she  is  also  prepared  to  lose  all  chance  of  secur- 
ing him  she  loves,  by  bestowing  herself  on  another  !  " 

"Woman,  indeed,  all  over!"  said  the  Baron,  tapping  the 
snuff-box  (Louis  Quinze),and  regaling  his  nostrils  with  a  scorn- 
ful pinch.  "But  who  is  the  man  whom  the  fair  Beatrice  has  thus 
honored?  Superb  creature!  I  had  some  idea  of  her iinyself  when 
I  bought  up  her  debts;  but  it  might  have  embarrassed  me,  in 
more  general  plans,  as  regards  the  Count.  All  for  the  best. 
Who's  the  man  ?  Not  Lord  L'Estrange  ?  " 

"I  do  not  think  it  is  he;  but  I  have  not  yet  ascertained.  I 
have  told  you  all  I  know.  I  found  her  in  a  state  so  excited,  so 
unlike  herself,  that  I  had  no  little  difficulty  in  soothing  her  into 
confidence  so  far.  I  could  not  venture  more." 

"  And  she  will  accept  Frank  ?•" 

"  Had  he  offered  to-day,  she  would  have  accepted  him  !  " 

"It  may  be  a  great  help  to  your  fortunes,  men  c/ier,  if  Frank 
Hazeldean  marry  this  lady  without  his  father's  consent.  Perhaps 
he  may  be  disinherited.  You  are  next  of  kin." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ? "  asked  Randal,  sullenly. 

"  It  is  my  business  to  know  all  about  the  chances  and  con- 
nections of  any  one  with  whom  I  do  money  matters.  I  do  money 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  147 

matters  with  young  Hazeldean  ;  so  I  know  that  the  Hazeldean 
property  is  not  entailed  ;  and  as  the  Squire's  half-brother  has  no 
Hazeldean  blood  in  him,  you  have  excellent  expectations." 

"  Did  Frank  tell  you  I  was  next  of  kin  ?  " 

"  I  rather  think  so  ;  but  I  am  sureyou  did." 

"  I— when  ?  " 

"  When  you  told  me  how  important  it  was  to  you  that  Frank 
should  marry  Madame  di  Negra.  Peste !  mon  cher,  do  you 
think  I'm  a  blockhead  ?  " 

"Well,  Baron,  Frank  is  of  age,  and  can  marry  to  please  him- 
self. You  implied  to  me  that  you  could  help  him  in  this." 

"I  will  try.  See  that  he  call  at  Madame  di  Negra's  to- 
morrow at  two,  precisely." 

"  I  would  rather  keep  clear  of  all  apparent  interference  in  this 
matter.  Will  you  not  arrange  that  he  call  on  her?  And  do  not 
forget  to  entangle  him  in  a  post-obit '." 

"  Leave  it  to  me.  Any  more  wine?  No  ;—  then  let  us  go  to 
the  Count's." 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  next  morning  Frank  Hazeldean  was  sitting  over  his  solitary 
breakfast-table.  It  was  long  past  noon.  The  young  man  had  risen 
early,  it  is  true,  to  attend  his  military  duties,  but  he  had  contracted 
the  habit  of  breakfasting  late.  One's  appetite  does  not  come  early 
when  one  lives  in  London,  and  never  goes  to  bed  before  daybreak. 

•  There  was  nothing  very  luxurious  or  effeminate  about  Frank's 
rooms,  though  they  were  in  a  very  dear  street,  and  he  paid  a 
monstrous  high  price  for  them.  Still,  to  a  practised  eye,  they 
betrayed  an  inmate  who  can  get  through  his  money  and  make 
very  little  show  for  it.  The  walls  were  covered  with  colored 
prints  of  racers,  and  steeple-chases,  interspersed  with  the  portraits 
of  opera-dancers — all  smirk  and  caper.  Then  there  was  a  semi- 
circular recess  covered  with  red  cloth,  and  fitted  up  for  smoking, 
as  you  might  perceive  by  sundry  stands  full  of  Turkish  pipes  in 
cherrystick  and  jessamine,  with  amber  mouthpieces  ;  while  a 
great  serpent  hookah,  from  which  Frank  could  no  more  have 
smoked  than  he  could  have  smoked  out  of  the  head  of  a  boa* 
constrictor,  coiled  itself  up  on  the  floor  ;  over  the  chimney-piece 
was  a  collection  of  Moorish  arms.  What  use  on  earth,  ataghan  and 
scimitar,  and  damascened  pistols,  that  would  not  carry  straight 
three  yards,  could  be  to  an  officer  in  his  Majesty's  Guards,  is  more 
than  I  can  conjecture,  or  even  Frank  satisfactorily  explain.  I 
have  strong  suspicions  that  this  valuable  arsenal  passed  to  Frank 
in  part  payment. of  a  bill  to  be  discounted.  At  all  events,  if  so, 


148  :MY  NOVEL;  OR,- 

it  was  an  improvement  on  the  bear  that  he  had  sold  to  the  hair- 
dresser. No  books  were  to  be  seen  anywhere,  except  a  Court 
Guide,  a  Racing  Calendar,  an  Army  List,  a  Sporting  Magazine 
complete  (whole-bound  in  scarlet  morocco,  at  about  a  guinea  per 
volume),  and  a  small  book,  as  small  as  an  Elzevir,  on  the  chimney- 
piece,  by  the  side  of  a  cigar-case.  That  small  book  had  cost  Frank 
more  than  all  the  rest  put  together  ;  it  was  his  Own  Book,  his  book 
par  excellence ;  book  madeupby  himself-^-his  BETTING  BOOK  ! 

On  a  center-table  were  deposited  Frank's  well-brushed  hat — a 
satin -woodbox,containingkidgloyes,of  various  delicate  tints,  from 
primrose  to  lilac — a  tray  full  of  cards  and  three-cornered  notes — 
an  opera-glass,  and  an  ivory  subscription-ticket  to  his  opera  stall. 

In  one  corner  was  an  ingenious  receptacle  for  canes,  sticks,  and 
whips — I  should  not  like,  in  these  bad  times,  to  have  paid  the  bill 
for  them  ;  and  mounting  guard  by  that  receptacle,  stood  a  pair  of 
bootsas  bright  as  Baron  Levy's—"  the  force  of  brightnesscould  no 
further  go."  Frank  was  in  his  dressing-gown — very  good  taste — 
quite-Oriental — guaranteed  to  be  true  Indiacashmere,  and  charged 
as  such.  Nothing  could  be  more  neat,  though  perfectly  simple, 
than  the  appurtenances  of  his  breakfast-table  : — silver  tea-pot, 
ewer  and  basin — all  fitting  into  his  dressing  box — (for  the  which 
may  Storr  and  Mortimer  be  now  praised,  and  some  day  paid) ! 
Erank- looked  very  handsome — rather  tired,  and  exceedingly 
bored.  He  had  been  trying  to  read  the  Morning  Posf,  but  the 
effort  had  proved  too  much  for  him. 

Poor  dear  Frank  Hazeldean  ! — true  type  of  many  a  poor  dear 
fellow  who  has  long  since  gone  to  the  dogs.  And  if,  in  this  road 
to  ruin,  there  had  been  the  least  thing  to  do  the  traveller  any 
credit  by  the  way  !  One  feels  a  respect  for  the  ruin  of  a  man  like 
Audley  Egerton.  He  is  ruined  en  rail  From  the  wrecks  of  his 
fortune  he  can  look  down  and  see  stately  monuments  built  from 
the  stones  of  that  dismantled  edifice.  In  every  institution  which 
attests  the  humanity  of  England,  was  a  record  of  the  princely 
bounty  of  the  public  man.  In  those  objects  of  party,  for  which 
the  proverbial  sinews  of  war  are  necessary — in  those  rewards  for 
service,  which  private  liberality  can  confer — the  hand  of  Egerton 
had  been  opened  as  with  the  heart  of  a  king.  Many  a  rising 
member  of  Parliament,  in  those  days  when  talent  was  brought 
forward  through  the  aid  of  wealth  and  rank,  owed  his  career  to 
the  seat  which  Audley  Egerton's  large  subscription  had  secured 
to  him  ;  many  an  obscure  supporter  in  letters  and  the  press  looked 
back  to  the  day  when  he  had  been  freed  from  the  gaol  by  the 
gratitude  of  the  patron.  The  city  he  represented  was  embellished 
at  has  cost ;  through  the  shire  that  held  his  mortgaged  lands,  which 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  149 

he  had  rarely  ever  visited,  his  gold  had  flowed  as  a  Pactolus  • 
all  that  could  animate  its  public  spirit,  or  increase  its  civilization, 
claimed  kindred  with  his  munificence  and  never  had  a  claim  dis- 
allowed. Even  in  his  grand,  careless  household,  with  its  large 
retinue  and  superb  hospitality,  there  was  something  worthy  of  a 
representative  of  that  time-honored  portion  of  our  true  nobility— r 
the  untitled  gentlemen  of  the  land.  The  Great  Commoner  had, 
indeed,  "something  to  show  "  for  the  money  he  had  disdained  and 
squandered.  But  for  Frank  Hazeldean's  mode  of  getting  rid  of 
the  dross,  when  gone,  what  would  be  left  to  tell  the  tale  ?  Paltry 
prints  in  a  bachelor's  lodging  ;  a  collection  of  canes  and  cherry- 
sticks  ;  half  a  dozen  letters  in  ill-spelt  French  from  ^.figurante ; 
some  long-legged  horses,  fit  for  nothing  but  to  lose  a'race;  that 
damnable  Betting-Book;  and — sic  transit  gloria — down  sweeps 
some  hawk  of  a  Levy,  on  the  wings  of  an  I  O  U,  and  not  a 
feather  is  left  of  the  pigeon  ! 

Yet  Frank  Hazeldean  has  stuff  in  him — a  good  heart,  and 
strict  honor.  Fool  though  he  seem,  there  is  sound  sterling 
sense  in  some  odd  corner  of  his  brains,  if  one  could  but  get  at 
it.  All  he  wants  to  save  hirn  from  perdition  is,  to  do  what  .he 
has  never  yet  done — viz.,  pause  and  think.  But,  to  be  sure, 
that  same  operation  of  thinking  is  not  so  easy  for  folks  unac- 
customed to  it,  as  people  who  think— think!  - 

"I  can't  bear  this,"  said  Frank,  suddenly,  springing  to  his 
feet.  "This  woman,  I  cannot  get  her  out  of  my  head.  I  ought 
to  go  down  to  the  governor's;  but  then  if  he  gets  into  a  passion, 
and  refuses  his  consent,  where  am  I  ?  And  he  will,  too,  I  fear. 
I  wish  I  could  make  out  what  Randal  advises.  He  seems  to 
recommend  that  I  should  marry  Beatrice  at  once,  and  trust  to  my 
mother's  influence  to  make  all  right  afterward.  But  when  I  ask,  */j 
that  your  advice  ? '  he  backs  out  of  it.  Well,  I  suppose  he  is  right 
there.  I  can  understand  that  he  is  unwilling,  good  fellow,  to  rec- 
ommend anything  that  my  father  would  disapprove.  But  still' — " 

Here  Frank  stopped  in  his  soliloquy,  and  did  make  his  first 
desperate  effort  to  think  ! 

Now,  O  dear  reader,  I  assume,  of  course,  that  thou  art  one  of 
the  class  to  which  thought  is  familiar ;  and,  perhaps,  thou  hast 
smiled  in  disdain  or  incredulity  at  that  remark  on  the  difficulty 
of  thinking  which  preceded  Frank  Hazeldean's  discourse  to 
himself.  But  art  thou  quite  sure  that  when  thou  hast  tried  to 
think  thou  hast  always  succeeded  ?  Hast  thou  not  often  been 
duped  by  that  pale  visionary  simulacrum  of  thought  which  goes 
by  the  name  of  reverie?  Honest  old  Montaigne  confessed  that 
he  did  not  understand  that  process  of  sitting  down  to  think,  on 


150  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

which  some  folks  express  themselves  so  glibly.  He  could  not 
think  unless  he  had  a  pen  in  his  hand,  and  a  sheet  of  paper  be- 
fore him;  and  so,  by  a  manual  operation,  seized  and  connected 
the  links  of  ratiocination.  Very  often  has  it  happened  to  my- 
self, when  I  have  said  to  Thought  peremptorily,  ''Bestir  thyself — 
a  serious  matter  is  before  thee — ponder  it  well — think  of  it," 
that  that  same  Thought  has  behaved  in  the  most  refractory, 
rebellious  manner  conceivable — and  instead  of  concentrating 
its  rays  into  a  single  stream  of  light,  has  broken  into  all  the  de- 
sultory tints  of  the  rainbow,  coloring  senseless  clouds,  and  run- 
ning off  into  the  seventh  heaven — so  that  after  sitting  a  good 
hour  by  the  clock,  with  brows  as  knit  as  if  I  was  intent  on 
squaring  the  circle,  I  have  suddenly  discovered  that  I  might 
as  well  have  gone  comfortably  to  sleep — I  have  been  doing 
nothing  but  dream — and  the  most  nonsensical  dreams  !  So  when 
Frank  Hazeldean,as  he  stopped  at  that  meditative  "But  still" — 
and  leaning  his  arm  on  the  chimney-piece,  and  resting  his  face 
on  his  hand,  felt  himself  at  tfre  grave  crisis  of  life,  and  fancied 
he  was  going  "to  think  on  it,"  there  only  rose  before  him  a 
succession  of  shadowy  pictures:  Randal  Leslie,  with  an  unsatis- 
factory countenance,  from  which  he  could  extract  nothing; — the 
Squire,  looking  as  black  as  thunder  in  his  study  at  Hazeldean; — 
his  mother  trying  to  plead  for  him,  and  getting  herself  properly 
scolded  for  her  pains;* — and  then  off  went  that  Will-o'-the-wisp 
which  pretended  to  call  itself  Thought,  and  began  playing  round 
the  pale  charming  face  of  Beatrice  di  Negra  in  the  drawing- 
room  at  Curzon  Street,  and  repeating,  with  small  elfin  voice, 
Randal  Leslie's  assurance  of  the  preceding  day,  "as  to  her 
affection  for  you,  Frank,  there  is  no  doubt  of  that ;  she  only 
begins  to  think  you  are  trifling  with  her."  And  there  was  a 
rapturous  vision  of  a  young  gentleman  on  his  knee,  and  the  fair 
pale  face  bathed  in  blushes,  and  a  clergyman  standing  by  the 
altar,  and  a  carriage-and-four  with  white  favors  at  the  church- 
door;  and  of  a  hoaeymoon,  which  would  have  astonished  as  to 
honey  all  thebees  of  Hymettus.  And  in  the  midst  of  thesephantas- 
magoria,  which  composed  what  Frank  fondly  styled  "making up 
his  mind,"  there  came  a  single  man's  rat-tat-tat  at  the  street-door. 

"  One  never  has  a  moment  for  thinking"  cried  Frank,  and  he 
called  out  to  his  valet,  "  Not  »t  home." 

But  it  was  too  late.  LordSpendquickwasinthehall,andpresent- 
]y  in  the  room.  How  d'ye  do's  were  exchanged  and  hands  shaken. 

LORD  SPENDQUICK. — I  have  a  note  for  you,  Hazeldean. 

FRANK  (lazily). — From  whom  ? 

LORD  SPENDQUICK. — Levy.    Just  come  from  him — never  sa\t 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  151 

him  in  such  a  fidget.  He  was  going  into  the  city — I  suppose  to 
see  X.  Y.  Dashed  off  this  note  for  you — and  would  have  sent 
it  by  a  servant,  but  I  said  I  would  bring  it. 

FRANK  (looking  fearfully  at  the  note). — I  hope  he  does  not 
want  his  money  yet.  Private  and  confidential-*- -that  looks  bad. 

SPENDQUICK. — Devilish  bad,  indeed. 

Frank  opens  the  note  and  reads,  half  aloud,  "Dear  Hazeldean." 

SPENDQUICK  (interrupting). — Good  sign!  He  always  "Spehd- 
quicks"  me  when  he  tends  me  money;  and  'tis  l<My  dear  Lord," 
when  he  wants  it  back.  Capital  sign." 

Frank  reads  on,  but  to  himself,  and  with  a  changing  counte- 
nance— 

"  DEAR  HAZELDEAN, — I  am  very  sorry  to  tell  you  that,  in 
consequence  of  the  sudden  failure  of  a  house  at  Paris  with  which 
I  had  large  dealings,  I  am  pressed,  on  a  sudden,  for  all  the  ready 
money  I  can  get.  I  don't  want  to  inconvenience  you  ;  but  do 
try  and  see  if  you  can  take  up  those  bills  of  yours  which  I 
hold,  and  which,  as  you  know,  have  been  due  some  little  time. 
I  had  hit  on  a  way  of  arranging  your  affairs;  but  when  I  hinted 
at  it,  you  seemed  to  dislike  the  idea;  and  Leslie  has  since  told 
me  that  you  have  strong  objections  to  giving  any  security  on 
your  prospective  property.  So  no  more  of  that,  my  dear  fellow. 
I  am  called  out  in  haste  to  try  what  I  can  do  for  a  very  charm- 
ing client  of  mine,  who  is  in  great  pecuniary  distress,  though 
she  has  for  her  brother  a  foreign  Count,  as  rich  as  a  Crcesus. 
There  is  an  execution  in  her  house.  I  am  going  down  to  the 
tradesman  who  put  it  in,  but  have  no  hopes  of  softening  him  ; 
and  I  fear  there  will  be  others  before  the  day  is  out.  Another 
reason  for  wanting  money,  if  you  can  help  rf\e,ttion£herf  An  execu- 
tion in  the  house  of  one  of  the  most  brilliant  women  in  London—- 
an execution  in  Curzon  Street,  Mayfair  Lit  will  be  all  over  the 
town,  if  I  can't  stop  it.— Yours  in  haste,  LEVY. 

"P.S. — Don't  let  what  I  have  said  vex  you  too  much.  I 
should  not  trouble  you  if  Spendquick  and  Borrowell  would  pay 
me  something.  Perhaps  you  can  get  them  to  do  so." 

Struck  by  Frank's  silence  and  paleness,  Lord  Spendquick 
here,  in  the  kindest  way  possible,  laid  his  hand  on  the  young 
guardsman's  shoulder,  and  looked  over  the  note  with  that  free- 
dom which  gentlemen  in  difficulties  take  with  each  other's  private 
and  confidential  correspondence.  His  eye  fell  on  the  postscript. 
"Oh, damn  it,"cried  Spendquick, "  but  that's  too  bad— employing 
youtogetmetopayhim!  Such  horrible  treachery.  Makeyourself 
easy,my  dear  Frank;  I  could  never  suspect  you  of  anything  so  un- 
handsome. I  could  as  soon  suspect  myself  of — paying  him — " 


152  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  Curzon  Street !  Count !  "  muttered  Frank,  as  if  waking 
from  a  dream.  "It  must  be  so."  To  thrust  on  his  boots — change 
his  dressing-robe  for  his  frock-coat — snatch  at  his  hat,  gloves, 
andcane — break  from  Spendquick — descend  the  stairs — a  flight 
at  a  leap — gain  the  street — throw  himself  into  a  cabriolet ;  all 
this  was  done  before  his  astounded  visitor  could  even  recover 
breath  enough  to  ask  "What's  the  matter? " 

Left  thus  alone,  Lord  Spendquick  shook  his  head — shook  it 
twice,  as  if  fully  to  convince  himself  that  there  was  nothing  in 
it;  and  then  re-arranging  his  hat  before  the  looking-glass,  and 
drawing  on  his  gloves  deliberately,  he  walked  down-stairs,  and 
strolled  into  White's,  but  with  a  bewildered  and  absent  air. 
Standing  at  the  celebrated  bow-window  for  some  moments  in 
musing  silence, 'Lord  Spendquick  at  last  thus  addressed  an  ex- 
ceedingly cynical,  sceptical,  old  roud— 

"  Pray,  do  you  think  there  is  any  truth  in  the  stories  about 
people  in  former  times  selling  themselves  to  the  devil  ? " 

"Ugh,"  answered  the  roue,  much  too  wise  ever  to  be  sur- 
prised. •'  Have  you  any  personal  interest  in  the  question  ? " 
••  "  I  !. — no;  but  a  friend  of  mine  has-just  received  a  letter  from 
Levy,  and  he  flew  out  of  the  room  in  the  most  ex-tra-or-di-na-ry 
manner — just  as  people  did  in  those  days  when  their  time  was 
up  !  And  Levy,  you  know,  is—-" 

"  Not  quite  as  great  a  fool  as  the  other  dark  gentleman  to 
whom  you  would  compare  him;  for  Levy  never  made  such  bad 
bargains  for  himself.  Time  up  !  No  doubt  it  is.  I  should  not 
like  to  be  in  your  friend's  shoes." 

"  Shoes  !  "  said  Spendquick,  with  a  sort  of  shudder  ;  "  you 
never  saw  a  neater  fellow,  nor  one,  to  do  him  justice,  who  takes 
more  time  in  dressing  than  he  does  in  general.  And  talking  of 
shoes — he  rushed  out  with  the  right  boot  on  the  left  foot,  and  the 
left  boot  on  the  right.  Very  mysterious  !  "  And  a  third  time  that 
head  seemed  to  him  wondrous  empty. 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

BUT  Frank  had  arrived  in  Curzon  Street — leapt  from  the 
cabriolet — knocked  at  the  door,  which  was  opened  by  a  strange- 
looking  man  in  a  buff  waistcoat  and  corduroy  smalls.  Frank 
gave  a  glance  at  this  personage — >pushedhim  aside — and  rushed 
up-stairs.  He  burst  into  the  drawing-room — no  Beatrice  was 
there.  A  thin,  elderly  man,  with  a  manuscript  book  in  his 
hand,  appeared  engaged  in  examining  the  furniture  and  mak- 
ing an  inventory,  with  the  aid  of  Madame  diNegra's  upper  ser- 
vant The  thin  man  stared  at  Frank,  and  touched  the  hat  which 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  153 

wason  his  head.  The  servant,  who  was  a  foreigner,  approached 
Frank,  and  said,  in  broken  English,  that  his  lady  did  not  receive- 
that  she  was  unwell,  and  kept  her  room.  Frank  thrust  a  sover- 
eign into  the  servant's  hand,  and  begged  him  to  tell  Madame 
di  Negra  that  Mr.  Hazeldean  entreated  the  honor  of  an  inter- 
view. As  soon  as  the  servant  vanished  on  this  errand,  Frank 
seized  the  thin  irian  by  the  arm — "  What  is  this? — ah  execution  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"For  what  sum?" 

"Fifteen  hundred  and  forty-seven  pounds.  We  are  the  first 
in  possession." 

"  There  are  others,  then  ? " 

"  Or  else,  sir,  we  should  have  never  taken  this  step.  Most 
painful  to  our  feelings,  sir  ;  but  these  foreigners  are  here,  to- 
day and  gone  to-morrow.  And—" 

The  servant  re-entered.  Madame  di  Negra  would  see  Mr. 
Hazeldean.  Would  he  walk  up-stairs  ?  Frank  hastened  to 
obey  this  summons. 

Madame  di  Negra  was  in  a  small  room  which  was  fitted  upas 
a  boudoir.  Her  eyes  showed  the  traces  of  recent  tears,  hut  her 
face  was  composed,  and  even  rigid,  in  its  haughty,  though  mount*- 
ful  expression.  Frank,  however,  did  not  pause  to  notice  her 
countenance — to  hear  her  dignified  salutation.  All  his  timidity 
was  gone.  He  saw  but  the  woman  whom  he  loved,  in  distress 
and  humiliation.  As  the  door  closed  on  him  he  fifing  himself 
at  her  feet.  He  caught  at  her  hand — the  skirt  of  her  robe, 

"Oh!  Madame  di  Negra! — Beatrice!"  he  exclaimed,  tears 
in  his  eyes,  and  his  voice  half-broken  by  generous  emotion  ; 
"forgive  me — forgive  me  ;  don't  see  in  me  a  mere  acquaintance. 
By  accident  I  learned,  or,  rather,  guessed— this — this  strange 
insult  to  which  you  are  so  unworthily  exposed. :  I  am  here.  Think 
of  me — butasafriend — the  truest  friend.  Oh!  Beatrice  !  " — and 
he  bent  his  head  over  the  hand  he  held — "I  never  dared  to  say  so 
before — it  seems  presuming  to  say  it  now — but  I  cannot  help  it. 
I  love  you,  I  love  you  with  my  whole  heart  and  soul ; — to  serve 
you — if  only  but  to  serve  you  ! — I  ask  nothing  else."  And  a 
sob  went  from  his  warm,  young,  foolish  heart. 

The  Italian  was  deeply  moved.  Nor  was  her  nature  that  of  the 
mere  sordid  adventuress.  So  much  love,  and  so  much  confidence  ! 
She  was  not  prepared  to  betray  the  one,  and  entrap  the  other. 

"  Rise — rise,"  she  said,  softly  ;  "  I  thank  you  gratefully.  But 
do  not  suppose  that  I—" 

"  Hush — hush  ! — you  must  not  refuse  me.  Hush  !  don't  let 
your  pride  speak." 


154  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  No — it  is  not  pride.  You  exaggerate  what  is  occurring 
here.  You  forget  that  I  have  a  brother.  I  have  sent  for  him. 
He  is  the  only  one  that  I  can  apply  to  !  Ah  !  that  is  his  knock  ! 
But  I  shall  never,  never  forget  that  I  have  found  one  generous, 
noble  heart  in  this  hollow  world." 

Frank  would  have  replied,  but  he  heard  the  Count's  voice  on 
the  stairs,  and  had -only  time  to-  rise  and  withdraw  to  the  win- 
dow, trying  hard  to  repress  his  agitation  and  compose  his  coun- 
tenance. Count  di  Peschiera  entered — entered  as  a  very  per- 
sonation of  the  beauty  and  magnificence  of  careless,  luxurious, 
pampered,  egotistical  wealth.  His  surtout,  trimmed  with  the 
costliest  sables,  flung  back  from  his  splendid  chest.  Amidst  the 
folds  of  the  glossy  satin  that  enveloped  his  throat,  gleamed  a 
turquoise,  of  such  value  as  a  jeweller  might  have  kept  for  fifty 
years  before  he  could  find  a  customer  rich  and  frivolous  enough 
to  buy  it.  The  very  head  of.  his  can$  was  a  masterpiece  of  art, 
and  the  man  himself,  so  elegant  despite  his  strength,  and  so 
fresh  despite  his  years ! — It  is  astonishing  how  well  men  wear 
when  they  think  of  no  one  but  themselves  ! 

"  Pr-rr !  "  said  the  Count,  not  observing  Frank  behind  the 
draperies  of  the  window  !  "  Pr-rr— ,  It  seems  to  me  that  you 
must  have  passed  a  very  unpleasant  quarter  of  an  hour.  And — 
now — Dieu  me  damne — quoi  fai.re  /_";. 

Beatrice  pointed  to  the  window,  and  felt  as  if  she  could  have 
sunk  into  the  earth  for  shame.  ButastheCcyuntspokein  French, 
and  Frank  did  not  very  readily  comprehend  that  language,  the 
words  escaped  him  ;  though  his  ear  was  shocked  by  a  certain 
satirical  levity  of  tone. 

Frank  came  forward.  The  Count  held  out  his  hand,  and  with 
a  rapid  change  of  voice  and  manner,  said,  "  One  whpm  my  sister 
admits  at  such  a  moment  must  be  a  friend  to  me." 

"Mr.  Hazeldean,"  said  Beatrice,  with  meaning,  ''would  in^ 
deed  have  nobly  pressed  on  me  the  offer  of  an  aid  which  I  need 
no  more,  since  you,  my  brother,  are  here." 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  Count,  with  his  superb  air  of  grand 
seigneur  j  "I  will  go  down  and  clear  your  house  of  this  imper- 
tinent canaille.  But  I  thought  your  affairs  were  with  Baron 
Levy.  He  should  be  here." 

"  I  expect  him  every  moment.  Adieu !  Mr.  Hazeldean." 
Beatrice  extended  her  hand  to  her  young  lover  with  a  frank- 
ness which  was  not  without  a  certain  pathetic  and.  cordial  dig- 
nity. Restrained  from  further  words  by  the  Count's  presence, 
Frank  bowed  over  the  fair  hand  in  silence,  arid  retired.  He  was 
on  the  stairs  when  he  was  joined  by  Peschiera, 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  155 

"  Mr.  Hazeldean,"  said  the  latter,  in  a  low  tone,  "  will  you  come 
into  the  drawing-room  ?  " 

Frank  obeyed.  The  man  employed  in  his  examination  of 
the  furni'ture  was  still  at  his  task,  but  at  a  short  whisper  frpm 
the  Count  he  withdrew. 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  Peschiera,  "I  am  so  unacquainted  -with 
your  English  laws,  and  your  mode  of  settling  embarrassments  of 
this  degrading  nature,  and  you  have  evidently  shown  so  kind  a 
sympathy  in  my  sister's  distress,  that  I  venture  to  ask  you  to 
stay  here,  and  aid  me  in  consulting  with  Baron  Levy." 

Frank  was  just  expressing  his  unfeigned  pleasure  to  be  of  the 
slightest  use,  when  Levy's  knock  resounded  at  the  street-door, 
and  in  another  moment  the  Baron  entered. 

"Ouf!"  said  Levy,  wiping  his  brows,  and  sinking  into  a  chair 
as  if  he  had  been  engaged  in  toils  the  most  exhausting — "Ouf ! 
this  is  a  very  sad  business — very  ;  and  nothing,  my  dear  Count, 
nothing  but  ready  money  can  save  us  here." 

"You  know  my  affairs,  Levy,"  replied  Peschiera,  mournfully 
shaking  his  head,  "  and  that  though  in  a  few  months,  or  it  may 
be  weeks,  I  could  discharge  with  ease  my  sister's  debts,  what- 
ever their  amount,  yet  at  this  moment,  and  in  a  strange  land,  I 
have  not  the  power  to  do  so.  The  money  I  brought  with  me  is 
nearly  exhausted.  Can  you  not  advance  the  requisite  sum  ? " 

"  Impossible  !— Mr.  Hazeldean  is  aware  of  the.distress  under 
which  I  labor  myself." 

"  In  that  case,"  said  the.Count,  "all  we  can  do  to-day  is  to  re- 
move my  sister,  and  let  the  execution  proceed.  Meanwhile  I  will 
go  among  my  friends,  and  see  what  I  can  borrow  from  them." 

"Alas ! "  saidLevy,  rising  and  looking  out  of  the  window — "alas ! 
we  cannot  remove  the  Marchesa — the  worst  is  to  come.  Look  ! — 
you  see  those  three  men;  they  have  a  writ  against  her  person;  the 
moment  she  sets  her  foot  out  of  these  doors,  she  will  be  arrested."  * 

"  Arrested  !  "  exclaimed  Peschiera  and  Frank  in  a  breath. 

"  I  have  done  my  best  to  prevent  this  disgrace,  but  in  vain," 
said  the  Baron,  looking  very  wretched.  "You  see  these  Eng- 
lish tradespeople  fancy  they  have  no  hold  upon  foreigners.  But 
we  can  get  bail;  she  must  not  go  to  prison — " 

"Prison  !"  echoed  Frank.  He  hastened  to  Levy,  and  drew  him 
aside.  The  Count  seemed  paralyzed  by  shame  and  grief.  Throw- 
ing himself  back  on  the  sofa,  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  My  sister  !  "  groaned  the  Count—"  daughter  to  a  Peschiera, 
widow  to  a  di  Negra  ! "  There  was  something  affecting  in  the 
proud  woe  of  this  grand  patrician. 

...         .  *  At  that  date,  tjje  la\y  of mane  practss  existed  still. 


156  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  What  is  the  sum  ? "  whispered  Frank,  anxious  that  the  poor 
Count  should  not  overhear  him  ;  and  indeed  the  Count  seemed 
too  stunned  and  overwhelmed  to  hear  anything  less  loud  than 
a  clap  of  thunder  ! 

"  We  may  settle  all  liabilities  for  ^5000.  "  Nothing  to  Pes- 
chiera,  who  is  enormously  rich.  Entrcnous,  I  doubt  his  assur- 
ance that  he  is  without  ready  money.  It  may  be  so,  but — " 

"  Five  thousand  pounds  !     How  can  I  raise  such  a  sum  ?" 

"You,  my  dear  Hazeldean?  What  are  you  talking  about?  To 
be, sure  you  could  raise  twice  as  much  with  a  stroke  of  your  pen, 
and  throw  your  own  debts  into  the  bargain.  But — to  be  so  gen- 
erous to  an  acquaintance  " 

"Acquaintance  ! — Madame  di  Negra  !  the  height  of  my  am- 
bition is  to  claim  her  as  my  wife  !  " 

"And  these  debts  don't  startle  you?" 

"If  a  man  loves,"  answered  Frank,  simply,  "he  feels  it  most 
when  the  woman  he  loves  is  in  affliction.  And,"  he  added  after 
a  pause,  "  though  these  debts  are  faults,  kindness  at  this  moment 
may  give  me  the  power  to  cure  for  ever  both  her  faults  and  my 
own.  I  can  raise  this  money  by  a  stroke  of  the  pen  !  How  ?" 

"On  the  Casino  property." 

Frank  drew  back. 

"  No  other  way  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  But  I  know  your  scruples  ;  let  us  see  if  they 
can  be  conciliated.  You  would  marry  Madame  di  Negra ;  she 
will  have  ^£20,000  on  her  wedding-day.  Why  not  arrange  that, 
out  of  this  sum,  your  anticipative  charge  on  the  Casino  property 
be  paid  up  at  once  ?  Thus,  in  truth,  it  will  be  but  for  a  few  weeks 
that  the  charge  will  exist.  The  bond  will  remain  locked  in  my 
desk — it  can  never  come  to  your  father's  knowledge,  nor  wound 
his  feelings.  And  when  you  marry  (if  you  will  but  be  prudent  in 
the  meanwhile),  you  will  not  owe  a  debt  in  the  world." 

Here  the  Count  suddenly  started  up. 

"  Mr.  Hazeldean,  I  asked  you  to  stay  by  and  aid  us  by  your 
counsel ;  I  see  now  that  counsel  is  unavailing.  This  blow  on  our 
house  must  fall !  I  thank  you,  sir— I  thank  you.  Farewell.  Levy, 
come  with  me  to  my  poor  sister  and  prepare  her  for  the  worst." 

"Count,"  said  Frank,  "  hear  me.  My  acquaintance  with  you 
is  but  slight,  but  I  have  long  known  and — and  esteemed  your 
sister.  Baron  Levy  has  suggested  a  mode  in  which  I  can  have 
the  honor  and  happiness  of  removing  this  temporary  but  painful 
embarrassment.  I  can  advance  the  money." 

"  No — no  !  "  exclaimed  Peschiera. . "  How  can  you  suppose  that 
I  will  hear  of  such  a  proposition  ?  Your  youth  and  benevolence 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  157 

mislead  and  blind  you.  Impossible,  sir — impossible  !  Why,  even 
if  I  had  no  pride,  no  delicacy  of  rny  own,  my  sister's  fair  fame — " 

"  Would  suffer,  indeed,"  interrupted  Levy,  "if  she  were  under 
such  obligation  to  any  one  but  her  affianced  husband.  Nor,  what- 
ever my  regard  for  you,  Count,  could  I  suffer  my  client  Mr.  Hazel- 
dean,  to  make  this  advance  upon  any  less  valid  security  than  that 
of  the  fortune  to  which  Madame  di  Negra  is  entitled." 

"Ha! — is  this  indeed  so?  You  are  a  suitor  for  my  sister's 
hand,  Mr.  Hazeldean?" 

"But  not  at  this  moment — not  to  QWC  her  hand  to  the  compul- 
sion of  gratitude,"  answered  gentleman  Frank. 

"Gratitude!  And  you  do  not  know  her  heart,  then?  Do  not 
know — "  the  Count  interrupted  himself,  and  went  on  after  a  pause. 
"Mr.  Hazeldean,  I  need  not  say  that  we  rank  among  the  first  houses 
in  Europe.  My  pride  led  me  formerly  into  the  error  of  dispos- 
ing of  my  sister's  hand  to  one  whom  she  did  not  love-— merely 
because  in  rank  he  was  her  equal.  I  will  not  again  commit  such 
an  error,  nor  would  Beatrice  again  obey  me  if  I  sought  to  con- 
strain her.  Where  she  marries,  there  will  she  love.  If,  indeed, 
she  accepts  you,  as  I  believe  she  will,  it  will  be  from  affection 
solely.  If  she  does,  I  cannot  scruple  to  accept  this  loan — a  loan 
from  a  brother-in-law — loan  to  me,  and  not  charged  against  her 
fortune  !  That,  sir  (turning  to  Levy,  with  his  grand  air),  you  will 
take  care  to  arrange.  If  she  do  not  accept  you,  Mr.  Hazeldean, 
the  loan,  I  repeat,  is  not  to  be  thought  of.  Pardon  me  if  I  leave 
you.  This,  one  way  or  other,  must  be  decided  at  once."  The 
Count  inclined  his  head  with  much  stateliness,  and  then  quitted 
the  room.  His  step  was  heard  ascending  the  stairs. 

"If,"  said  Levy,  in  the  tone  of  a  mere  man  of  business — "if 
the  Count  pay  the  debts,  and  the  lady's  fortune  be  only  charged 
with  your  own — after  all  it  will  not  be  a  bad  marriage  in  the 
world's  eye,  nor  ought  it  to  be  in  a  father's.  Trust  me,  we  shall 
get  Mr.  Hazeldean's  consent,  and  cheerfully  too." 

Frank  did  not  listen  ;  he  could  only  listen  to  his  love,  to  his 
heart  beating  loud  with  hope  and  with  fear. 

Levy  sat  down  before  the  table,  and  drew  up  a  long  list  of  fig- 
ures in  a  very  neat  hand — a  list  of  figures  on  two  accounts,  which 
the  post-obit  on  the  Casino  was  destined  to  efface. 

After  a  lapse  of  time,  which  to  Frank  seemed  interminable, 
the  Count  reappeared.  He  took  Frank  aside,  with  a  gesture  to 
Levy,  who  rose,  and  retired  into  the  drawing-room. 

"My  dear  young  friend,"  said  Peschiera,  "as  I  suspected,  my 
sister's  heart  is  wholly  yours.  Stop  ;  hear  me  out.  But,  unluckily 
I  informed  her  of  your  generous  proposal;  it  was  most  unguarded, 


158  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

most  ill-judged  in  me,  and  that  has  well-nigh  spoiled  all ;  she  has 
so  much  pride  and  spirit ;  so  great  a  fear  that  you  may  think 
yourself  betrayed  into  an  imprudence  which  you  may  hereafter 
regret,  that  I  am  sure  she  will  tell  you  that  she  does  not  love  you, 
she  cannot  accept  you,  and  so  forth.  Lovers  like  you  are  not 
easily  deceived.  Don't  go  by  her  words  ;  but  you  shall  see  her 
yourself  and  judge.  Come." 

Followed  mechanically  by  Frank,  the  Count  ascended  the 
stairs  and  threw  open  the  doorof  Beatrice's  room.  The  Marchesa's 
back  was  turned ;  but  Frank  could  see  that  she  was  weeping. 

"I  have  brought  my  friend  to  plead  for  himself,"  said  the 
Count,  in  French  ;  "and  take  my  advice,  sister,  and  do  not  throw 
away  all  prospect  of  real  and  solid  happiness  for  a  vain  scruple. 
Heed  me!"  He  retired,  and  left  Frank  alone  with  Beatrice. 

Then  'the  Marchesa,  as  if  by  a  violent  effort,  so  sudden  was 
her  movement,  and  so  wild  her  look,  turned  her  face  to  her  wooer, 
and  came  up  to  him  where  he  stood. 

"  Oh  !  "  she  said,  clasping  her  hands,  "  is  this  true  ?  You  would 
save  me  from  disgrace,  from  a  prison — and  what  can  I  give  you 
in  return  ?  My  love  !  No,  no  ;  I  will  not  deceive  you.  Young, 
fair,  noble,  as  you  are,  I  do  not  love  you  as  you  should  be  loved. 
Go  ;  leave  this  house  ;  you  do  not  know  my  brother.  Go*  go — 
while  I  have  still  strength,  still  virtue  enough  to  reject  whatever 
may  protect  me  from  him  !  whatever— may — O.h — go,  go." 

"You  do  not  love  me,"  said  Frank.  "  Well;  I  don't  wonder  at 
it ;  you  are  so  brilliant,  so  superior  to  me.  I  will  abandon  hope — 
I  will  leave  you  as  you  command  me.  But  at  least  I  will  not  part 
with  my  privilege  to  serve  you.  As  for  the  rest — shame  on  me 
if  I  could  be  mean  enough  to  boast  of  love,  and  enforce  a  suit, 
at  such  a  moment."  Frank  turned  his  face  and  stole  softly  away. 
He  did  not  arrest  his  steps  at  the  drawing-room  ;  he  went  into 
the  parlor,  wrote  a  brief  line  to  Levy  charging  him  quietly  to 
dismiss  the  execution,  and  to  come  to  Frank's  rooms  with  the 
necessary  deeds;  and,  above  all,  to  say  nothing  to  the  Count. 
Then  he  went  out  .of  the  house  and  walked  back  to  his  lodgings. 

That  evening  Levy  came  to  him,  and  accounts  were  gone  into, 
and  papers  signed;  andthenext  morning  Madame di  Negra -was 
free  from  debt;  and  there  was  a  great  claim  on  the  reversion  of  the 
Casinoestates;  andatthenoonof  thatnextday Randal wascloseted 
with  Beatrice;  and  before  the  night,  came  a  note  from  Madame  di 
Negra,  hurried,  blurred  with  tears,  summoning  Frank  toCurzon 
Street.  And  when  heentered  the  Marchesa'sdra\ving-room,Peschi- 
erawasseat^d  beside  his  sister;  and  rising  at  Frank'sentrancesaid, 
/  "My  dear  brother-in-law ! "  and  .placed  F/ank's.hand  in  Beatrice's. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  159 

"You  accept — you  accept  me — and  of  your  own  free  will  and 
choice  ? " 

And  Beatrice  answered,  "Bear  with  me  a  little,  and  I  will  try  to  re- 
pay you  with  all  my — allmy — "Shestoppedshort,andsobbedaloud. 

"I  never  thought  her  capable  of  such  acute  feelings,  such 
strong  attachment,"  whispered  the  Count. 

Frank  heard,  and  his  face  was  radiant.  By  degrees  Madame 
di  Negra  recovered  composure,  and  she  listened  with  what  her 
young  lover  deemed  a  tender  interest,  but  what  in  fact  was 
mournful  and  humble  resignation,  to  his  joyous  talk  of  the  fu- 
ture. To  him  the  hours  passed  by,,  brief  and  bright,  like^  flash 
of  sunlight.  And  his  dreams,  when  he  retired  to  rest,  were  so 
golden!  But,  when  he  awoke  the  next  morning,  he  'said  to  him- 
self, "What— what  will  they  say  at  the  Hall-?" 

At  the  same  hour  Beatrice,  burying  her  face  on  her  pillow, 
turned  from  the  loathsome  day,  and  could  have  prayed  for  death. 
At  that  same  hour,  Giulio  Franzini,  Count  di  Peschiera,  dismiss- 
ing some  gaun*-  haggard  Italians,  with  whom  he  had  been  in  close 
conference,  iallied  forth  to  reconnoitre  the  house  that  contained 
Yiolante.  At  that  same  hour  Baron  Levy  was  seated  before  his 
desk  casting  up  a  deadly  array  of  figures,  headed,  "Account  with 
the  Right  Hon.  Audley  Egerton,  M.  P.,  Dr.  and  6>."— title-deeds 
strewed  around  him,  and  Frank  Hazeldean's  post-obit  peeping 
out  fresh  from  the  elder  parchments.  At  that  same  hour,  Audley 
Egerton  had  just  concluded  a  letter  from  the  chairman  of  his 
committee  in  the  city  he  represented,  which  letter  informed  him 
that  he  had  not  a  chance  of  being  re-elected.  And  the  lines. of 
his  face  were  as  composed  as  usual,  and  his  foot  rested  as  firm . 
on  the-grim  iron  box  ;  but  his  hand  was  pressed  to  his  heart,  and 

his  eye  was  on  the  .clock  ;  and  his  voice  muttered— -"  Dr.  F 

should  be  here-!  "  And  at  that  hour,  Harley  L'Estrange,  who  the 
previous  night  had  charmed  courtly  crowds  with  his  gay  humor, 
was  pacing  to  and  fro  the  room  in  his  hotel  with  restless  strides 
and  many  a  heavy  sigh  ; — and  Leonard  was  standing  by  the  foun- 
tain in  his  garden,  and  watching  the  wintry  sunbeams  that 
sparkled  athwart  the  spray; — and  Violante  was  leaningon  Helen's 
shoulder,  and  trying  archly,  yet  innocently,  to  lead  Helen  to  talk 
of  Leonard  ; — and  Helen  was  gazing  steadfastly  on  the  floor,  and ' 
answering  but  by  monosyllables  ; — and  Randal  Leslie  was  walk- 
ing down  to  his  office  for  the  last  time,  and  reading,  as  he  passed 
across  the  Green  Park,  a  letter  from  home,  from  his  sister ;  and ; 
then,  suddenly  crumpling  the  letter  in  his  thin  pale  hand,  he 
looked  up,  beheld  in  the  distance  the  spires  of  the  great  national 
Abbey ;  and  recalling  the  words  of  our  hero  Nelson,  he  mut- 


160  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

tered — "Victory  and  Westminster,  but  not  the  Abbey  !  "  And 
Randal  Leslie  felt  that,  within  the  last  few  days,  he  had  made  a 
vast  stride  in  his  ambition  ; — his  grasp  on  the  old  Leslie  lands — 
Frank  Hazeldean  betrothed,  and  possibly  disinherited;  and  Dick 
Avenel,  in  the  background,  opening  against  the  hated  Lansmere 
interest  that  same  seat  in  Parliament  which  had  first  welcomed 
into  public  life  Randal's  ruined  patron. 

"  But  some  must  laugh,  and  some  must  weep; 
Thus  runs  the  world  away  !  " 


BOOK  ELEVENTH.— INITIAL  CHAPTER. 

ON  THE  IMPORTANCE  OF  HATE  AS  AN  AGENT  IN  CIVILIZED  LIFE. 

IT  is  not  an  uncommon  crotchet  amongst  benevolent  men  to 
maintain  that  wickedness  is  necessarily  a  sort  of  insanity,  and  that 
nobody  would  make  a  violent  start  out  of  the  straightpath  unless 
stung  to  such  disorder  by  a  bee  in  his  bonnet.  Certainly,  when 
some  very  clever  well-educated  person,  like  our  friend  Randal 
Leslie,  acts  upon  the  fallacious  principle  that "  roguery  is  the  best 
policy,"  it  is  Curious  to  see  how  many  points  he  has  in  common 
with  the  insane;  what  over-cunning — what  irritable  restlessness — 
what  suspicious  belief  that  the  restof  the  world  are  in  a  conspiracy 
against  him,  which  it  requires  all  his  wit  to  baffle  and  turn  to  his 
own  proper  aggrandizement  and  profit.  Perhaps  some  of  my  read- 
ers may  have  thought  that  I  have  represented  Randal  as  unnatu- 
rally far-fetched  in  his  schemes,  too  wire-drawn  and  subtle  in  his 
speculations;  yet  that  is  commonly  the  case  with  very  refining 
intellects,  when  they  choose  to  play  the  knave;  it  helps  to  dis- 
guise from  themselves  the  ugliness  of  their  ambition,  just  as  a 
philosopher  delights  in  the  ingenuity  of  some  metaphysical  pro- 
cess, which  ends  in  what  plain  men  call "  atheism,"  who  would  be 
infinitely  shocked  and  offended  if  he  were  called  an  atheist. 

Having  premised  this  much  on  behalf  of  the  "  Natural "  in 
Randal  Leslie's  character,  I  must  here  fly  off  to  say  a  word  or  two 
on  the  agency  in  human  life  exercised  by  a  passion  rarely  seen 
without  a  mask  in  our  debonnaire  andcivilized  age — Imean  Hate. 

In  the  good  old  days  of  our  forefathers,  when  plainspeaking  and 
hard  blows  were  in  fashion — when  a  man  had  his  heart  at  the  tip 
of  his  tongue,  and  four  feet  of  sharp  iron  dangling  at  his  side,  Hate 
played  an  honest  open  part  in  the  theatre  of  the  world.  In 
fact,  when  we  read  history,  Hate  seems  to  have  "  starred  it  "on 
the  stage.  But  now  where  is  Hate  ? — who  ever  sees  its  face  ?  Is  it 
that  smiling,  good-tempered  creature,  that  presses  you  by  the 
hand  so  cordially  ?  or  that  dignified  figure  of  state  that  calls  you 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  l6l 

its  "Right  Honorable  friend"?  Is  it  that  bowing,  grateful  de- 
pendant?— is  it  that  soft-eyed  Amaryllis?  Ask  not,  guess  not; 
you  will  only  know  it  to  be  Hate  when  the  poison  is  in  your  cup, 
or  the  poniard  in  your  breast.  In  the  Gothic  age,  grim  Humor 
painted  "The  Dance  of  Death";  in  our  polished  century,  some 
sardonic  wit  should  give  us  "the  Masquerade  of  Hate." 

Certainly,  the  counter-passion  betrays  itself  with  ease  to  our 
gaze.  Love  is  rarely  a  hypocrite.  But  Hate — how  detect,  and 
how  guard  against  it?  It  lurks  where  you  least  suspect  it;  it  is 
created  by  causes  that  you  can  the  least  foresee;  and  Civilization 
multiplies  its  varieties,  whilst  it  favors  its  disguise;  for  Civiliza- 
tion increases  the  number. of  contending  interests,  and  Refine- 
ment renders  more  susceptible  to  the  least  irritation  the  cuticle 
of  Self-Love.  But  Hate  comes  covertly  forth  from  some  self- 
interest  we  have  crossed,  or  some  self-love  we  have  wounded ;  and, 
dullards  that  we  are,  how  seldom  we  are  aware  of  our  offence ! 
You  may  be  hated  by  a  man  you  have  never  seen  in  your  life;  you 
may  be  hated  as  often  by  one  you  have  loaded  with  benefits; — 
you  may  so  walk  as  not  to  tread  on  a  worm;  but  you  must  sit  fast 
on  your  easy-chair  till  you  are  carried  out  to  your  bier,  if  you 
would  be  sure  not  to  tread  on  some  snake  of  a  foe.  But,  then, 
what  harm  does  hate  do  us  ?  Very  often  the  harm  is  as  unseen  by 
the  world  as  the  hate  is  unrecognized  by  us.  It  may  come  on  us, 
unawares,  in  some  solitary  by-way  of  our  life;  strike  us  in  our 
unsuspecting  privacy;  thwart  us  in  some  blessed  hope  we  have 
never  told  to  another;  for  the  moment  the  world  sees  that  it  is 
Hate  that  strikes  us,  its  worst  power  of  mischief  is  gone. 

We  have  a  great  many  names  for  the  same  passion — Envy, 
Jealousy,  Spite,  Prejudice,  Rivalry;  but  they  are  so  many  syn- 
onyms for  the  one  old  heathen  demon.  When  the  death  giving 
shaft  of  Apollo  sent  the  plague  to  some  unhappy  Achaean,  it 
did  not  much  matter  to  the  victim  whether  the  god  were  called 
Helios  or  Smintheus. 

No  man  you  ever  met  in  the  world  seemed  more  raised  above 
the  malice  of  Hate  than  Audley  Egerton  ;  even  in  the  hot  war  of 
politics  he  had  scarcely  a  personal  foe;  and  in  private  life  he  kept 
himself  so  aloof  and  apart  from  others  that  he  was  little  known, 
save  by  the  benefits  the  waste  of  his  wealth  conferred.  That  the 
hate  of  anyone  could  reach  the  austere  statesman  on  his  high 
pinnacle  of  esteem — you  would  have  smiled  at  the  idea  !  But 
Hate  is  now,  as  it  ever  has  been,  an  actual  Power  amidst  "  the 
Varieties  of  Life  ";  and,  in  spite  of  bars  to  the  doors,  and  police- 
men in  the  street,  no  one  can  be  said  to  sleep  in  safety  while 
there  wakes  the  eye  of  a  single  foe. 


1 62  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  glory  of  Bond  Street  is  no  more;  the  title  of  Bond  Street 
Lounger  has  faded  from  our  lips.  In  vain  the  crowd  of  equipages 
and  the  blaze  of  shops;  the  renown  of  Bond  Street  was  in  its 
pavement — its  pedestrians.  Art  thou  old  enough,  O  reader?  to 
remember  the  Bond  Street  Lounger  and  his  incomparable  gener- 
ation ?  For  my  part,  I  can  just  recall  the  decline  of  the  grand 
era.  It  was  on  its  wane  when,  in  the  ambition  of  boyhood,  I  first 
began  to  muse  upon  high  neckcloths  and  Wellington  boots.  But 
the  ancient  habituds — the  tnagni  nominis  umbra — contemporaries 
of  Brummel  in  his  zenith — boon  companions  of  George  IV.  in  his 
regency- — still  haunted  the  spot.  From  four  to  six  in  the  hot 
month  of  June,  they  sauntered  stately  to  and  fro,  looking  some- 
what mournful  even  then — foreboding  the  extinction  of  their 
race.  The  Bond  Street  Lounger  was  rarely  seen  alone;  he  was  a 
social  animal,  and  walked  arm-in-arm  with  his  fellow-man.  He 
did  not  seem  born  for  the  cares  of  these  ruder  times;  not  made 
was  he  for  an  age  in  which  Finsbury  returns  members  to  Parlia- 
ment. He  loved  his  small  talk;  and  never  since  then  has  talk 
been  so  pleasingly  small.  -  Your  true  Bond  Street  Lounger  had  a 
very  dissipated  look.  His  youth  had  been  spent  with  heroes  who 
loved  their  bottle.  He  himself  had  perhaps  supped  with  Sheridan. 
He  was  by  nature  a  spendthrift;  you  saw  it  in  the  roll  of  his  walk. 
Men  who  make  money  rarely  saunter;  men  who  save  money  rarely 
swagger.  But  saunter  and  swagger  both  united  to  stamp  PRODI- 
GAL on  the  Bond  Street  Lounger.  And  so  familiar  as  he  was  with 
his  own  set,  and  so  amusingly  supercilious  with  the  vulgar  resi- 
due of  mortals  whose  faces  were  strange  to  Bond  Street.  But  he 
i&gone.  The  world,  though  sadder  for  his  loss,  still  strives  to  do 
its  best  without  him;  and  our  young  men,  nowadays,  attend  to 
model  cottages,  and  incline  to  Tractarianism.  Still  the  place,  to 
an  unreflecting  eye,  has  its  brilliancy  and  bustle.  But  it  is  a 
thoroughfare,  not  a  lounge.  And  down  the  thoroughfare,  some- 
what before  the  hour  when  the  throng  is  thickest,  passed  two 
gentlemen  of  an  appearance  exceedingly  out  of  keeping  with  the 
place.  Yet  both  had  the  air  of  men  pretending  to  aristocracy — 
an  old-world  air  of  respectability  and  stake  in  the  country,  and 
Church- and-Stateism.  The  burlier  of  the  two  was  even  rather  a 
beau  in  his  way.  He  had  first  learned  to  dress,  indeed,  when  Bond 
Street  was  at  its  acme,  and  Brummel  in  his  pride.  He  still  re- 
tained in  his  garb  the  fashion  of  his  youth;  only  what  then  had 
spoken  of  the  town,  now  betrayed  the  life  of  the  country.  His 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  163 

neckcloth  ample  and  high,  and  of  snowy  whiteness,  set  off  to 
comely  advantage  a  face  smooth-shaven,  and  of  clear  florid  hues; 
his  coat  of  royal  blue,  with  buttons  in  which  you  might  have  seen 
yourself  vclutiin  speculum,  was,  rather  jauntily,  buttoned  across  a 
waist  that  spoke  of  lusty  middle  age,  free  from  the  ambition,  the 
avarice,  and  the  anxieties  that  fret  Londoners  into  thrcadpapers; 
his  small-clothes,  of  grayish  drab,  loose  at  the  thigh  and  tight  at 
.the  knee,  were  made  by  Brumrnel's  own  breeches-maker,  and  the 
gaiters  to  match  (thrust  half-way  down  the  calf),  had  a  manly 
dandyism  that  would  have  done  honor  to  the  beau-ideal  of  a 
county  member.  The  profession  of  this  gentleman's  companion 
was  unmistakable — the  shovel-hat,  the  clerical  cut  of  the  coat, 
the  neck-cloth  without  collar,. that  seemed  made  for  its  acces- 
sory— the  band,  and  something  very  decorous,  yet  very  mild,  in 
the  whole  mien  of  this  personage,  all  -spoke  of  one  who  was 
every  inch  the  gentleman  and  the  parson. 

"  No,"  said  the  portlier  of  these  two  persons — "  no,  I  can't  say 
I  like  Frank's  looks  at  all.  There's  certainly  something  on  has 
mind.  However,  I  suppose  it  will  be  all  out  this  evening." 

"  He  dines  with  you  at  your  hotel,  Squire  ?  Well,  you  must  be 
kind  to  him.  We  can't  put  old  heads  upon  young  shoulders." 

"I  don't  object  to  his  head  being  young,"  returned  the  Squire  ; 
"but  I  wish  he, had  a  little  of  Randal  Leslie's  good  sense  in  it. 
I  see  how.it  will  end  ;  I  must  take  him  back  to  the  country  ;  and 
if  he  wants  occupation,  why  he  shall  keep  the  hounds,  and  I'll 
put  him  into  Brooksby  Farm." 

"Asfor  the  hounds," replied  the  Parson,  "hounds  necessitate 
horses;  and  I  think  more  mischief  comes  to  a  young  man  of  spirit, 
from  the  stables,  than  from  any  other  place  in  the  world.  They 
ought  to  be  exposed  from  the  pulpit,  those  stables  ! "  added  Mr. 
Dale,  thoughtfully  ;  "  see  what  they  entailed  upon  Nimrod  !  But 
Agriculture  is  a  healthful  and  noble  pursuit,  honored  by  sacred 
nations,  and  cherished  by  the  greatest  men  in  classical  times. 
For  instance,  the  Athenians  were — " 

"  Bother  the  Athenians,"  cried  the  Squire,  irreverently  ;  "  you 
need  not  go  so  far  back  for  an  example.  It  is  enough  for  a 
Hazeldeanthathisfather,  and  hisgrandfather,  and  his  greatgrand- 
father, all  farmed  before  him ;  and  a  devilish  deal  better,  I  take 
it,  than  any  of  those  musty  old  Athenians— no  offence  to  them. 
But  I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  Parson — a  man,  to  farm  well,  and  live 
in  the  country,  should  have  a  wife;  it  is  half  the  battle." 

"As  to  a  battle,  a  man  who  is  married  is  pretty  sure  of  half, 
though  not  always  the  better  half,  of  it,"  answered  the  Parson, 
who  seemed  peculiarly  facetious  thaf  day.  "  Ah,  Squire,  I  wish 


164  MVT    KOVEL  ;    OR, 

I  could  think  Mrs.Hazeldean  right  in  her  conjecture! — you  would 
have  the  prettiest  daughter-in-law  in  the  three  kingdoms.  And 
I  do  believe  that,  if  I  could  have  a  good  talk  with  the  young 
lady  apart  from  her  father,  we  could  remove  the  only  objection 
I  know  to  the  marriage.  Those  Popish  errors — " 

"Ah,  very  true  ! "  cried  the  Squire  ;  "that  Pope  sticks  hard 
in,  my  gizzard.  I  could  excuse  her  being  a  foreigner,  and  not 
having,  I  suppose,  a  shilling  in  her  pocket — bless  her  handsome 
face! — but  to  be  worshipping  images  in  her  room  instead  of 
going  to  the  parish  church,  that  will  never  do. — But  you  think 
you  could  talk  her  out  of  the  Pope,  and  into  the  family  pew  ? " 

"Why,  I  could  have  talked  her  father  out  of  the  Pope,  only, 
when  he  had  not  a  word  to  say  for  himself,  he  bolted  out  of  the 
window.  Youth  is  more  ingenuous  in  confessing  its  errors." 

"I  own,"  said  the  Squire,  "  that  both  Harry  and  I  had  a 
favorite  notion  of  ours  till  this  Italian  girl  got  into  our  heads. 
Do  you  know  we  both  took  a  great  fancy  to  Randal's  little  sister — 
pretty,  blushing,  English-faced  girl  as  ever  you  saw.  And  it  went 
to  Harry's  good  heart  to  see  her  so  neglected  by  that  silly  fidgety 
mother  of  hers,  her  hair  hanging  about  her  ears  ;  and  1  thought 
it  would  be  a  fine  way  to  bring  Randal  and  Frank  more  together, 
and  enable  me  to  do  something  for  Randal  himself — a  good  boy 
with  Hazeldean  blood  in  his  veins.  But  Violante  is  so  hand- 
some, that  I  don't  wonder  at  the  boy's  choice  ;  and  then  it  is  our 
fault — we  let  them  see  so  much  of  each  other  as  children.  How- 
ever, I  should  be  very  angry  if  Rickeybockey  had  been  playing  sly, 
and  running  away  from  the  Casino  in  order  to  give  Frank  an  oppor- 
tunity to  carry  on  a  clandestine  intercourse  with  his  daughter." 

"I  don't  think  that  would  be  like  Riccabocca  ;  more  like  him 
to  run  away  in  order  to  deprive  Frank  of  the  best  of  all  occasions 
to  court  Violante,  if  he  so  desired;  for  where  could  he  see  more 
of  her  than  at  the  Casino  ?  " 

SQUIRE — That's  well  put.  Considering  he  was  only  a  foreign 
doctor,  and,  for  ought  we  know,  once  went  about  in  a  caravan, 
he  is  a  gentleman-like  fellow,  that  Rickeybockey.  I  speak  of 
people  as  I  find  them.  But  what  is  your  notion  about  Frank  ? 
I  see  you  don't  think  he  is  in  love  with  Violante,  after  all.  Out 
with  it,  man  ;  speak  plain* 

PARSON. — Since  you  so  urge  me,  I  own  I  do  not  think  him  in 
love  with  her ;  neither  does  my  Carry,  who  is  uncommonly  shrewd 
in  such  matters. 

.    SQUIRE. — Your  Carry,  indeed  ! — as  if  she  were  half  as  shrewd 
as  my  Harry.     Carry — nonsense  ! 

PARSON  (reddening). — I  don't  want  to  make  invidious  re- 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  165 

marks;  but,  Mr.  Hazeldean,  when  you  sneer  at  my  Carry,  I 
should  not  be  a  man  if  I  did  not  say  that —  • 

SQUIRE  (interrupting). — She  is  a  good  little  woman  enough ; 
but  to  compare  her  to  my  Harry  ! 

PARSON. — I  don't  compare  her  to  your  Harry;  I  don't  com- 
pare her  to  any  woman  in  England,  sir.  But  you  are  losing  your 
temper,  Mr.  Hazeldean ! 

SQUIRE. — I ! 

PARSON. — And  people  are  staring  at  you,  Mr.  Hazeldean.  For 
decency's  sake,  compose  yourself,  and  change  the  subject.  W.e 
are  just  at  the  Albany.  I  hope  that  we  shall  not  find  poor  Cap- 
tain Higginbotham  as  ill  as  he  represents  himself  in  his  letter. 
Ah,  is  it  possible  ?  No,  it  cannot  be.  Look — look  ! 

SQUIRE. — Where — what — where?  Don't  pinch  so  hard.  Bless 
me,  do  you  see  a  ghost  ? 

PARSON. — There — the  gentleman  in  black  ! 

SQUIRE. — Gentleman  in  black  !  What ! — in  broad  daylight ! 
Nonsense ! 

Here- the  Parson  made  a  spring  forward,  and,  catching  the  arm 
of  the  person  in  question,  who  himself  had  stopped,  and  was 
gazing  intently  on  the  pair,  exclaimed — 

"  Sir,  pardon  me  ;  but  is  not  your  name  Fairfield  ?  Ah,  it  is 
Leonard — it  is — my  dear,  dear  boy  !  What  joy !  So  altered,  so 
improved,  but  still  the  same  honest  face.  Squire,  come  here — 
your  old  friend  Leonard  Fairfield." 

"And  he  wanted  to  persuade  me,"  said  the  Squire,  shaking 
Leonard  heartily  by  the  hand,  "that  you  were  the  Gentleman  in 
Black  ;  but,  indeed,  he  has  been  in  strange  humors  and  tantrums 
all  the  morning.  Well,  Master  Lenny  ;  why,  you  are  grown  quite 
a  gentleman  !  .  The  world  thrives  with  you — eh  !  I  suppose  you 
are  head-gardener  to  some  grandee." 

"Not  that,  sir,"  said  Leonard,  smiling.  "But  the  world  has 
thriven  with  me  at  last,  though  not  without  some  rough  usage 
at  starting.  Ah,  Mr.  Dale,  you  can  little  guess  how  often  I  have 
thought  of  you  and  your  discourse  on  Knowledge  ;  and,  what  is 
more,  how  I  have  lived  to  feel  the  truth  of  your  words,  and  to 
bless  the  lesson." 

PARSON  (much  touched  and  flattered). — I  expected  nothing 
less  from  you,  Leonard ;  you  were  always  a  lad  of  great  sense, 
and  sound  judgment.  So  you  have  thought  of  my  little  dis- 
course on  Knowledge,  have  you  ? 

SQUIRE. — Hang  Knowledge  !  I  have  reason  to  hate  the  word. 
It  burned  down  three  ricks  of  mine;  the  finest  ricks  you  ever 
set  your  eyes  on,  Mr.  Fairfield. 


l66  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

PARSON. — That  was  not  knowledge,Squire;  that  was  ignorance. 

SQUIRE. — Ignorance  !  The  deuce  it  was !  I'll  just  appeal  to 
you,  Mr.  Fairfield.  We  have  been  having  sad  riots  in  the  shire, 
and  the  ringleader  was  just  such  another  lad  as  you  were  ! 

LEONARD. — I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Hazeldean. 
In  what  respect  ? 

SQUIRE. — Why,  hewasa  village  genius,  and  always  reading  some 
cursed  little  tract  or  other;  and  got  mighty  discontented  with 
King,  Lords,  and  Commons,  I  suppose,  and  went  about  talking 
of  the  wrongs  of  the  poor,  and  the  crimes  of  the  rich,  till,  by 
Jove,  sir,  the  whole  mob  rose  one  day  with  pitchforks  and  sickles, 
and  smash  went  Farmer  Smart's  threshing-machines;  and  on  the 
same  night  my  ricks  were  on  fire.  We  caught  the  rogues,  and 
they  were  all  tried;  but  the  poor  deluded  laborers  were  let  off 
with  a  short  imprisonment.  The  village  genius,  thank  Heaven, 
is  sent  packing  to  Botany  Bay. 

LEONARD.— But,  did  bis  books  teach  him  to  burn  ricks  and 
smash  machines  ? 

PARSON.— No;  he  said  quite  the  contrary,  and  declared  that 
he  had  no  hand  in  those  misdoings. 

SQUIRE. — But  he  was  proved  to  have  excited  with  his  wild  talk 
the  boobies  who  had!  'Gad,  sir,  there  was  a  hypocritical  Quaker 
oncej  who  said  to  his  enemy,  "I  can't  shed  thy  blood,  friend,  but 
I  will  hold  thy  head  under  water  till  thou  art  drowned."  And 
so  there  is  a  set  of  demagogical  fellows,  who  keep  calling  out, 
"  Farmer  this  is  an  oppressor,  and  Squire  that  is  a  vampire!  But 
no  violence!  Don't  smash  their  machines, <lon't  burn  their  ricks! 
Moral  force,  and  a  curse  on  all  tyrants! "  Well,  and  if  poor 
Hodge  thinks  moral  force  is  all  my  eye,  and  that  the  recommen- 
dation is  to  be  read  backward,  in  the  devil's  way  of  reading  the 
Lord's  Prayer,  I  should  like  to  know  which  of  the  two  ought  to 
go  to  Botany  Bay — Hodge,  who  comes  out  like  a  man,  if  he 
thinks  he  is  wronged,  or  t'other  sneaking  chap,  who  makes  use 
of  his  knowledge  to  keep  himself  out  of  the  scrape  ? 

PARSON.— It  may  be  very  true;  but  when  I  saw  that  poor  fel- 
low at  the  bar,  with  his  intelligent  face,  and  heard  his  bold  clear 
defence,  and  thought  of  all  his  hard  struggles  for  knowledge, 
and  how  they  had  ended,  because  he  forgot  tlmt  knowledge 
is  like  fire,  and  must  not  be  thrown  amongst  flax — why,  I  could 
have  given  my  right  hand  to  save  him.  And,  oh,  Sauire,  do  you 
remember  his  poor  mother's  shriek  of  despair  when  he  was  sen- 
tenced to  transportation  for  life  ? — I  hear  it  now!  And  what, 
Leonard— what  do  you  think  had  misled  h»*3i  ?  At  the  bottom 
of  all  the  mischief  was  a  Tinker's  bag.  YOH  cannot  forget  Sprott? 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  167 

LEONARD. — Tinker's  bag!' — Sprott! 

SQUIRE. — That  raseal,  sir,  was  the  hardest  fellow  to  nab  you 
could  possibly  conceive;  as  full  of  quips  and  quirks  as  an  Old 
Bailey  lawyer.  But  we  managed  to  bring  it  home  to  him.  Lord! 
his  bag  was  choke-full  of 'tracts  against  every  man  who  had  a 
good  coat  on-  his  back  ;  and  as  if  that  was  not  enough,  cheek 
by  jowl  with  the  tracts  were  luciftfrs,  contrived  on  a  new  princi- 
ple, for  teaching  my  ricks  the  theory  of  spontaneous  combus- 
tion. The  laborers  bought  the  lucifers — 

PARSON. — And  the  poor  village  genius  bought  the  tracts. 

SQUIRE. — All  headed  with  a  motto — "  To  teach  the  working 
classes  that  knowledge  is  power."  So  that  I  was  right  in  saying 
that  knowledge  had  burnt  my  ricks;  knowledge  inflamed  the  vil- 
lage genius,  the  village  genius  inflamed  fellows  more  ignorant 
than  himself,  and  they  inflamed  my  stack-yard.  However,  luci- 
fers, tracts,  village  genius,  and  Sprott,  are  all  off  to  Botany  Bay; 
and  the  shire  has  gone  on  much  the  better  for  it.  So  no  more 
of  your  knowledge  for  me,  begging  your  pardon,  Mr.  Fairfield. 
Such  uncommonly  fine  ricks  as  mine  were  too!  I  declare, 
Parson,  you  are  looking  as  if  yon  felt  pity  for  Sprott;  and  ' 
I  saw  you,  indeed,  whispering  to  him  as  he  was  taken  out  of 
court. 

PARSON  (looking  sheepish). — Indeed,  Squire,  I  was  only  ask- 
ing him  what  had  become  of  his  donkey,  an  unoffending  creature. 

SQUIRE.— Unoffending!  Upset  me  amidst  a  thistle-bed  in  my 
own  village  green.  I  remember  it.  Well,  what  did  he  say  had 
become  of  -the  donkey  ? 

PARSON.— He 'Said  but  one  word;  but  that  showed  all  the  vin- 
dictiveness  of  his  disposition.  He  said  it  with  a  horrid  wink, 
that  made  my  blood  run  cold.'  "What's  become  of  your  don- 
key?" said  I,;  and  he  answered— 

SQUIRE.-— Go  on.     He  answered 

•  PARSON.— Sausages. 

SQUIRE. — Sausages!  Like  enough;  and  sold  to  the  poor;  and 
that's  what  the  poor'  will  come  to  if  the}'  listen  to  such  revolu- 
tionizing villains.  Sausages!  Donkey  sausages  !  (spitting) — 
'Tis  as  bad  as  eating  one  another;  perfect  cannibalism. 

Leonard,  who;had  been  thrown  into  grave  thought  by  the  his- 
tory of  Sprott  and  the  village  genius,  now  pressing  the  Parson's 
hand,  asked  permission  to  wait  on  him  before  Mr.  Dale  quitted 
L6ndon;  and  was  about  to  withdraw,  when  the  Parson,  gently 
detaining  him,  said — 4<  No;  don't  leave  me  yet,  Leonard— I  have 
so  much  to  ask  you,  and  to  talk  about.'  I  shall  be  at  leisure 
shortly.  We  are  just  now  going  to  call  on  a  relation  of  the 


1 68  MV    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Squire's,  whom  you  must  recollect,  I  am  sure — Captain  Higgin- 
botham — Barnabas  Higginbotham.  He  is  very  poorly.!' 

"And  I  am  sure  he  would  take  it  kind  in  you  to  call  too," 
said  the  Squire,  with  great  good-nature. 

LEONA.RD.— Nay,  sir,  would  not  that  be  a  great  liberty  ? 

SQUIRE. — Liberty!  to  ask  a  poor  sick  gentleman;  how  he  is? 
Nonsense.  And  I  say,  sir,  perhaps  as  no  doubt  you  have  been 
living  in  town,  and  know  more  of  new-fangled  notions  than  I 
do — perhaps  you  can  tell  us  whether  or  not  it  is  all  humbug, 
that  new  way  of  doctoring  people. 

LEONARD. — What  new  way,  sir  ?     There  are  so  many. 

SQUIRE. — Are  there  ?  Folks  in  London  ok  look  uncommonly 
sickly.  But  my  poor  cousin  (he  was  never  a  Solomon)  has  got 
hold,  he  says,  of  a  homey — homely — What's  the  word,  Parson  ? 

PARSON. — Homceopathist.  v^-fc 

SQUIRE. — -That's  it!  You  see  the  captain  went  to  live  with 
one  Sharpe  Currie,  a  relation  who  had  a  great  deal  of  money, 
and  very  little  liver; — made  the  one,  and  left  much  of  the  other 
in  Ingee,  you  understand.  The  Captain  had  expectations  of  the 
money.  Very  natural,  I  dare  say;  but  Lord,  sir,  what  do  you 
think  has  happened  ?  Sharpe  Currie  has  done  him.  Would  not 
die,  sir;  got  back  his  liver,  and  the  Captain  has  lost  his  own. 
Strangest  thing  you  ever  heard.  And  then  the  ungrateful  old 
Nabob  has  dismissed  the  Captain^  saying,  "He  can't  bear  to  have 
invalids  about  him";  and  is  going  to  marry,  and  I  have  no  doubt 
will  have  children  by  the  dozen! 

PARSON. — It  was  in  Germany  at  one  of  the  Spas,  that  Mr. 
Currie  recovered;  and  as  he  had  the  selfish  inhumanity  to  make 
the  Captain  go  through  a  course  of  waters  simultaneously  with 
himself,  it  has  so  chanced  that  the  same  waters  that  cured  Mr. 
Currie's  liver  have  destroyed  Captain  Higginbotham's.  An 
English  homoeopathic  physician,  then  staying  at  the  Spa,  has 
attended  the  Captain  hither,  and  declares  that  he  will  restore  him 
by  infinitesimal  doses  of  the  same  chemical  properties  that  were 
found  in  the  waters  which  diseased  him.  Can  there  be  any- 
thing in  such  a  theory  ?  . 

LEONARD. — I  once  knew  a  very  able,  though  eccentric  homce- 
opathist,  and  I  am  inclined  to  believe  there  may  be  something  in 
the  system.  My  friend  went  to  Germany;  it  may  possibly  be  the 
same  person  who  attends  the  Captain.  May  I  ask  his  name  ? 

SQUIRE. — Cousin  Barnabas  does  not  mention  it.  You  may  ask 
it  of  himself,  for  here  we  are  at  his  chambers.  I  say,  Parson  (whis- 
pering slyly),  if  a  small  dose  of  what  hurt  theCaptain  is  to  cure  him, 
don't  you  think  the  proper  thing  would  be — a  legacy?  Ha!  ha! 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  169 

PARSON  (trying  not  to  laugh). — Hush,  Squire.  Poor  human 
nature!  We  must  be  merciful  to  its  infirmities.  Come  in,  Leonard. 

Leonard,  interested  in  his  doubt  whether  he  might  thus  chance 
again  upon  Dr.  Morgan,  obeyed  the  invitation,  and  with  his  two 
companions  followed  the  woman,  who  "  did  for  the  Captain  and 
his  rooms,"  across  the  small  lobby  into  the  presence  of  the  sufferer. 

CHAPTER  III. 

WHATEVER  the  disposition  toward  merriment  at  his  cousin's 
expense  entertained  by  the  Squire,  it  vanished  instantly  at  the 
sight  of  the  Captain's  doleful  visage  and  emaciated  figure. 

"  Very  good  in  you  to  come  to  town  to  see  me — very  good  in 
you,  cousin;  and  in  you  too,  Mr.  Dale.  How  very  well  you  are 
both  looking.  I  am  a  sad  wreck.  You  might  count  every  bone 
in  my  body." 

"  Hazeldean  air  and  roast  beef  will  soon  set  you  up,  my  boy," 
said  the  Squire,  kindly.  "You  were  a  great  goose  to  leave  them, 
and  these  comfortable  rooms  of  yours  in  the  Albany." 

"  They  are  comfortable,  though  not  showy,"  said  the  Captain, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes.  "  I  had  done  my  best  to  make  them  so. 
New  carpets — this  very  chair — (morocco  !) — that  Japan  cat 
(holds  toast  and  muffins) — just  when — just  when  (the  tears  here 
broke  forth,  and  the  Captain  fairly  whimpered) — just  when  that 
ungrateful,  bad-hearted  man  wrote  me  word  'he  was — was  dying, 
and  lone  in  the  world  ';  and — and — to  think  what  I've  gone 
through  for  him; — and  to  treat  me  so.  Cousin  William,  he  has 
grown  as  hale  as  yourself,  and — and—" 

"  Cheer  up  !  cheer  up  !  "  cried  the  compassionate  Squire.  "  It 
is  a  very  hard  case,  I'll  allow.  But  you  see,  as  the  old  proverb 
says,  '  'Tis  ill  waiting  for  a  dead  man's  shoes';  and  in  future — 
I  don't  mean  offence — but  I  think,  if  you  would  calculate  lesson 
the  livers  of  your  relations,  it  would  be  all  the  better  for  your 
own.  Excuse  me." 

"Cousin  William,"  replied  the  poor  Captain,  "I  am  sure  I 
never  calculated;  but  still,  if  you  had  seen  that  deceitful  man's 
good-for-nothing  face — as  yellow  as  a  guinea — and  have  gone 
through  all  I've  gone  through,  you  would  have  felt  cut  to  the 
heart,  as  I  do.  I  can't  bear  ingratitude;  I  never  could.  But 
let  it  pass.  Will  that  gentleman  take  a  chair?" 

PARSON. — Mr.  Fairfield  has  kindly  called  with  us,  because  he 
knows  something  of  this  system  of  homoeopathy  which  you  have 
adopted,  and  may,  perhaps,  know  the  practitioner.  What  is  the 
name  of  your  doctor  ? 


17&  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

CAPTAIN  (looking  at  his  watch). — That  reminds  me  (swallow- 
ing a  globule).  A  great  relief  these  little  pills — after  the  physic 
I've  taken  to  please  that  malignant  man.  He  always  tried  his 
doctor's  stuff  upon  me.  But  there's  another  world,  and  a  juster. 

With  that  pious  conclusion  the  Captain  again  began  to  weep. 

"  Touched,"  muttered  the  Squire,  with  his  forefinger  on  his 
forehead.  "  You  seem  to  have  a  good  tidy  sort  of  a  nurse  here, 
Cousin  Barnabas.  I  hope  .she's  pleasant  and  lively,  and  don't 
let  you  take  on  so?" 

"Hist ! — don't  talk  of  her.  All  mercenary;  every  bit  of  her 
fawning!  Would  you  believe  it? — I  give  her  ten  shillings 
a- week,  besides  all  that  goes  down  of  my  pats  of  butter  and  rolls; 
and  I  overheard  the  jade  saying  :to  the  laundress  that  '  I  could 
not  last  long — and  she'd — EXPECTATIONS  ! '  Ah,  Mr.  Dale, 
when  one  thinks  of  the  sinfulness  there  is  in  this  life  !  But  I'll 
not  think  of  it;  no — I'll  not.  Let  us  change  the  subject.  You 
were  asking  my  doctor's  name.  It  is — " 

Here  the  woman  with  "expectations"  threw  open  the  door, 
and  suddenly  announced — "DR.  MORGAN." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  Parson  started,  and  so  did  Leonard. 

The  Homceopathist  did  not  at  first  notice  either.  With  an 
unobservant  bow  to  the  visitors,  he  went  straight  to  the  patient, 
and  asked,  "How  go  the  symptoms?" 

Therewith  the  Captain  commenced,  in  a  tone  of  voice  like  a 
school-boy  reciting  the  catalogue  of  the  ships  in  Homer.  He 
had  been:  evidently  conning  the  symptoms,  and  learning  them 
by  heart.  Nor  was  there  a  single  nook  or  corner  in  his  anato- 
mical organization,  so  far  as  the  Captain  was  acquainted  with 
that  structure,  but  what  some  symptom  or  other  was  dragged 
therefrom,  and  exposed  to-day.  The  Squire  listened  with  horror 
to  the  morbific  inventory,  muttering  at  each  dread  interval, 
"Bless me!  Lord  bless  me?  What,  more  still !  Death  would 
be  a  veryihappy  release!"  Meanwhile,  the  Doctor  endured 
the  recital  with  exemplary  patience,  noting  down  in  the  leaves 
of  his  pocket-book  what  appeared  to  him  the  salient  points  in 
this  fortress  of  disease  to  which,  he  had  laid  siege,  and  then  draw- 
ing forth  a  minute  paper,  said, jarc/i 

"Capital — nothing  can  be  better.  This  powder  must  be  dis- 
solved in  eight  table-spoonfuls  of  water;  one  spoonful  every 
two  hours." 

"Table-spoonful?" 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  171 

"Table-spoonful." 

"'Nothing  can  be  better,'  did  you  say,  sir?"  repeated  the 
Squire,  who, -in  his  astonishment  at  the  assertion  applied  to  the 
Captain's  description  of  his  sufferings,  had  hitherto  hung  fire — 
"nothing  can  be  better?" 

"  For  the  diagnosis,  sir  !  "  replied  'Dr.  Morgan. 

"  For  the  dogs'  noses,  very  possibly,"  quoth  the  Squire;  "  but 
for  the  inside  of  Cousin  Higginbotham,  I  should  think  nothing 
could  be  worse." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  sir,"  replied  Dr.  Morgan.  "  It  is  not  the 
Captain  who  speaks  here — it  is  his  liver.  Liver,  sir,  though  a 
noble,  is  an  imaginative  organ,  and  indulges  in  the  most  extra- 
ordinary fictions.  Seat  of  poetry^  and  love^  and  jealousy-^-the 
liver.  Never  believe  what  it  says.  You  have  no  idea  what  a 
liar  it  is  !  But — ahem — ahem.  Cbtt — I  think  I've  seen  you 
before,  sir.  Surely  your  name's  Hazeldean  ?" 

"William  Hazeldean,  at  your  service,  Doctor.  But  where 
have  you  seen  me  ?  " 

"On  the  hustings  at  Lansmere.  You  were  speaking  on  be- 
half of  your  distinguished  brother,  Mr.  Egerton." 

"  Hang  it !  "  cried  the  Squire  ;  "  I  think  it  must  have  been  my 
liver  that  spoke  there  !  for  I  promised  the  electors  that  that  half- 
brother  of  mine  would  stick  by  the  land;  and  I  never  told  a 
bigger  lie  in  my  life  !" 

Here  the  patient,  reminded  of  his  other  visitors,  and  afraid  he 
was  going  to  be  bored  with  the  enumeration  of  the  Squire's 
wrongs,  and  probably  the  whole  history  of  his  duel  with  Captain 
Dashmore,  turned  with  a  languid  wave  of  his  hand,  and  said, 
"Doctor,  another  friend  of  mine,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Dale, — and  a 
gentleman  who  is  acquainted  with  homoeopathy." 

"  Dale  ?  What,  more  old  friends  !  "  cried  the  Doctor,  rising ; 
and  the  Parson  came  somewhat  reluctantly*  from  .the'window 
nook,  to  .which  he  had  retired.  The  Parson  and  the  Homoeopa- 
thist  shook  hands. 

"We  have  met  before  on  a  very  mournful  occasion,"  said  the 
Doctor,  with  feeling.; 

The  Parson  held   his  finger  to  his  lips,  and  glanced  toward 
Leonard.     The  Doctor  stared  at  the  lad,  but  he  did  not  recog- 
nize in  the  person  before  him  the  gaunt,  careworn  boy  whom  he 
had  placed  with  Mr.  Prickett,  Aintil  Leonard  smiled  and-spokfcu:. 
And  the  smile  and  the  voice  sufficed. 

"Cott — and  it  is  the  poy  !  "  cried  Dr.  Morgan  ;  and  he  actu- 
ally caught  hold  of  Leonard,  and  gave  him  an  affectionate  Welsh:  ( 
hug.     Indeed,  his  agitatioivat  these  several  surprises  became  so 


17*  MY   NOVEL  J   OR, 

great  that  he  stopped  short,  drew  forth  a  globule — "Aconite— 
good  against  nervous  shocks  ! "  and  swallowed  it  incontinently. 

"Gad,"  said  the  Squire,  rather  astonished,  "'tis  the  first 
doctor  I  ever  saw  swallow  his  own  medicine  !  There  must  be 
something  in  it." 

The  Captain  now,  highly  disgusted  that  so  much  attention 
was  withdrawn  from  his  own  case,  asked  in  a  querulous  voice, 
"  And  as  to  diet  ?  What  shall  I  have  for  dinner  ?  " 

"  A  friend  !  "  said  the  doctor,  wiping  his  eyes. 

"  Zounds!"  cried  the  Squire,  retreating,  "  do  you  mean  to  say 
that  the  British  laws  (to  be  sure  they  are  very  much  changed 
of  late)  allow  you  to  diet  your  patients  upon  their  fellow-men  ? 
Why,  Parson,  this  is  worse  than  the  donkey  sausages." 

"  Sir,"  said  Dr.  Morgan  gravely,  "  I  mean  to  say,  that  it  mat- 
ters little  what  we  eat,  in  comparison  with  care  as  to  whom  we 
eat  with.  It  is  better  to  exceed  a  little  with  a  friend  than  to 
observe  the  strictest  regimen,  and  eat  alone.  Talk  and  laughter 
help  the  digestion,  and  are  indispensable  in  affections  of  the 
liver.  I  have  no  doubt,  sir,  that  it  was  my  patient's  agreeable 
society  that  tended  to  restore  to  health  his  dyspeptic  relative 
Mr.  Sharpe  Currie." 

The  Captain  groaned  aloud. 

V And, therefore, if  oneof you  gentlemenwill  stay  and  dine  with 
Mr.Higginbotham,itwillgreatlyassisttheeffectsofhismedicine." 

The  Captain  turned  an  imploring  eye,  first  toward  his  cousin, 
then  toward  the  Parson. 

"  I'm  engaged  to  dine  with  my  son — very  sorry,"  said  the 
Squire.  "  But  Dale,  here—" 

"If  he  will  be  so  kind,"  put  in  the  Captain,  "we  might  cheer 
the  evening  with  a  game  at  whist— double  dummy." 

Now  poor  Mr.  Dale  has  set  his  heart  on  dining  with  an  old 
college  friend,  and  having  no  stupid,  prosy  double  dummy,  in 
which  one  cannot  have  the  pleasure  of  scolding  one's  partner, 
butaregularorthodox  rubber,  with  the  pleasing  prospect  of  scold- 
ing all  the  three  other  performers.  But  as  his  quiet  life  forbade 
him  to  be  a  hero  in  great  things,  the  Parson  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  be  a  hero  in  small  ones.  Therefore,  though  with  rather 
a  rueful  face,  he  accepted  the  Captain's  invitation,  and  promised 
to  return  at  six  o'clock.  Meanwhile  he  must  hurry  on  to  the 
other  end  of  the  town, and  excuse  himself  from  the  pre-engage- 
ment  he  had  already  formed.  He  now  gave  his  card,  with  the 
address  of  a  quiet  familyhotel  thereon, to  Leonard, and  not  look- 
ing quite  so  charmed  with  Dr.  Morgan  as  he  was  before  that  un- 
welcome prescription,  he  took  his  leave.  The  Squire  too,  hav- 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  173 

ing  to  see  anew  churn,  and  execute  various  commissions  for  his 
Harry,  went  his  way  (not,  however,  till  Dr.  Morgan  had  assured 
him  that,in  a  few  weeks.the  Captain  might  safely  remove  to  Hazel- 
dean);  and  Leonard  was  about  to  follow,  when  Morgan  hooked 
his  arm  in  his  old  protigfs,  and  said,  "  But  I  must  have  some  talk 
with  you;  and  you  have  to  tell  me  all  about  the  little  orphan  girl." 

Leonard  could  not  resist  the  pleasure  of  talking  about  Helen, 
and  he  got  into  the  carriage,  which  was  waiting  at  the  door  for 
the  Homoeopathist. 

"  I  am  going  into  the  country  a  few  miles  to  see  a  patient," 
said  the  Doctor;  "so  we  shall  have  time  for  undisturbed  con- 
sultation. I  have  so  often  wondered  what  had  become  of  you. 
Not  hearing  from  Prickett,  I  wrote  to  him,  and  received  from 
his  heir  an  answer  as  dry  as  a  bone.  Poor  fellow,  I  found  that 
he  had  neglected  his  globules  and  quitted  the  globe.  Alas,  pul- 
vis  et  umbra  sumus  !  I  could  learn  no  tidings  of  you.  Prickett's 
successor  declared  he  knew  nothing  about  you.  I  hoped  the 
best;  for  I  always  fancied  you  were  one  who  would  fall  on  your 
legs — -bilious-nervous  temperament;  such  are  the  men  who  suc- 
ceed in  their  undertakings,  especially  if  they  take  a.  spoonful  of 
chamomilla  whenever  they  are  over-excited.  So  now  for  your 
history  and  the  little  girl's — pretty  little  thing — never  saw  a 
more  susceptible  constitution,  nor  one  more  suited  topulsati/la." 

Leonard  briefly  related  his  own  struggles  and  success,  and  in- 
formed the  good  Doctor  how  they  had  at  last  discovered  the 
nobleman  in  whom  poor  Captain  Digby  had  confided,  and  whose 
care  of  the  orphan  had  justified  the  confidence. 

Dr.  Morgan  opened  his  eyes  at  hearing  the  name  of  Lord 
L'Estrange.  "1  remember  him  very  well,"  said  he,  "  when  I 
practised  murder  as  an  allopathist  at  Lansmere.  But  to  think 
that  wild  boy,  so  full  of  whim,  and  life,  and  spirit,  should  be- 
come staid  enough  for  a  guardian  to  that  dear  little  child,  with  her 
timid  eyes  and  pulsatilla  sensibilities.  Well,  wonders  never  cease. 
And  he  has  befriended  you  too,  you  say.  Ah,heknewyourfamily." 

"  So  he  says.  Do  you  think,  sir,  that  he  ever  knew — ever 
saw — my  mother  ?  " 

"Eh  !  your  mother? — Nora? "  exclaimed  the  Doctor,  quickly; 
and  as  if  struck  by  some  sudden  thought,hisbrowsmet,and  he  re- 
mained silent  and  musing  a  few  moments;  then,  observing  Leon- 
ard's eyes  fixed  on  him  earnestly,  he  replied  to  the  question  : 

"  No  doubt  he  saw  her;  she  was  brought  up  at  Lady  Lans- 
mere's.  Did  he  not  tell  you  so  ?  " 

"  No."  A  vague  suspicion  here  darted  through  Leonard's 
mind,  but  as  suddenly  vanished.  His  father!  Impossible.  His 


t;4  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

father  must  have  deliberately  wronged  the  dead  mother.  And 
was  Harley  L'Estrange  a  man  capable  of  such  wrong?  And  had 
he  been  Hurley's  son,  would  not  Harley  have  guessed  it  at  once, 
and  so  guessing,  have  owned  and  claimed  him?  Besides,  Lord 
L'Estrange  looked  so  young; — old  enough  to  be  Leonard's 
father! — he  could  not  entertain  the  idea.  He  roused  himself  and 
said,  falteringly — 

"  You  told  me  you  did  not  know  by  what  name  I  should  call 
my  father." 

"  And  I  told  you  the  truth,  to  the  best  of  my  belief." 

"  By  your  honor,  sir  ?" 

"  By  my  honor,  I  do  not  know  it."    . 

There  was  now  a  long  silence.  The  carriage  had  long  left 
London,  and  was  on  a  high-road  somewhat  lonelier  and  more 
free  from.houses  than  most  of  those  which  form  the  entrance  to 
the  huge  city.  Leonard  gazed  wistfully  from  the  window,  and 
the  objects  that  met  his  eye  gradually  seemed  to  appeal  to  his 
memory.  Yes!  it  was  the  road  by  which  he  had  first  approached 
the  metropolis,  hand  in  hand  with  Helen- — and. hope  so  busy  at 
his  poet's  heart.  He  sighed  deeply.  He  thought  he  would  wil- 
lingly have  resigned,  all  he  had  won — independence,  fame,  all — 
to  feel  again  the  clasp  of  that  tender  hand — again:  to  be  the 
sole  protector  of  that  gentle  life. 

The  Doctor's  voice  broke  on  his  reverie.  "I  am  going  to  see 
a  very  interesting  patient — coats  to  his  stomach  quite  worn  out, 
sir — man  of  great  learning,  with  a  veryinflamed  cerebellum.  I 
can't  do  him  much  good,  and  he  does  me  a  great  deal  of  harm." 

"How  harm?"  asked  Leonard,  with  an  effort  at  some  rejoinder. 

'-Hits  me  on  the  heart,  and  makes  my  eyes 'water  ; — -very 
pathetic  case — grand  creature,  who  has  thrown  himself  away. 
Found  him  given  over  by  the  allopathists,  and  in  a  high  state  of 
delirium  tremens^-vestored  him  for  a  time — took  a  great  liking 
to  him — could  not  help  it — swallowed  a  great  many  globules  to 
harden  myself  against  him — would  not  do— -brought  him  over 
to  England  with  the  other  patients,  who  all  -pay  me  well  (except 
Captain  Higginbotham).  But  this  poor  fellow  pays  me  nothing^ — 
costs  me  a  great  deal  in  time  and  turn  pikes,  and  board  and 
lodging.  Thank  Heaven  I'm  a  single  man,  and  can  afford  it ! 
My  poy,  I  would  let  all  the  other  patients  go  to  the -allopath ists 
if  I  could  but  save  this  poor,  big,  penniless,  princely  fellow. 
But  \vhat  can  one  do  with  a  stomach  that  has  not  a  rag  of  its 
coats  left?  Stop  (the  Doctor  pulled  the  check-string); — This  is 
the  stile.  I  get  out  here  and  go  across  the  fields." 

That  stile — those  fields — with  what  distinctness  Leonard  re« 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  175 

membered  them!  Ah,  where  was  Helen?  Could  she  ever,  ever 
again  be  his  child-angel  ? 

"I  will  go  with  you,  if  you  permit,"  said  he  to  the  good 
Doctor.  "And  while  you  pay  your  visit,  I  will  saunter  by  a  little 
brook  that  I  think  must  run  by  your  way." 

"  The  Brent — you  know  that  brook?  Ah,  you  should  hear  my 
poor  patient  talk  of  it,  and  of  the  hours  he  has  spent  angling  in 
it — you  would  not  know  whether  to  laugh  or  cry.  The  first  day  he 
was  brought  down  to  the  place,  he  wanted  to  go  out  and  try  once 
more,  he  said,  for  his  old  deluding  demon — a  one-eyed  perch." 

"Heavens!"  exclaimed  Leonard,  "are  you  speaking  of  John 
Burley?" 

"To  be  sure,  that  is  his  name— John  Burley." 

"Oh,  has  it  come  to  this?  Cure  him, save  him  if  it  be  inhuman 
power.  For  the  last  two  years  I  have  sought  his  trace  every- 
where, and  in  vain,  the  moment  I  had  money  of  my  own — a 
home  pf  my  own.  Poor,  erring,  glorious  Burley:  take  me  to  him. 
Did  yqu  say  there  was  no  hope  ?  " 

"I  did  not  say  that,"  replied  the  Doctor.  "But  art  can  only 
assist  nature;  and  though  nature  is  ever  at  work  to  repair  the 
injuries  we  do  to  her,  yet,  when  the  coats  of  a  stomach  are  all 
gone,  she  gets  puzzled,  and  so,  do  I.  You  must  tell  me  another 
time  how  you  came  to  know  Burley,  for  here  we  are  at  the  house, 
and  I  see  him  at  the  window  looking  out  for  me." 

The  Doctor  opened  the  garden -gate -of  the  quiet  cottage  to 
which  poor  Burley  had  fled  from  the  pure  presence  of  Leonard's 
child-angel.  And  with  heavy  step,;and  heavy,  heart,  Leonard 
mournfully  followed,  to  behold  the  wreck  of  him  whose  wit  had 
glorified  orgie,  and  "set  thetable  in  aroar."  Alas,  poor  Yorick! 

CHAPTER  V. 


AUDLEY  EGERTON  stands  on  his  hearth  alone.  During  the 
short  interval  that  has  elapsed  since  we  last  saw  him,  events  had 
occurred  memorable  in  English  history,  wherewith  we  have 
nought  to  do  in  a  narrative  studiously  avoiding  all  party  politics, 
even  when  treating  of  politicians.  The  new  Ministers  had  stated 
the  general  programme  of  their  policy,  and  introduced  one 
measure  in  especial  that  had  lifted  them  at  once  to  the  dizzy 
height  of  popular  power.  But  it  became  clear  that  this  measure 
could  not  be  carried  without  a  fresh  appeal  to  the  people.  A 
dissolution  of  Parliament,  as  Audley's  sagacious  experience  had 
foreseen,  was  inevitable.  And  Audley  Egerton  had  no  chance  of 
return  for  his  own  seat — for  the  great  commercial  city  identified 


176  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

with  his  name.  O  sad,  but  not  rare,  instance  of  the  mutabilities 
of  that  same  popular  favor  now  enjoyed  by  his  successors!  The 
great  commoner,  the  weighty  speaker,  the  expert  man  of  business, 
the  statesman  who  had  seemed  a  type  of  the  practical  steady 
sense  for  which  our  middle  class  is  renowned — he  who,  not  three 
years  since,  might  have  had  his  honored  choice  of  the  largest 
popular  constituencies  in  the  kingdom — he,  Audley  Egerton, 
knew  not  one  single  town  (free  from  the  influences  of  private 
property  or  interest)  in  which  the  obscurest  candidate,  who 
bawled  out  for  the  new  liberal  measure,  would  not  have  beaten 
him  hollow, — where  one  popular  hustings,  on  which  that  grave 
sonorous  voice  that  had  stilled  so  often  the  roar  of  faction, 
would  not  be  drowned  amidst  the  hoots  of  the  scornful  mob! 

True,  what  were  called  the  close  boroughs  still  existed — true, 
many  a  chief  of  his  party  would  have  been  too  proud  of  the 
honor  of  claiming  Audley  Egerton  for  his  nominee.  But  the  ex- 
minister's  haughty  soul  shrunk  from  this  contrast  to  his  past 
position.  And  to  fight  against  the  popular  measure  as  member 
of  one  of  the  seats  most  denounced  by  the  people, — he  felt  it 
was  a  post  in  the  grand  army  of  parties  below  his  dignity  to 
occupy,  and  foreign  to  his  peculiar  mind,  which  required  the 
sense  of  consequence  and  station.  And  if,  in  a  few  months, 
those  seats  were  swept  away — were  annihilated  from  the  rolls  of 
Parliament — where  was  he?  Moreover,  Egerton,  emancipated 
from  the  trammels  that  had  bound  his  will  while  his  party  was 
in  office,  desired,  in  the  turn  of  events-,  to  be  nominee  of  no 
man — desired  to  stand  at  least  freely  and  singly  on  the  ground 
of  his  own  services,  be  guided  by  his  own  penetration  ;  no  law 
for  action,  but  his  strong  sense  and  his  stout  English  heart. 
Therefore  he  had  declined  all  offers  from  those  who  could  still 
bestow  seats  in  Parliament.  Seats  that  he  could  purchase  with 
hard  gold  were  yet  open  to  him  ;  and  the  ;£5°°o  he  had  bor- 
rowed from  Levy  were  yet  untouched. 

To  this  lone  public  man,  public  life,  as  we  have  seen,  was  the 
all  in  all.  But  now  more  than  ever  it  was  vital  to  his  very 
wants.  Around  him  yawned  ruin.  He  knew  that  it  was  in 
Levy's  power  at  any  moment  to  foreclose  on  his  mortgaged 
lands — to  pour  in  the  bonds  and  the  bills  which  lay  within  those 
rosewood  receptacles  that  lined  the  fatal  lair  of  the  sleek  usurer — 
to  seize  on  the  vefy  house  in  which  now  moved  all  the  pomp  of 
a  retinue  that  vied  with  the  valetaille  of  dukes — to  advertise  for 
public  auction,  under  execution,  "  the  costly  effects  of  the  Right 
Hon.  Audley  Egerton."  But  consummate  in  his  knowledge  of 
the  world,  Egerton  felt  assured  that  Levy  would  not  adopt 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  177 

these  measures  against  him  while  he  could  still  tower  in  the  van 
of  political  war — while  he  could  still  see  before  him  the  full 
chance  of  restoration  to  power,  perhaps  to  power  still  higher 
than  before — perhaps  to  power  the  highest  of  all  beneath  the 
throne.  That  Levy,  whose  hate  he  divined,  though  he  did  not 
conjecture  all  its  causes,  had  hitherto  delayed  even  a  visit,  even 
a  menace,  seemed  to  him  to  show  that  Levy  still  thought  him 
one  "  to  be  helped,"  or  at  least  one  too  powerful  to  crush.  To 
secure  his  position  in  Parliament,  unshackled,  unfalleh,  if  but 
for  another  year, — new  combinations  of  party  might  arise,  new 
reactions  take  place  in  public  opinion  !  And,  with  his  hand 
pressed  to  his  heart,  the  stern  firm  man  muttered, — "If  not,  I 
ask  but  to  die  in  my  harness,  and  that  men  may  not  know  that  I 
am  a  pauper,  until  all  that  Ineed  from  my  country  is  a  grave." 

Scarce  had  these  words  died  upon  his  lips,  ere  two  quick 
knocks  in  succession  resounded  at  the  street-door.  In  another 
moment  Harley  entered,  and,  at  the  same  time,  the  Servant  in 
attendance  approached  Audley,  and  announced  Baron  Levy. 

"  Beg  the  Baron  to  wait,  unless  he  would  prefer  to  name  his  own 
hour  to  call  again,"  answered  Egerton,  with  the  slightest  possible 
change  of  color.  "  You  can  say  I  am  now  with  Lord  L'Estrange." 

"I  had  hoped  you  had  done  forever  with  that  deluder  of 
youth,"  said  Harley,  as  soon  as  the  groom  of  the  chambers  had 
withdrawn.  "I  remember  that  you  saw  tooniuch  of  him  in  the  gay 
time,  ere  wild  oats  are  sown;  but  now  surely  you  can  never  need 
a  loan  ;  and  if  so,  is  not  Harley  L'Estrange  by  your  side  ? " 

EGERTON. — My  dear  Harley  ! — doubtless  he  but  comes  to 
talk  to  me  of  some  borough.  He  has  much  to  do  with  those 
delicate  negotiations. 

HARLEY. — And  I  have  come  on  the  same  business.  I  claim 
the  priority.  I  not  only  hear  in  the  world,  but  I  see  by  the  papers, 
that  Josiah  Jenkins,  Esq.,  known  to  fame  as  an  orator  who  leaves 
out  his  h's,  and  young  Lord  Willoughby  Whiggolin,  who  is  just 
made  a  Lord  of  the  Admiralty,  because  his  health  is  too  delicate 
for  the  army,  are  certain  to  come  in  for  the  city  which  you  and  your 
present  colleague  will  as  certainly  vacate.  That  is  true,  is  it  not  ? 

EGERTON. — My  old  Committee  now  vote  for  Jenkins  and 
Whiggolin.  And  I  suppose  there  will  not  be  even  a  contest.  Go  on. 

"  So  my  father  and  I  are  agreed  that  you  must  condescend, 
for  the  sake  of  old  friendship,  to  be  once  more  member  for 
Lansmere !  " 

"  Harley,"  exclaimed  Egerton,  changing  countenance  far  more 
than  he  had  done  at  the  announcement  of  Levy's  portentous 
visit — "  Harley,  no,  no  !" 


178  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

"  No  !  But  why  ?  Wherefore  such  emotion  ?"  asked  L'Es- 
trange,  in  surprise. 

Audley  was  silent. 

HARLEY. — I  suggested  the  idea  to  two  or  three  of  the  late 
Ministers ;  they  all  concur  in  advising  you  to  accede.  In  the 
first  place,  if  declining  to  stand  for  the  place  which  tempted 
you  from  Lansmere,  what  more  natural  than  that  you  should 
fall  back  on  that  earlier  representation  ?  In  the  second  place, 
Lansmere  is  neither  a  rotten  borough,  to  be  bought,  nor  a  close 
borough,  under  one  man's  nomination.  It  is  a  tolerably  large  con- 
stituency. My  father,  it  is  true,  has  considerable  interest  injit,  but 
only  what  is  called  the  legitimate  influence  of  property.  At  all 
events,  it  is  moresecure  thanacontest  for  a  larger  town,  moredigni- 
fied  than  a  seat  for  a  smaller.  Hesitating  still?  Even  my  mother 
entrqats  me  to  say  how  she  desires  you  to  renew  that  connection. 

"  Harley  !  "  again  exclaimed  Egerton  ;  and  fixing  upon  his 
friend's  earnest  face,  eyes  which,  when  softened  by  emotion, 
were  strangely  beautiful  in  their  expression — "  Harley,  if  you 
could  but  read  my  heart  at  this -moment,  you  would— you 
•would — "  His  voice  faltered,  and  he  fairly  bent  his  proud  head 
upon  Harley's  shoulder ;.  grasping  the  hand  he  had  caught — 
nervously,  clingingly — "O  Harley,  if  I  ever  lose  your  love,  your 
friendship — nothing  else  is  left  to  me  in  the  world." 

"Audley,  my  dear,  dear  Audley,  is  it  you  who  speak  to  me 
thus?  You,  my  school -friend,  my  life's  confidant — you  ?  " 

"  I  am  grown  very  weak  and  foolish,"  said  Egerton,  trying  to 
smile.  "  I  do  not  know  myself.  I,  too,  whom  you  have  so 
often  called  'Stoic,'  and  likened  to  the  Iron: Man  in  the  poem 
which  you  used  to  read  by  the  riverside  at  .Eton." 

"•  And  even  then,  my  Audley,  I  knew  that  a  warm  human 
heart  (do  what  you  would  to  keep  it  down)  beat  strong  under  the 
iron  ribs.  And  I  often  marvel  now,  to  think  you  have  gone 
through  life  so  free  from  the  wilder  passions.  Happier  so  ! " 

Egerton,  who  had  turned  his  face  from  /his  friend's  gaze,  re- 
mained silent  for  a  few  moments,  and  he  then  sought  to  divert 
the, conversation,  and  roused  himself  to  ask  Harley  how  he  had 
succeeded  in  his  views  upon  Beatrice,  and  his  watch  on  the  Count. 

"With  regard  to  Peschiera,"  answered  Harley,  "I  think  we 
must  have  overrated  the  danger  we  apprehended,  and  that  his 
wagers  were  but  an  idle  boast.  He  has  remained  quiet  enough, 
and  seems  devoted  to  play.  His  sister  has  shut  her  doors  both 
on  myself  and  my  young  associate  during  the  last  few:days.  I 
almost  fear  that,  in  spite  of  very  sage  warnings  of  mine,  she  must 
have  turned  his  poet's  head,  and  that  either  he  has  met  with 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  1791 

some  scornful  rebuff  to  incautious  admiration,  or  that  he  him- 
self has  grown  aware  of  peril,  and  declines  to  face  it ;  for  he  is 
very  much  embarrassed  when  I  speak  to  him  respecting  her. 
But  if  the  Count  is  not  formidable,  why,  his  sister  is  not  needed; 
and  I  hope  yet  to  get  justice  for  my  Italian  friend  through  the 
ordinary  channels.  I  have  secured  an  ally  in  a  young  Austrian 
prince  who  is  now  in  London,  and  who  has  promised  to  back,  with 
all  his  influence, a  memorial  I  shall  transmit  to  Vienna.  Apropos, 
my  dear  Audley,  now  that  you  have  a  little  breathing-time,  you 
must  fix  an  hour  for  me  to  present  to  you  my  young  poet,  the  son 
Qiher  sister.  At  moments  the  expression  of  his  face  is  solike  hers. " 

"  Ay,  ay,"  answered  Egerton,  quickly, "  I  will  see  him  as  you 
wish,  but  later.  I  have  not  yet  that  breathing-time  you  speak 
of;  but  you  say  he  has  prospered;  and,  with  your  friendship,  he 
is  secure  from  fortune.  I  rejoice  to  think  so." 

"And  your  own  protegt,  this  Randal  Leslie,  whom  you  for- 
bid me  to  dislike — hard  task  ! — what  has  he  decided  ?" 

"  To  adhere  to  my  fate.  Harley,  if  it  please  Heaven  that  I  do 
not  live  to  return  to  power,  and  provide  adequately  for  that 
young  man,  do  not  forget  that  he  clung. to  me  in  my  fall." 

''  If  he  still  cling  to  you  faithfully,  I  will  never  forget  it.  I 
will  forget  only  all  that  now  makes  me  doubt  him.  But  you 
talk  of  not  living,  Audley  !  Pooh  ! — 'your  frame  is  that  of  a 
predestined  octogenarian." 

"  Nay,"  answered  Audley,  "  I  was  but  uttering  one  of  those 
vague  generalities  which  are  common  uppn  all  mortal  lips.  And 
now  farewell — I  must  see  this  Baron." 

"  Not  yet,  until  you  have  promised  to  consent  to  my  proposal, 
and  be  once  more  member  for  Lansmere. — Tut  !  don't  shake 
your  head.  I  cannot  be  denied.  I  claim  your  promise  in  right 
of  our  friendship,  and  shall  be  seriously  hurt  if  you  even  pause 
to  reflect  on  it." 

"  Well,  well,  I  know  not  how  to  refuse  you,  Harley  ;  but  you 
have  not  been  to  Lansmere  yourself  since— since  that  sad  event. 
You  must  not  revive  the  old  wound — -you  must  not  go  ;  and — 
and,  I  own  it,  Harley  ;  the  remembrance  of  it  pains  even  me. 
I  would  rather  not  go  to  Lansmere." 

"  Ah,  my  friend,  this  is  an  excess  of  sympathy,  and  I  cannot 
listen  to  it.  I  begin  even  to  blame  my  own  weakness,  and  to  feel 
thatwehave  no  right  to  make  ourselves  the  soft  slaves  of  the  past." 

"  You  do  appear  to  me  of  late  to  have  changed,"  cried  Eger- 
ton, suddenly,  and  with  a  brightening  aspect.  "  Do  tell  me  that 
you  are  happy  in  the  contemplation  of  your  new  ties — that  I 
shall  live  to  see  you  once  more  restored  to  your  former  self." 


l8o  MY   NOVEL  ;    OR 

"All  I  can  answer,  Audley,"  said  L'Estrange,  with  a  thought- 
ful brow,  "is,  that  you  are  right  in  one  thing — I  am  changed  ; 
and  I  am  struggling  to  gain  strength  for  duty  and  for  honor. 
Adieu  !  I  shall  tell  my  father  that  you  accede  to  our  wishes." 

CHAPTER  VI. 

WHEN  Harley  was  gone,  Egerton  sunk  back  on  his  chair,  as 
if  in  extreme  physical  or  mental  exhaustion,  all  the  lines  of  his 
countenance  relaxed  and  jaded. 

"To  go  back  to  that  place — there — there — where — Courage, 
courage — what  is  another  pang?" 

He  rose  with  an  effort,  and  folding  his  arms  tightly  across  his 
breast,  paced  slowly  to  and  fro  the  large,  mournful,  solitary 
room.  Gradually  his  countenance  assumed  its  usual  cold  and 
austere  composure — the  secret  eye,  the  guarded  lip,  the  haughty 
collected  front.  The  man  of  the  world  was  himself  once  niore. 

"  Now  to  gain  time,  and  to  baffle  the  usurer,"  murmured 
Egerton,  with  that  low  tone  of  easy  scorn  which  bespoke  con- 
sciousness of  superior  power  and  the  familiar  mastery  over 
hostile  natures.  He  rang  the  bell;  the  servant  entered. 

"  Is  Baron  Levy  still  waiting  ? " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Admit  him." 

Levy  entered. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Levy,"  said  the  ex-minister,  "for having 
so  long  detained  you.  I  am  now  at  your  commands." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  returned  the  Baron,  "no apologies  between 
friends  so  old  as  we  are ;  and  I  fear  that  my  business  is  not  so 
agreeable  as  to  make  you  impatient  to  discuss  it." 

EGERTON  (with  perfect  composure). — I  am  to  conclude,  then, 
that  you  wish  to  bring  our  accounts  to  a  close.  Whenever  you 
will,  Levy. 

The  BARON  (disconcerted  and  surprised). — Peste .'  moncher, 
you  take  things  coolly.  But  if  our  accounts  are  closed,  I  fear 
you  will  have  but  little  to  live  upon. 

EGERTON. — I  can  continue  to  live  on  the  salary  of  a  Cabinet 
Minister.' 

BARON. — Possibly  ;  but  you  are  no  longer  a  Cabinet  Minister. 

EGERTON. — You  have  never  found  me  deceived  in  a  political 
prediction.  Within  twelve  months  (should  life  be  spared  to  me) 
I  shall  be  in  office  again.  If  the  same  to  you,  I  would  rather 
wait  till  then,  formally  and  amicably  to  resign  to  you  my  lands 
and  this  house.  If  you  grant  that  reprieve,  our  connection  can 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  l8l 

thus  close  without  the  tclat  and  noise  which  may  be  invidious 
to  you,  as  it  would  be  disagreeable  to  me.  But  if  that  delay  be 
inconvenient,  I  will  appoint  a  lawyer  to  examine  your  accounts 
and  adjust  my  liabilities. 

The  BARON  (soliloquizing). — I  don't  like  this.  A  lawyer ! 
That  may  be  awkward. 

EGERTON  (observing  the  Baron,  with  a  curl  on  his  lip). — 
Well,  Levy,  how  shall  it  be  ? 

The  BARON.— You  know,  my  dear  fellow,  it  is  not  my  char- 
acter to  be  hard  on  any  one,  least  of  all  upon  an  old  friend.  And 
if  you  really  think  there  is  a  chance  of  your  return  to  office, 
which  you  apprehend  that  an  esclandre  as  to  your  affairs  at 
present  might  damage,  why,  let  us  see  if  we  can  conciliate  mat- 
ters. But  first,  man  cher,  in  order  to  become  a  minister,  you 
must  at  least  have  a  seat  in  Parliament ;  and  pardon  me  the 
question,  how  the  deuce  are  you  to  find  one  ? 

EGERTON. — It  is  found. 

The  BARON. — Ah,  I  forgot  the  .^5000  you  last  borrowed. 

EGERTON. — No ;  I  reserve  that  sum  for  another  purpose. 

The  BARON  (with  a  forced  laugh). — Perhaps  to  defend  your- 
self against  the  actions  you  apprehend  from  me  ? 

EGERTON. — You  are  mistaken.  But  to  soothe  your  sus- 
picions, I  will  tell  you  plainly,  that  finding  any  sum  I  might 
have  insured  on  my  life  would  be  liable  to  debts  preincurred, 
and  (as  you  will  be  my  sole  creditor)  might  thus  at  my  death  pass 
back  to  you  ;  and  doubting  whether,  indeed,  any  office  would 
accept  my  insurance,  I  appropriate  that  sum  to  the  relief  of  my 
conscience.  I  intend  to  bestow  it,  while  yet  in  life,  upon  my 
late  wife's  kinsman,  Randal  Leslie.  And  it  is  solely  the  wish 
to  do  what  I  consider  an  act  of  justice,  that  has  prevailed  with 
me  to  accept  a  favor  from  the  hands  of  Harley  L'Estrange,  and 
to  become  again  the  member  for  Lansmere. 

The  BARON. — Ha! — Lansmere!  You  will  stand  for  Lansmere? 

EGERTON  (wincing). — I  propose  to  do  so. 

The  BARON. — I  believe  you  will  be  opposed,  subjected  to 
even  a  sharp  contest.  Perhaps  you  may  lose  your  election. 

EGERTON. — If  so,  I  resign  myself,  and  you  can  foreclose  on 
my  estates. 

The  BARON  (his  brow  clearing), — Look  you,  Egerton,  I  shall 
be  too  happy  to  do  you  a  favor. 

EGERTON  (with  stateliness). — Favor  !  No,  Baron  Levy,  I  ask 
from  you  no  favor.  Dismiss  all  thought  of  rendering  me  one. 
It  is  but  a  consideration  of  business  on  both  sides.  If  you 
think  it  better  that  we  shall  at  once  settle  our  accounts,  my 


1 82  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

lawyer  shall  investigate  them.  If  you  agree  to  the  delay  I  re- 
quest, my  lawyer  shall  give  you  no  trouble  ;  and  all  that  1  have, 
except  hope  and  character,  pass  toyourhands  without  a  struggle. 

The  BARON. — Inflexible  and  ungracious,  favor  or  not — -put  it 
as  you  will — I  accede ;  provided-,  first,  that  you  allow  me  to 
draw  up  a  fresh  deed,  which  will  accomplish  your  part  of  the 
compact ;  andy  secondly,  that  we  .saddle  the  proposed  delay 
with  the  condition  that  you  do  not  lose  your  election. 

EoERTO'N. — Agreed.     Have  you  anything  further  to  say? 

The  BARON. — Nothing,  except .  that,  if  you  require  more 
money,  I  am  still  at  your  service. 

EGERTON.— I  thank  you.  No,  I  shall  take  the  occasion  of 
my  retirement  from  office  to  reduce  my  establishment.  I  have 
calculated  already,  and  provided  for  the  expenditure  I  need, 
up  to  the  date  I  have  specified,  and  I  shall  have  no  occasion  to 
touch  the  ^5000  that  I  still  retain;  rm; 

"Your  young  friend,  Mr.  Leslie,  ought  to  be  very  grateful  to 
you,"  said,  the  Baron,  rising.  "I  have  met  him  in  the  world — 
a  lad  of  much  promise  and  talent.  You  should  try  and  get  him 
also  into  Parliament." 

EGERTON  (thoughtfully). — You  are  a, good  judge  of  the  prac- 
tical abilities  and  merits  of  men,  as  regards  worldly  success.  Do 
you  really  thir.k  Randal  Leslie  calculated  for  public  life — for  a 
parliamentary  career  ? 

The  BARON. — Indeed  I  do. 

EGERTON  (speaking  more  to  himself  than  Levy). — Parliament 
without  fortune— 'tis  a  sharp  trial ;  still  he  is  prudent,  abstemi- 
ous, energetic,  persevering  ;  and  at  the  onset,  under  my  aus- 
pices and  advice  he  might  establish  a  position  beyond  his  years. 

The  BARON. — It  strikes  me  that  we  might  possibly  get  him  in  to 
the  next  Parliament ;  or,  as  that  is  not  likely  to  last  long,  at  all  events 
into  the  Parliament  to  follow — not  for  one  of  the  boroughs  which 
will  be  swept  away,  but  for  a  permanent  seat,  and  without  expense. 

EGERTON. — Ay — and  how  ? 

The  BARON. — Give  me  a  few  days  to  consider.  An  idea  has 
occurred  to  me.  I  will  call  again  if  I  find  it  practicable.  Good- 
day  to  you,  Egerton,  and  success  to  your  election  for  Lansmere. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

• 

PESCHIERA  had  not  been  so  inactive  as  he  had 'appeared  to 
Harley  and  the  reader.  On  the  contrary,  he  had  prepared  the 
way  for  his  ultimate  design,  with  all  the  craft  and  the  unscrup- 
ulous resolution  which  belonged  to  his  nature.  His  object  was 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  183 

to  compel  Riccabocca  into  assenting  to  the  Count's  marriage  with 
Violante, cr.failingthat,  to  rain  all  clianceof  his  kinsman's  restora- 
tion. Quietly: and  secretly  he  had  sought  out,  amongst  the  most 
needy  and  unprincipled  of  his  own  countrymen,  those  whom  he 
could  suborn  to  depose  to  Riccabocca's  participation  in  plots  and 
conspiracies  against  the  Austrian  dominion.  These  his  former 
connections  with  the  Carbonari  enabled  him  to  track  to  their 
refuge  in  London;  arid  his  knowledge  of  the  characters  he  had  to 
deal  with  fitted  him  well  for  the  villanous  task  he  undertook. 

He  had,  therefore,  already  selected  out  of  these  desperadoes 
a  sufficient  number,  either  to  serve  as  witnesses  against  his 
kinsman,  or  to.  aid  him  in  any  more  audacious  scheme  which 
circumstance  might  suggest  to  his  adoption.  Meanwhile  he 
had  (as  Harley  hadsuspected  he  would)  set  spies  upon  Randal's 
movements ;  and  the  day  before  that  young  traitor  confided  to 
him  Violante's  retreat,  he  had,  at  least,  got  scent  of  her  father's. 

The  discovery  that  Violante  was  under  a  roof  so  honored, 
and  seemingly  so  safe,  as  Lord  Lansmere's,  .did  not  discourage 
this  bold  and  desperate  adventurer.  We  have  seen  him  set 
forth  to  reconnoitre  the  house  at  Knightsbridge.  He  had  exam- 
ined it  well,  and  discovered  the  quarter  which  he  judged  favor- 
able to  a  coup  de  main^  should  that  become  necessary. 

Lord  Lansmere's  house  and  grounds  were  surrounded  by  a 
wall,  the  entrance. being  to  the  high-road,  and  by  a  porter's 
lodge.  At  the  rear  there  lay  fields  crossed  by  a  lane  or  by-road. 
To  these  fields  a  small  door  in  the  wall,  which  was  used  by  the 
gardeners  in  passing  to  and  from  their  work,  gave  communica- 
tion. This  door  was  usually  kept  locked  ;  but  the  lock  was  of 
the  rude  and  simple  description  common  to  .such  entrances, 
and  easily  opened  by  a  skeleton  key.  So  far  there  was  no  ob- 
stacle which  Peschiera's  experience  in  conspiracy  and  gallan- 
try did  not  disdain  as  trivial.  But  the  Count  was  not  disposed 
to  i  abrupt  and  violent  .means  in  the  first  instance.  He  had  a 
confidence  in  his  personal  gifts,  in  his  address,  in  his  previous 
triumphs  over  the  sex,  which  made  him  naturally  desire  to  haz- 
ard the  effect  of  a  personal  interview  ;  and  on<  this  he  resolved 
with  his  wonted  audacity.  Randal's  description  of  Violante's 
personal  appearance,  and  such  suggestions  as  to  her  character, 
and  the  motives  most  likely  to  influence  her  actions,  as  that 
young  lynx-eyed  observer  could  bestow,  were  all  that  the  Count 
required  of  present  aid  from  his  accomplice. 

Meanwhile  we  return  to  Violante  herself.  We  see  her  now  seat- 
ed in  the  gardens  of  Knightsbridge,  side  by  side  with  Helen,  i  The 
place  was  retired,  and  out  of  sight  from  the  windows  of  the;  house. 


184  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

VIOLANTE. — But  why  will  you  not  tell  me  more  of  that  early 
time?  You  are  less  communicative  even  than  Leonard. 

HELEN  (looking  down,  and  hesitatingly). — Indeed  there  is 
nothing  to  tell  you  that  you  do  not  know;  and  it  is  so  long  since, 
and  things  are  so  changed  now. 

The  tone  of  the  last  words  was  mournful,  and  the  words 
ended  with  a  sigh. 

VIOLANTE  (with  enthusiasm). — How  I  envy  you  that  past 
which  you  treat  so  lightly  !  To  have  been  something,  even  in 
childhood,  to  the  formation  of  a  noble  nature;  to  have  borne 
on  those  slight  shoulders  half  the  load  of  a  man's  great  labor. 
And  now  to  see  Genius  moving  calm  in  its  clear  career;  and  to 
say  only,  "  Of  that  genius  I  am  a  part !  " 

HELEN  (sadly  and  humbly). — A  part!  Oh,  no!  I  don't 
understand  you. 

VIOLANTE. — Take  the  child  Beatrice  from  Dante's  life,  and 
should  we  have  a  Dante?  What  is  a  poet's  genius  but  the  voice 
of  its  emotions  ?  All  things  in  life  and  in  Nature  influence  genius; 
but  what  influences  it  the  most  are  its  own  sorrows  and  affections. 

Helen  looks  softly  into  Violante's  eloquent  face,  and  draws 
nearer  to  her  in  tender  silence. 

VIOLANTE  (suddenly). — Yes,  Helen,  yes — I  know  by  my  own 
heart  how  to  read  yours.  Such  memories  are  ineffaceable.  Few 
guess  what  strange  self-weavers  of  our  own  destinies  we  women 
are  in  our  veriest  childhood  !  (she  sunk  her  voice  into  a  whisper.) 
How  could  Leonard  fail  to  be  dear  to  you — dear  as  you  to  him — 
dearer  than  all  others? 

HELEN  (shrinking  back,  and  greatly  disturbed). — Hush,  hush  ! 
you  must  not  speak  to  me  thus;  it  is  wicked — I  cannot  bear  it. 
I  would  not  have  it  be  so — it  must  not  be — it  cannot ! 

She  clasped  her  hands  over  her  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  then 
lifted  her  face,  and  the  face  was  very  sad,  but  very  calm. 

VIOL  A  NTE  (twining  her  arm  around  Helen's  waist). — How  have 
I  wounded  you? — how  offended?  Forgive  me — but  why  is  this 
wicked?  Whymustitnctbe?  Is  it  because  he  is  belowyou  in  birth? 

HELEN. — No,  no — I  never  thought  of  that.  And  Avhat  am  I  ? 
Don't  ask  me — I  cannot  answer.  You  are  wrong,  quite  wrong, 
as  to  me.  I  can  only  look  on  Leonard  as — as  a  brother.  But — 
but  you  can  speak  to  him  more  freely  than  I  can.  I  would 
not  have  him  waste  his  heart  on  me,  nor  yet  think  me  unkind 
and  distant  as  I  seem.  I  know  not  what  I  say.  But — but—- 
break to  him — indirectly — gently — that  duty  in  both  forbids  us 
both  to — to  be  more  than  friends — than— 

"Helen,  Helen! "  cried  Violante,  in  her  warm, generous  passion, 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  185 

"your  heart  betrays  you  in  every  word  you  say.  You  weep;  lean 
on  me,  whisper  to  me;  why — why  is  this  ?  Do  you  fear  that  your 
guardian  would  not  consent?  He  not  consent?  He  who — " 

HELEN. — Cease — cease — cease. 

VIOLANTE. — What !  You  can  fear  Harley — Lord  L'Estrange  ? 
Fie  !  you  do  not  know  him. 

HELEN  (rising  suddenly). — Violante,  hold;  I  am  engaged  to 
another. 

Violante  rose  also,  and  stood  still,  as  if  turned  to  stone;  pale  as 
death,  till  the  blood  came,  at  first  slowly,  then  with  suddenness 
from  her  heart,and  one  deep  glow  suffused  herwhole  countenance. 
She  caught  Helen's  hand  firmly,  and  said,  in  a  hollow  voice — 

"  Another !  Engaged  to  another !  One  word,  Helen — not 
to  him — not  to  Harley — to — " 

"  I  cannot  say — I  must  not.  I  have  promised,"  cried  poor 
Helen,  and  as  Violante  let  fall  her  hand,  she  hurried  away. 

Violante  sat  down,  mechanically;  she  felt  as  if  stunned  by  a 
mortal  blow.  She  closed  her  eyes  and  breathed  hard.  A  deadly 
faintness  seized  her;  and  when  it  passed  away,  it  seemed  to  her 
as  if  she  were  no  longer  the  same  being,  nor  the  world  around 
her  the  same  world;  as  if  she  were  but  one  sense  of  intense, 
hopeless  misery,  and  as  if  the  universe  were  but  one  inanimate 
void.  So  strangely  immaterial  are  we  really — we  human  beings, 
with  flesh  and  blood — that  if  you  suddenly  abstract  from  us  but 
a  single,  impalpable,  airy  thought,  which  our  souls  have  cher- 
ished, you  seem  to  curdle  the  air,  to  extinguish  the  sun,  to  snap 
every  link  that  connects  us  to  matter,  and  to  benumb  everything 
into  death,  except  woe. 

And  this  warm,  young,  southern  nature,  but  a  moment  before 
was  so  full  of  joy  and  life,  and  vigorous  lofty  hope.  It  never 
till  now  had  known  its  own  intensity  and  depth.  The  virgin 
had  never  lifted  the  veil  from  her  own  soul  of  woman.  What 
till  then  had  Harley  L'Estrange  been  to  Violante?  An  ideal — 
a  dream  of  some  imagined  excellence — a  type  of  poetry  in  the" 
midst  of  the  common  world.  It  had  not  been  Harley  the  man — 
it  had  been  Harley  the  Phantom.  She  had  never  said  to  her- 
self, "  He  is  identified  with  my  love — my  hopes,  my  home,  my 
future."  How  could  she  ?  Of  such,  he  himselt  had  never  spoken ; 
an  internal  voice,  indeed,  had  vaguely,  yet  irresistibly,  whispered 
to  her  that,  despite  his  light  v.-ords,  his  feelings  toward  her  were 
grave  and  deep.  O  false  voice  !  how  it  had  deceived  her  !  Her 
quick  convictions  seized  the  all  that  Helen  had  left  unsaid.  And 
now  suddenly  she  felt  what  it  is  to  love,  and  what  it  is  to  despair. 
So  she  sate,  crushed  and  solitary,  neither  murmuring  nor  weep- 


I&6  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

ing,  only  now  and  then  passing  her  hand  across  her  brow,  as 
if  to  clear  .away  some  cloud  that  would  not  be  dispersed  ;  or 
heaving  a  deep  sigh,  as  if  to  throw  off.  some  load  that  no  time 
henceforth  could  remove.  There  are  certain  moments  in  life  in 
which  we  say  to  ourselves,  "All  is  over ;  no  matter  what  else 
changes,  that  which  I  have  made  my  all  is  gone  evermore — 
evermore."  And  our  own  thought  rings  back  in  our  ears,  "  Ever- 
more— evermore  !  " 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

As  Violante  thus  sate,  a  stranger,  passing  stealthily  through  the 
trees,  stood  between  herself  and  the  evening  sun.  She  saw  him 
not.  He  paused  a  moment,  and  then  spoke  low,  in  her.  native 
tongue,  addressing  her  by  the  name  which  she  had  borne  in 
Italy.  He  spoke  as  a  relation,  and  excused  his  intrusion:  " For," 
said  he,  "  I  come  to  suggest  to  the  daughter  the  means  by  which 
she  can  restore  to  her  father  his  country  and  his  honors." 

At  the  word  " father"  Violante  roused  herself,  and  all  her 
love  for  that  father  rushed  back  upon  her  with  double  force. 
It  does  so  ever — we  love  most  our  parents  at  the  moment  when 
some  tie  less  holy  is  abruptly  broken;  and  when  the  conscience 
says,  "  There,  at  least,  is  a  love  that  has  never  deceived  thee  !  " 

She  saw  before  her  a  man  of  mild  aspect  and  princely  form. 
Peschiera  (for  it  was  he)  had  banished  from  his  dress,  as  from 
his  countenance,  all  that  betrayed  the  worldly  levity  of  his 
character.  He  was  acting  a  part,  and  he  dressed  and  looked  it. 

"  My  father!"  she  said,  quickly,  and  in  Italian.  "What  of 
him  ?  And  who  are  you,  Signor?  I  know  you  not." 

Peschiera  smiled  benignly,  and  replied  in  a  tone  in  which 
great  respect  was  softened  by  a  kind  of  parental  tenderness. 

"Suffer  me  to  explain,  and  listen  to.  me  while  I  speak." 
Then,  quietly  seating  himself  on  the  bench  beside  her,  he 
looked  into  her  eyes,  and  resumed. 

"  Doubtless,  you  have  heard  of  the. Count  di.  Peschiera?" 

VIOLANTE. — I  heard  that  name,  as  a  child,  when  in  Italy. 
And  when  she  with  whom  I  then  dwelt  (my  father's  aunt),  fell 
ill  and  died,  I  was  told  that  my  home  in  Italy  was  gone,  that  it 
had  passed  to  the  Count  di  Peschiera — my  father's  foe ! 

PESCHIERA. — And  your  father,  since  then,  .has  taught  you  to 
hate  this  fancied  foe  ! 

VIOLANTE. — Nay;  my  father  did  but  forbid  me  ever  to  breathe 
his  name. 

PESCHIERA. — Alas  !  what  years  of  suffering  and  exile  might 
have  been  save.d  your  father,,  had  he.  but  been  more  juat  to  -his. 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  187 

early  friend  and  kinsman;  nay,  had  he  but  less  cruelly  concealed 
the  secret  of  his  retreat.  Fair  child,  I  am  that  Giulio  Franzini, 
that  Count  di  Peschiera.  I  am  the  man  you  have  been  told  to 
regard  as  your  father's  foe.  I  am  the  man  on  whom  the  Austrian 
Emperor  bestowed  his  lands.  And  now  judge  if  I  am,  in  truth, 
the  foe.  I  have  come  hither  to  seek  your  father,  in  order  to  dis- 
possess myself  of  my  sovereign's  gift.  I  have  come  but  with  one 
desire,  to  restore  Alphonso  to  his  native  land,  and  to  surrender 
the  heritage  that  was  forced  upon  me. 

VIOL  ANTE.— My  father,  my  dear  father  !  His  grand  heart  will 
have  room  once  more.  Oh  !  this  is  noble  enmity,  true  revenge. 
I  understand  it,  signer,  and  so  will  my  father,  for  such  would  have 
been  his  revenge  on  you.  You  have  seen  him  ? 

PESCHIERA. — No,  not  yet.  I  would  not  see  him  till  I  had  seen 
yourself;  for  you,intruth,are  the  arbiter  of  his  destinies  asof  mine! 

VIOLANTE. — I — Count  ?  I  arbiter  of  my  father's  destinies  ? 
Is  it  possible? 

PESCHIERA  (with  a  look  of  compassionate  admiration,  and  in  a 
tone  yet  more  emphatically  parental). — How  lovely  is  that  inno- 
cent joy!  but  do  not  indulge  it  yet.  Perhaps  it  is  a  sacrifice  which 
is  asked  from  you — a  sacrifice  too  hard  to  bear.  Do  not  interrupt 
me.  Listen  still,  and  you  will  see  why  I  could  not  speak  to  your 
father  until  I  had  obtained  an  interview  with  yourself. — See  why 
a  word  from  you  may  continue  still  to  banish  me  from  hispre^ence. 
You  know,  doubtless,  that  your  father  was  one  of  the  chiefs  of  a 
party  that  sought  to  free  Northern  Italy  from  the  Austrians.  I 
myself  was  at  the  onset  a  warm  participator  in  that  scheme.  '  In  a 
sudden  moment  I  discovered  that  some  of  its  more  active  projec- 
tors had  coupled  with  a  patriotic  enterprise  plots  of  a  dark  nature, 
and  that  the  conspiracy  itself  was  about  to  be  betrayed  to  the 
government.  I  wished  to  consult  with  your  father;  but  he  was  at 
a  distance.  I  learned  that  his  life  was  condemned.  Not  an  -hour 
was  to  be  lost.  I  took  a  bold  resolve,  that  has  exposed  me  to  his 
suspicions  and  to  my  country's  wrath.  But  my  main  idea  was  to 
save  him,  my  early  friend,  from  death,  and  my  country  from  fruit- 
less massacre.  I  withdrew  from  the  intended  revolt.  I  sought  at 
once  the  head  of  the  Austrian  Government  in  Italy,  and  made 
terms  for  the  lives  of  Alphonso,  and  of  the  other  more  illustrious 
chiefs,  which  otherwise  would  have  been  forfeited.  I  obtained 
permission  to  undertake  myself  the  charge  of  securing  my  kins- 
man in  order  to  place  him  in  safety,  and  to  conduct  him  to  a  for- 
eign land,  in  an  exile  that  would  cease  when  the  danger  was  dis- 
pelled. But  unhappily  he  deemed  that  I  only  sought  to  destroy 
him.  He  fled  from  my  friendly  pursuit.  The  soldiers  with  me 


l88  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

were  attacked  by  an  intermeddling  Englishman;  your  father  es- 
caped from  Italy — concealing  his  retreat;  and  the  character  of 
his  flight  counteracted  my  efforts  to  obtain  his  pardon.  The 
government  conferred  on  me  half  his  revenues,  holding  the 
other  half  at  its  pleasure.  I  accepted  the  offer  in  order  to  save 
his  whole  heritage  from  confiscation.  That  I.  did  not  convey  to 
him  what  J  pined  to  do-^viz.,  the  information  that  I  held  but  in 
trust  what  was  bestowed  by  the  government,  and  the  full  expla- 
nation of  what  seemed  blameable  in  my  conduct — was  necessarily 
owing  to  the~;secrecy  he  maintained.  I  could  not  discover  his 
refuge;  but  I  never  ceased  to  plead  for  his  recall.  Thisyearonly 
I  have  partially  succeeded.  He  can  be  restored  to  his  heritage 
and  rank,  on  one  proviso — a  guarantee  for  his  loyalty.  That 
guarantee  the  government  has  named;  it  is  the  alliance  of  his  only 
child  with  one  whom  the  government  can  trust.  It-was  the  interest 
of  all  the  Italian  nobility,  that  the  representation  of  a  house  so 
great,  falling  to  a  female,  should  not  pass  away  wholly  from  the 
direct  line; — in  a  word,  that  you  should  ally  yourself  with  a  kins- 
man. But  one  kinsman,  and  he  the  next  in  blood,  presented  him- 
self. In  short — Alphonso  regains  all  that  he  lost  on  the  day  in 
which  his  daughter  gives  her  hand. to  Giulio  Franzini,  Count di 
Peschiera.  Ah, "continued  the  Count,  mournfully, "  you  shrink, 
you  recoil.  He  thus  submitted  to  your,  choice  is  indeed  unworthy 
of  you.  You  are  scarce  in  the  spring  of  life.  He  is  in  its  waning 
autumn.  Youth  loves  youth.  He  does  not  aspire  to  your  love.  All 
that  he  can  say  is,  love  is  not  the  only  joy  of  the  heart — it  is  joy  to 
raise  from  ruin  a  beloved  father — joy  to  restore  to  a  land  poor 
in  all  but  memories,  a  chief  in  whom  it  reverences  aline  of 
heroes.  These  are  the  joys  I  offer  to  you— you,  a  daughter,  and 
an  Italian  maid.  Still  silent !  Oh,  speak  to  me  !  " 

Certainly  this  Count  Peschiera  knew  well  how  woman  is  to  be 
wooed  and  won;  and  never  was  woman  more  sensitive  to  those 
high  appeals  which  most  move  all  true  earnest  womanhood,  than 
was  the  young  Violante.  Fortune  favored  him  in  the  moment 
chosen.  Harley  was  wrenched  away  from  her  hopes,  and  love  a 
word  erased  from  her  language.  In  the  void  of  the  world,  her 
father's  image  alone  stood  clear  and  visible.  And  she  whoirom 
infancy  had  so  pined  to  serve  that  father;  who  at  first  learned  to 
dream  of  Harley  as  that  father's  friend!  She  could  restore  to  him. 
all  for  which  the  exile  sighed ;  and  by  a  sacrifice  of  self !  Self-sacri- 
fice, ever  in  itself  such  a  temptation  to  the  noble!  Still,  in  the  midst 
of  the  confusion  and  disturbance  of  her  mind,  the  idea  of  marriage 
with  another  seemed  so  terrible  and  revolting, that  she  could  not  at 
once  conceive  it;  andstillthat  instinctofopennessand  honor  which 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  189 

pervaded  all  her  character  warned  even  her  inexperience  that 
there  was  something  wrong  in  this  clandestine  meeting  to  herself. 

Again  the  Count  besought  her  to  speak,  and  with  an  effort 
she  said,  irresolutely — 

"  If  it  be  as  you  say,  it  is  not  for  me  to  answer  you;  it  is  for 
my  father." 

*'  Nay,"  replied  Peschiera.  "  Pardon,  if  I  contradict  you.  Do 
you  know  so  little  of  your  father  as  to  suppose  that  he  will  suffer 
his  interest  to  dictate  t6  his  pride?.  He  would  refuse,  perhaps, 
even  to  receive  my  visit—to  hear  my  explanations;  but  certainly 
he  would  refuse  to  buy  back  his  inheritance  by  the  sacrifice  of  his 
daughter  to  one  whom  he  has  deemed  his  foe,  and  whom  the  mere 
disparity  of  years  would  incline  the  world  to  say  he  had  made  the 
barter  of  his  personal  ambition.  But  if  I  could  go  to  him  sanc- 
tioned by  you — if  I  could  say  your  daughter  overlooks  what  the 
father  might  deem  an  obstacle — she  has  consented  to  accept  my 
hand  of  her  own  free  choice — she  unites  her  happiness  and  blends 
her  prayers  with  mine — then,  indeed,  I  could  not  fail  of  success; 
and  Italy  would  pardon  my  errors,  and  bless  your  name.  Ah! 
Signorina,  do  not  think  of  me,  save  as  an  instrument  toward  the 
fulfilment  of  duties  so  high  and  sacred — think  but  of  your  ances- 
tors, your  father,  your  native  land,  and  reject  not  the  proud 
occasion  to  prove  how  you  revere  them  all ! " 

Violante's  heart  was  touched  at  the  right  chord.  Her  head 
rose — the  color  came  back  to  her  pale  cheek — she  turned  the 
glorious  beauty  of  her  countenance  toward  the  wily  tempter, 
She  was  about  to  answer,  and  to  seal  her  fate,  when  at  that  in- 
stant Harley's  voice  was  heard  at  a  little  distance,  and  Nero  came 
bounding  toward  her,  and  thrust  himself,  with  rough  familiarity, 
between  her  and  Peschiera.  The  Count  drew  back,  and  Violante, 
whose  eyes  were  still  fixed  on  his  face,  started  at  the  change 
that  passed  there.  One  quick  gleam  of  rage  sufficed  in  an  instant 
to  light  up  the  sinister  secrets  of  his  nature — it  was  the  face  of 
a  baffled  gladiator.  He  had  time  but  for  few  words. 

"I  must  not  be  seen  here,"  he  muttered;  "but  to-morrow — 
in  these  gardens — about  this  hour.  I  implore  you  for  the  sake 
of  your  father — his  hopes,  fortunes,  his  very  life,  to  guard  the 
secret  of  this  interview-r-to  meet  me  again.  Adieu  ! " 

He  vanished  amidst  the  trees^  and  was  gone — noiselessly, 
mysteriously,  as  he  had  come. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  last  words  of  Peschiera  were  still  ringing  in  Violante's 
ears,  when  Harley  appeared  in  sight,  and  the. sound  of  his  voice 


I  go  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

dispelled  the  vague  and  dreamy  stupor  which  had  crept  over  her 
senses.  At  that  voice  there  returned  the  consciousness  of  a  mighty 
loss,  the  sting  of  an  intolerable  anguish.  To  meet  Harley  there, 
and  thus,  seemed  impossible.  She  turned  abruptly  away,  and  hur- 
ried toward  the  house.  Harley  called  to  her  by  name,  but  she 
would  not  answer,  and  only  quickened  her  steps.  He  paused  a 
moment  in  surprise,  and  then  hastened  after  her. 

"Under  what  strange  taboo  am  I  placed?  "said  he,  gaily,  as  he 
laid  his  hand  on  her  shrinking  arm.  "  I  inquire  for  Helen — she 
is  ill,  and  cannot  see  me.  I  come  to  sun  myself  in  your  presence, 
and  you  fly  me,  as  if  gods  and  men  had  set  their  mark  on  my 
brow.  Child! — child! — what  is  this?  You  are  weeping  ?" 

"  Do  not  stay  me  now — do  not  speak  to  me,"  answered  Vio- 
lante,  through  her  stifling  sobs,  as  she  broke  from  his  hand  and 
made  toward  the  house. 

"  Have  you  a  grief,  and  under  the  shelter  of  my  father's  roof  ? 
A  grief  that  you  will  not  tell  to  me  ?  Cruel ! "  cried  Harley,  with 
inexpressible  tenderness  of  reproach  in  his  soft  tones. 

Violante  could  not  trustherself  to  reply.  Ashamed  of  her  self- 
betrayal— softened  yet  more  by  his  pleading  voice — she  could 
have  prayed  to  the  earth  to  swallow  her.  At  length,  checking  her 
tears  by  an  heroic  effort,  she  said,  almost  calmly,  "Noble  friend, 
forgive  me.  I  have  no  grief,  believe  me,  which — which  lean  tell 
to  you.  I  was  but  thinking  of  my  poor  father  when  you  came 
up;  alarming  myself  about  him,  it  may  be,  with  vain  supersti- 
tious fears;  and  so — even  a  slight  surprise — your  abrupt  ap- 
pearance, has  sufficed  to  make  me  thus  weak  and  foolish;  but  I 
wish  to  see  my  father; — to  go  home — home  !" 

"  Your  father  is  well,  believe  me,  and  pleased  that  you  are 
here.  No  danger  threatens  him;  and  you,  here,  are  safe." 

"  I  safe — and  from  what  ? " 

Harley  mused  irresolute.  He  inclined  to  confide  to  her  the 
danger  which  her  father  had  concealed;  but  had  he  the  right  to 
do  so,  against  her  father's  will?  - 

"  Give  me,"  he  said,  "  time  to  reflect,  and  to  obtain  permission 
to  intrust  you  with  a  secret  which,  in  my  judgment,  you  should 
know.  Meanwhile,  this  much  I  may  say,  that  rather  than  you 
should  incur  the  danger  that  I  believe  he  exaggerates,  your 
father  would  have  given  you  a  protector — even  in  Randal 
Leslie." 

Violante  started. 

"  But,"  resumed  Harley,  with  a  calm,  in  which  a  certain  deep 
mournfulness  was  apparent,  unconsciously  to  himself — "but  I 
trust  you  are  reserved  for  a  fairer  fate,  and  a  nobler  spouse.  I 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  IQt 

have  vowed  to  live  henceforth  in  the  common  work-day  world. 
But  for  you,  bright  child,  for  you  I  am  a  dreamer  still!" 

Violante  turned  her  eyes  for  one  instant  toward  the  melan- 
choly speaker.  The  look  thrilled  to  his  heart.  He  bowed  his 
face  involuntarily.  When  he  looked  up,  she  had  left  his  side. 
He  did  not  this  time  attempt  to  follow  her,  but  moved  away  and 
plunged  amidst  the  leafless  trees. 

An  hour  afterward  he  re-entered  the  house,  and  again  sought 
to  see  Helen.  She  had  now  recovered  sufficiently  to  give  him 
the  interview  he  requested. 

He  approached  her  with  a  grave  and  serious  gentleness. 

"My  dear  Helen,"  said  he,  "you  have  consented  to  be  my 
wife,  my  life's  mild  companion;  let  it  be  soon — -soon — for  I  need 
you.  I  need  all  the  strength  of  that  holy  tie.  Helen,  let  me 
press  you  to  fix  the  time." 

"I  owe  you  too  much,"  answered  Helen,  looking  down,  "to 
have  any  will  but  yours.  But  your  mother,"  she  added,  perhaps 
clinging  to  the  idea  of  some  reprieve — "  your  mother  has  not  yet-" 

"My  mother — true.  I  will  speak  first  to  her.  You  shall  re- 
ceive from  my  family  all  honor  due  to  your  gentle  virtues.  Helen, 
by  theway,haveyou  mentioned  to  Violante  thebond'between  us?" 

"  No — that  is,  I  fear  I  may  have  unguardedly  betrayed  it, 
against  Lady  Lansmere's  commands  too — but — but- — " 

"  So  Lady  Lansmere  forbade  you  to  name  it  to  Violante.  This 
should  not  be.  I  will  answer  for  her  permission  to  revoke  that 
interdict.  It  is  due  to  Violante  and  to  you.  Tell  your  young 
friend  all.  Ah,  Helen,  if  I  am  at  times  cold  or  wayward,  bear 
with  me — bear  with  me;  for  you  love  me,  do  you  not  ?  " 

CHAPTER  X. 

THAT  same  evening  Randal  heard  from  Levy  (at  whose  house 
he  stayed  late)  of  that  self-introduction  to  Violante  which  (thanks 
to  his  skeleton-key)  Peschiera  had  contrived  to  effect;  and  the 
Count  seemed  more  than  sanguine — he  seemed  assured  as  to  the 
full  and  speedy  success  of  his  matrimonial  enterprise.  "  There- 
fore," said  Levy,  "I  trust  I  may  very  soon  congratulate  you  on 
the  acquisition  of  your  family  estates." 

"  Strange!  "  answered  Randal,  "  strange  that  my  fortunes  seem 
so  bound'  up  with  the  fate  of  a  foreigner  like  Beatrice  di  Negra 
and  her  connection  with  Frank  Hazeldean."  He  looked  up  at 
the  clock  as  he  spoke,  and  added — 

"Frank  by  this  time  has  told  his  father  of  his  engagement." 

"AndyoufeelsurethattheSquirecannotbecoaxedintoconsent?" 


192  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

"  No;  but  I  feel  sure  that  the  Squire  will  be  so  choleric  at  the 
first  intelligence,  that  Frank  will  not  have  the  self-control  neces- 
sary for  coaxing;  and,  perhaps,  before  the  Squire  can  relent  upon 
this  point,  he  may  by  some  accident  learn  his  grievances  on 
another,  which  would  exasperate  him  still  more." 

"Ay,  I  understand — the  post-obit?" 

Randal  nodded. 

"And  what  then  ?"  asked  Levy. 

"  The  next  of  kin  to  the  lands  of  Hazeldean  may  have  his  day." 

The  Baron  smiled. 

"  You  have  good  prospects  in  that  direction,  Leslie;  look  now 
to  another.  I  spoke  to  you  of  the  borough  of  Lansmere.  Your 
patron,  Audley  Egerton,  intends  to  stand  for  it." 

Randal's  heart  had  of  late  been  so  set  upon  other  and  more 
avaricious  schemes,  that  a  seat  in  Parliament  had  sunk  into  a 
secondary  object;  nevertheless  his  ambitious  and  all-grasping 
nature  felt  a  bitter  pang,  when  he  heard  that  Egerton  thus  inter- 
posed between  himself  and  any  chance  of  advancement. 

"  So!  "  he  muttered,  sullenly — "  so.  This  man,  who  pretends 
to  be  my  benefactor,  squanders  away  the  wealth  of  my  fore- 
fathers— throws  me  penniless  on  the  world;  and,  while  still  en- 
couraging me  to  exertion  and  public  life,  robs  me  himself  of — " 

"No! "  interrupted  Levy — "not  robs  you;  we  may  prevent 
that.  The  Lansmere  interest  is  not  so  strong  in  the  borough  as 
Dick  Avenel's." 

"  But  I  cannot  stand  against  Egerton." 

"  Assuredly  not — you  may  stand  with  him." 

"  How  ?  " 

"Dick  Avenel  will  never  suffer  Egerton  to  come  in;  and  though 
he  cannot,  perhaps,  carry  two  of  his  own  politics,  he  can  split 
his  votes  upon  you." 

Randal's  eyes  flashed.  He  saw  at  a  glance,  that  if  Avenel  did  not 
overrate  the  relative  strength  of  parties,  his  seat  could  be  secured. 

"  But,"  he  said,  "  Egerton  has  not  spoken  to  me  on  such  a  sub- 
ject; nor  can  you  expect  thafhe  would  propose  to  me  to  stand 
with  him,  if  he  foresaw  the  chance  of  being  ousted  by  the  very 
candidate  he  himself  introduced." 

"Neither  he  nor  his  party  will  anticipate  that  possibility.  If 
he  ask  you,  agree  to  stand — leave  the  rest  to  me." 

"You  must  hate  Egerton  bitterly,"  said  Randal;  "for  I  am  not 
vainenough  to  think  that  you  thusschemebutfrompure  love  tome." 

"  The  motives  of  men  are  intricate  and  complicated,"  answered 
Levy,  with  unusual  seriousness.  "It  suffices  to  the  wise  t<? 
profit  by  the  actions,  and  leave  the  motives  in  shade." 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  IQ3 

There  was  silence  for  some  minutes.  Then  the  two  drew  closer 
toward  each  other,  and  began  to  discuss  details  in  their  joint  de- 
signs. 

Randal  walked  home  slowly.  It  was  a  cold  moonlit  night. 
Young  idlers  of  his  own  years  and  rank  passed  him  by,  on  their 
way  from  the  haunts  of  social  pleasure.  They  were  yet  in  the 
first  fair  holiday  of  life.  Life's  holiday  had  gone  from  him  for 
ever.  Graver  men,  in  the  various  callings  of  masculine  labor — 
professions,  trade,  the  state — passed  him  also.  Their  steps  might 
be  sober,  and  their  faces  care-worn;  but  no  step  had  the  furtive 
stealth  of  his — no  face  the  same  contracted,  sinister,  suspicious 
gloom.  Only  once,  in  a  lonely  thoroughfarej  and  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  way,  fell  a  footfall,  and  glanced  an  eye,  that 
seemed  to  betray  a  soul  in  sympathy  with  Randal  Leslie's. 

And  Randal,  who  had  heeded  none  of  the  other  passengers 
by  the  way,  as  if  instinctively,  took  note  of  this  one.  His  nerves 
crisped  at  the  noiseless  slide  of  that  form,  as  it  stalked  on  from 
lamp  to  lamp,  keeping  pace  with  his  own.  He  felt  a  sort  of  awe, 
as  if  he  had  beheld  the  wraith  of  himself;  and  ever  as  he  glanced 
suspiciously  at  the  stranger,  the  stranger  glanced  at  him.  He 
was  inexpressibly  relieved  when  the  figure  turned  down  another 
street  and  vanished. 

That  man  was  a  felon,  as  yet  undetected.  Between  him  and 
his  kind  there  stood  but  a  thought — a  veil  air-spun,  but  impas- 
sable, as  the  veil  of  the  Image  at  Saisr 

And  thus  moved  and  thus  looked  Randal  Leslie,  a  thing  of 
dark  and  secret  mischief — within  the  pale  of  the  law,  but  equally 
removed  from  man  by  the  vague  consciousness  that  at  his  heart 
lay  that  which  the  eyes  of  man  would  abhor  and  loathe.  Soli- 
tary amidst  the  vast  city,  and  on  through  the  machinery  of  Civil- 
ization, went  the  still  spirit  of  Intellectual  Evil. 

CHAPTER  XI. 

EARLY  the  nextmorning  Randal  received  two  notes — one  from 
Frank,  written  in  great  agitation,  begging  Randal  to  see  and  pro- 
pitiate his  father,  whom  he  feared  he  had  grievously  offended; 
and  then  running  off,  rather  incoherently,  into  protestations  that 
his  honor  as  well  as  his  affections  were  engaged  irrevocably  to 
Beatrice,  and  that  her,  at  least,  he  could  never  abandon. 

And  the  second  note  was  from  the  Squire  himself — short,  and 
far  less  cordial  than  usual — requesting  Mr.  Leslie  to  call  on  him. 

Randal  dressed  in  haste,  and  went  first  to  Limner's  hotel. 

He  found  the  Parson  with  Mr.  Hazeldean,  and  endeavoring 


194  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

in  vain  to  soothe  him.  The  Squire  had  not  slept  all  night,  and 
his  appearance  was  almost  haggard. 

"Oho  !  Mr.  young  Leslie,"  said  he,  throwing  himself  back  in 
his  chair  as  Randal  entered — "I  thought  you  were  a  friend — I 
thought  you  were  Frank's  adviser.  Explain,  sir;  explain." 

"Gently,  my  dear  Mr.  Hazeldean,"  said  the  Parson.  "You 
do  but  surprise  and  alarm  Mr.  Leslie.  Tell  him  more  distinctly 
what  he  has  to  explain." 

SQUIRE. — Did  you,  or  did  you  not,  tell  me  or  Mrs.  Hazeldean, 
that  Frank  was  in  love  with  Violante  Rickeybockey  ?  . 

RANDAL  (as  in  amaze). — I !  Never,  sir  ;  I  feared,  on  the  con- 
trary, that  he  was  somewhat  enamoured  of  a  very  different  person. 
I  hinted  at  that  possibility  ;  I  could  not  do  more,  for  I  did  not 
know  how  far  Frank's  affections  were  seriously  engaged.  And 
indeed,  sir,  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  though  not  encouraging  the  idea 
that  your  son  could  marry  a  foreigner  and  a  Roman  Catholic, 
did  not  appear  to  consider  such  objections  insuperable,  if  Frank's 
happiness  were  really  at  stake. 

Here  the  poor  Squire  gave  way  to  a  burst  of  passion,  that  in- 
volved in  one  tempest  Frank,  Randal,  Harry  herself,  and  the 
whole  race,  of  foreigners,  Roman  Catholics,  and  women  While 
the  Squire  was  still  incapable  of  hearing  reason,  i  he  Parson,  taking 
aside  Randal,  convinced  himself  that  the  \vhule  affair,  so  far  as 
Randal  was  concerned,  had  its  origin  in  a  very  natural  mistake  ; 
and  that  while  that  young  gentleman  had  been  hinting  at  Beatrice, 
Mrs.  Hazeldean  had  been  thinking  of  Violante.  With  consider- 
able difficulty  he  succeeded  in  conveying  this  explnnraion  to  the 
Squire,  and  somewhat  appeasing  his  wrath  against  Randal.  And 
the  Dissimulator,  seizing  his  occasion,  then  expressed  so  much 
grief  and  astonishment  at  learning  that  matters  had  gone  as  far 
as  the  Parson  informed  him— that  Frank  had  actually  proposed 
to  Beatrice,  been  accepted,  and  engaged  himself,  before  even  com- 
municating with  his  father ;  he  declared  so  earnestly,  that  he 
could  never  conjecture  such  evil — that  he  had  had  Frank'spositive 
promise  to  take  no  step  without  the  sanction  of  his  parents  ;  he 
professed  such  sympathy  with  the  Squire's  wounded  feelings,  and 
such  regret  at  Frank's  involvement,  that  Mr.  Hazeldean  at  last 
yielded  up  his  honest  heart  to  his  consoler — and  griping  Ran- 
d,al's  hand, said,  "Well,  well,  I  wronged  you — beg  your  pardon. 
What  now  is  to  be  done?" 

"Why,  you  cannot  consent  to  this  marriage — impossible," 
replied  Randal;  "and  we  must  hope,  therefore,  to  influence 
Frank  by  his  sense  of  duty." 

"That's  it,"  said  the  Squire;  "for  I'll  not  give  way.  Pretty  pass 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  195 

things  have  come  to,  indeed !  A  widow,  too,  I  hear.  Artful  jade — 
thought,no  doubt, to  catch  a  Hazeldean  of  Hazeldean.  My  estates 
go  to  an  outlandish  Papistical  set  of  mongrel  brats!  No.no, never!" 

"But," said  the  Parson,  mildly,  "perhaps  we  may  be  unjustly 
prejudiced  against  this  lady.  We  should  have  consented  to 
Violante — why  not  to  her  ?  She  is  ot"  good  family  ? " 

"Certainly,"  said  Randal. 

"And  good  character?" 

Randal  shook  his  head,  and  sighed.  The  Squire  caught  him 
roughly  by  the  arm — "Answer  the  Parson !"  cried  he,  vehemently. 

"  Indeed,  sir,  I  cannot  speak  disrespectfully  of  the  character 
of  a  woman,  who  may,  too,  become  Frank's  wife  ;  and  the  world  is 
ill-natured  and  not  to  be  believed.  But  you  can  j  udge  for  yourself, 
my  dear  Mr.  Hazeldean.  Ask  your  brother  whether  .Madame 
di  Negrais  one  whom  he  would  advise  his  nephew  to  marry." 

"  My  brother  ! ".  exclaimed  the  Squire,  furiously.  "  Consult 
my  distant  brother  on  the  affairs  of  my  own  son?" 

"  He  is  a  man  of  the  world,"  put  in  Randal. 

"And of  feeling  and  honor,"  said  the  Parson;  "and perhaps, 
through  him,  we  may  be  enabled  to  enlighten  Frank,  and.save  him 
from  what  appears  to  be  the  snare  of  an  artful  woman." 

"  Meanwhile,"  said  Randal,  "I  will  seek  Frank,  and  do  my  best 
with  him.  Let  me  go  now — I  will  return  in  an  hour  or  so." 

"I  will  accompany  you,"  said  the  Parson. 

"  Nay,  pardon  me  ;  but  I  think  we  two  young  men  can  talk 
more  openly  without  a  third  person,  even  so  wise  and  kind  asyou." 

"Let  Randal  go,"  growled  the  Squire.     And  Randal  went. 

He  spent  some  time  with  Frank,  and  the  reader  will  easily 
divine  how  that  time  was  employed.  As  he  left  Frank's  lodg- 
ings, he  found  himself  suddenly  seized  by  the  Squire  himself. 

"  I  was  too  impatient  to  stay  at  home  and  listen  to  the  Par- 
son's prosing,"  said  Mr.  Hazeldean,  nervously.  "  I  have  shaken 
Dale  off.  Tell  me  what  has  passed.  Oh  !  don't  fear — I'm  a 
man,  and  can  bear  the  worst." 

Randal  drew  the  Squire's  arm  within  his,  and  led  him  into 
the  adjacent  park. 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  he  sorrowfully,  "this  is  very  confidential 
what  I  am  about  to  say.  I  must  repeat  it  to  you,  because,  with- 
out such  confidence,  I  see  not  how  to  advise  you  on  the  proper 
course  to  take.  But  if  I  betray  Frank,  it  is  for  his  good,  and  to 
his  own  father ; — only  do  not  tell  him.  He  would  never  forgive 
me — it  would  forever  destroy  my  influence  over  him." 

"Go  on,  go  on,"  gasped  the  Squire  ;  "speak  out.  I'll  never 
tell  the  ungrateful  boy  that  I  learned  his  secrets  from  another.'" 


196  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"Then,"  said  Randal,  "the  secret  Of  his  entanglement  with 
Madame  di  Negra  is  simply  this — he  found  her  in  debt — nay, 
on  the  point  of  being  arrested — " 

"  Debt ! — arrested  !     Jezabel ! " 

"And  in  paying  the  debt  himself,  and  saving  her  from  arrest, 
he  conferred  on  her  the  obligation  which  no  woman  of  honor 
could  accept  save  from  an  affianced  husband.  Foor  Frank  ! — 
if  sadly  taken  in,  still  we  must  pity  and  forgive  him ! " 

Suddenly,  to  Randal's  great  surprise,  the  Squire's  whole  face 
brightened  up. 

"  I  see,  I  see  ! "  he  exclaimed,  slapping  his  thigh.  "  I  have 
it — I  have  it.  'Tis  an  affair  of  money  !  I  can  buy  her  off.  If 
she  took  money  from  him,  the  mercenary,  painted  baggage ! 
why,  then,  she'll  take  it  from  me.  I  don't  care  what  it  costs — 
half  my  fortune — all !  I'd  be  content  never  to  see  Hazeldean 
Hall  again,  if  I  could  save  my  son,  my  own  son,  from  disgrace 
and  misery ;  for  miserable  he  will  be,  when  he  knows  he  has 
broken  my  heart  and  his  mother's.  And  for  a  creature  like  that ! 
My  boy,  a  thousand  hearty  thanks  to  you.  Where  does  the 
wench  live  ?  I'll  go  to  her  at  once."  And,  as  he  spoke,  the 
Squire  actually  pulled  out  his  pocket-book,  and  began  turning 
over  and  counting  the  bank-notes  in  it. 

Randal  at  first  tried  to  combat  this  bold  resolution  on  the  part 
of  the  Squire ;  but  Mr.  Hazeldean  had  seized  on  it  with  all  the 
obstinacy  of  his  straightforward  English  mind.  He  cut  Randal's 
persuasive  eloquence  off  in  the  midst. 

"  Don't  waste  your  breath.  I've  settled  it ;  and  if  you  don't 
tell  me  where  she  lives,  'tis  easily  found  out,  I  suppose." 

Randal  mused  a  moment.  "After 'all,"  thought  he,  "why 
not?  He  will  be  sure  so  to  speak  as  to  enlist  her  pride  against 
himself,  and  to  irritate  Frank  to  the  utmost.  Let  him  go." 

Accordingly  he  gave  the  information  required  ;  and,  insisting 
with  great  earnestness  on  the  Squire's  promise  not  to  mention  to 
Madame  di  Negra  his  knowledge  of  Frank's  pecuniary  aid  (for 
that  would  betray  Randal  as  the  informant) ;  and  satisfying  him- 
self as  he  best  might  with  the  Squire's  prompt  assurance, "that 
he  knew  how  to  settle  matters,  without  saying  why  or  wherefore, 
as  long  as  he  opened  his  purse  wide  enough,"  he  accompanied  Mr. 
Hazeldean  back  into  the  streets,  and  left  him — fixing  an  hour 
in  the  evening  for  an  interview  at  Limner's,  and  hinting  that  it 
would  be  best  to  have  that  interview  without  the  presence  of  the 
Parson.  "  Excellent,  good  man,"  said  Randal,  "but  not  with 
sufficient  knowledge  of  the  world  for  affairs  of  this  kind,  which 
you  understand  so  well." 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  107 

"  I  should  think  so,"  quoth  the  Squire,  who  had  recovered  his 
good-humor.  "And  the  Parson  is  as  soft  as  buttermilk.  We 
must  be  firm  here — firm,  sir."  And  the  Squire  struck  the  end 
of  his  stick  on  the  pavement,  nodded  to  Randal,  and  went  on  to 
May  Fair  as  sturdily  and  as  confidently  as  if  to  purchase  a  prize- 
cow  at  a  cattle-show. 

CHAPTER  XII. 

"BRING  the  light  nearer,"  said  John  Burley — "nearer  still." 

Leonard  obeyed,  and  placed  the  candle  on  a  little  table  by 
the  sick  man's  bedside. 

Burley's  mind  was  partially  wandering  ;  but  there  was  method 
in  his  madness.  Horace  Walpole  said  that  "his  stomach  would 
survive  all  the  rest  of  him."  That  which  in  Burley  survived 
the  last  was  his  quaint  wild  genius.  He  looked  wistfully  at  the 
still  flame  of  the  candle  ;  "  It  lives  ever  in  the  air  !  "  said  he. 

"What  lives  ever?" 

Burley's  voice  swelled — "  Light ! "  He  turned  from  Leonard, 
and  again  contemplated  the  little  flame.  "  In  the  fixed  star,  in 
the  will-o-the-wisp,  in  the  great  sun  that  illumes  half  a  world, 
or  the  farthing  rushlight  by  which  the  ragged  student  strains  his 
eyes — still  the  same  flower  of  the  elements  !  Light  in  the  uni- 
verse, thought  in  the  soul — ay — ay — Go  on  with  the  simile.  My 
head  swims.  Extinguish  the  light !  You  cannot ;  fool,  it  van- 
ishes from  your  eye,  but  it  is  still  in  the  space.  Worlds  must 
perish,  suns  shrivel  up,  matter  and  spirit  both  fall  into  nothing- 
ness, before  the  combinations  whose  union  makes  that  little  flame, 
which  the  breath  of  a  babe  can  restore  to  darkness,  shall  lose  the 
power  to  form  themselves  into  light  once  more.  Lose  the  power! — 
no,  the  necessity : — it  is  the  one  Must  in  creation.  Ay,  ay,  very 
dark  riddles  grow  clear  now — now  when  I  could  not  cast  up  an 
addition  sum  in  the  baker's  bill !  What  wise  man  denied  that 
two  and  two  make  four !  Do  they  not  make  four?  I  can't 
answer  him.  But  I  could  answer  a  question  that  some  wise  men 
have  contrived  to  make  much  knottier."  He  smiled  softly,  and 
turned  his  face  for  some  minutes  to  the  wall. 

This  was  the  second  night  on  which  Leonard  had  watched 
by  his  bedside,and  Burley's  state  had  grown  rapidly  worse.  He 
could  not  last  many  days,  perhaps  many  hours.  But  he  had 
evinced  an  emotion  beyond  mere  delight  at  seeing  Leonard  again. 
He  had  since  then  been  calmer,  more  himself.  "  I  feared  I  might 
have  ruined  you  by  my  bad  example,"  he  said,  with  a  touch  of 
humor  that  became  pathos  as  he  added,  "that  idea  preyed  on  me." 

"No,  no;  you  did  me  great  good." 


Jf)S  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

''Say  that — say  it  often,"  said  Burley,  earnestly  ;  "it  makes 
my  heart  feel  so  light." 

He  had  listened  to  Leonard's  story  with  deep  interest,  and  was 
fond  of  talking  to  him  of  little  Helen.  He  detected  the  secret 
at  the  young  man's  heart,  and  cheered  the  hopes  that  lay  there, 
amidst  fears  and  sorrows.  Burley  never  talked  seriously  of  his 
repentance  ;  it  was  not  in  his  nature  to  talk  seriously  of  the  things 
which  he  feltsolemnly.  But  his  high  animal  spirits  werequenched 
with  the  animal  power  that  fed  them.  Now,  we  go  out  of'  our 
sensual  existence  only  when  we  are  no  longer  enthralled  by  the 
Present,  in  which  the  senses  have  their  realm.  The  sensual 
being  vanishes  when  we  are  in  the  Past  or  Future.  The  Present 
was  gone  from  Burley  ;  he  could  no  more  be  its  slave  and  its  king. 

It  was  most  touching  to  see  how  the  inner  character  of  this 
man  unfolded  itself,  as  the  leaves  of  the  outer  character  fell  off 
and  withered — a,  character  no  one  would  have  guessed  in  him — 
an  inherent  refinement  that  was  almost  womanly;  and  he  had  all  a 
woman's  abnegation  of  self.  He  took  the  cares  lavished  on  him 
so  meekly.  As  the  features  of  the  old  man  return  in  the  stillness 
of  death  to  the  aspect  of  youth — the  lines. effaced,  the  wrinkles 
gone — so,  in  seeing  Burley  now,  you  saw  what  he  had  been  in 
his  spring  of  promise.  But  he  himself  saw  only  what  he  had 
failed  to  be — powers  squandered — life  wasted.  "  I  once  beheld," 
he  said,  "a  ship  in  a  storm.  It  was  a  cloudy,  fitful  day,  and  I 
could  see  the  ship  with  all  its  masts  fighting  hard  for  life  and 
for  death.  Then  came  night,  dark  as  pitch,  and  I  could  only 
guess  that  the  ship  fought  on. — Toward  the  dawn  the  stars  grew 
visible,  and  once  more  I  saw  the  ship — it  was  a  wreck — it 
went  down  just  as  the  stars  shone  forth." 

When  he  had  made  that  allusion  to  himself,  he  sat  very  still  for 
some  time,  then  he  spread  out  his  wasted  hands,  and  gazed  on  them, 
and  on  his  shrunken  limbs.  "Good,"  said  he,  laughing  low;  "these 
hands  were  too  large  and  rude  for  handling  the  delicate  webs  of  my 
own  mechanism,  and  these  strong  limbs  ran  away  with  me.  If  I 
had  been  asickly,  puny  fellow,  perhaps  my  mind  would  have  had 
fair  play.  There  was  too  much  of  the  brute  body  here  !  Look  at 
this  hand  now !  you  can  see  the  light  through  it !  Good,  good  !  " 

Now,  that  evening,  until  he  had  retired  to  bed,  Burley  had 
been  unusually  cheerful,  and  had  talked  with  much  of  his  old 
eloquence,  if  with  little  of  his  old  humor.  Amongst  other  matters, 
he  had  spoken  with  considerable  interest  of  some  poems  and 
other  papers  in  manuscript  which  had  been  left  in.  the  house  by 
a  former  lodger,  and  which  the  reader  may  remember  that  Mrs. 
Goodyer  had  urged  him  in  vain  to  read,  in  his  last  trip  to  her 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  199 

cottage.  But  then  he  had  her  husband  Jacob  to  chat  with  and 
the  spirit-bottle  to  finish,  and  the  wild  craving  for  excitement 
plucked  his  thoughts  back  to  his  London  revels.  Now  poor 
Jacob  was  dead,  and  it  was  not  brandy  that  the  sick  man  drank 
from  the  widow's  cruse.  And  London  lay  far  amidst  its'  fogs, 
like  a  world  resolved  back  into  nebulae.  So  to  please  his  hostess 
and  distract  his  thoughts,  he  had  condescended  (just  before 
Leonard  found  him  out)  to  peruse  the  memorials  of  a  life  ob- 
scure to  the  world,  and  new  to  his  own  experience  of  coarse 
joys  and  woes.  "  I  have  been  making  a  romance,  to  amuse  my- 
self, from  their  contents,"  said  he.  "  They  may  be  of  use  to  you, 
brother  author.  I  have  told  Mrs.  Goodyer  to  place  them  in  your 
room.  Amongst. those  papers  is  a  sort  of  journal — a  woman's 
journal;  it  moved  me  greatly.  A  man  gets  into  another  world, 
strange  to  him  as  the  orb  of  Sirius,  if  he  can  transport  himself 
into  the  centre  of  a  woman's  heart,  and  see  the  life  there,  so 
wholly  unlike  our  own.  Things  of  moment  to  us,  to  it  so 
trivial ;  things  trifling  to  us,  to  it  so  vast.  There  was  this  journal — 
in  its  dates  reminding  me  of  stormy  events  in  my  own  exist- 
ence, and  grand  doings  in  the  world's.  And  those  dates  there, 
chronicling  but  the  mysterious  unrevealed  record  of  some  ob- 
scure loving  heart!  And  in  that  chronicle,  O  Sir  Poet,  there  was 
as  much  genius,  vigor  of  thought,  vitality  of  being,  poured  and 
wasted,  as  ever  kind  friend  Will  say  was  lavished  on  the  rude 
outer  world  by  big  John  Burley!  Genius,  genius  ;  are  we  all 
alike,  then,  save  when  we  leash  ourselves  to  some  matter-of-fact 
material,  and  float  over  the  roaring  seas  on  a  wooden  plank  or 
a  herring- tub  ?"  And  after  he  had  uttered  that  cry  of  a  secret 
anguish,  John  Burley  had  begun  to  show  symptoms  of  growing 
fever  and  disturbed  brain;  and  when  they  had  got  him  into  bed, 
he  lay  there  muttering  to  himself/until,  toward  midnight,  he  had 
asked  Leonard  to  bring  the  light  nearer  to  him. 

So  now  he  again  was  quiet — with  his  face  turned  toward  the 
wall;  and  Leonard  stood  by  the  bedside  sorrowfully,  and  Mrs. 
Goodyer,  who  did  not  heed  Burley's  talk,  and  thought  only  of 
his  physical  state,  was  dipping  cloths  into  iced  water  to  apply  to 
his  forehead.  But  as  she  approached  with  these,  and  addressed 
him  soothingly,  Burley  raised  himself  on  his  arm,  and  waved 
aside  the  bandages.  "I  do  not  need  them,"  said  he,  in  a  collected 
voice.  M  I  am  better  now.  I  and  that  pleasant  light  understand 
one  another,  and  I  believe  all  it  tells  me.  Pooh,  pooh,  I  do  not 
rave."  He  looked  so  smilingly  and  so  kindly  into  her  face,  that 
the  poor  woman,  who  loved  him  as  her  own  son,  fairly  burst  into 
tears.  He  drew  her  toward  him,  and  kissed  her  forehead. 


200  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  Peace,  old  fool,"  said  he,  fondly.  "  You  shall  tell  anglers 
hereafter  how  John  Burley  came  to  fish  for  the  one-eyed  perch 
which  he  never  caught;  and  how,  when  he  gave  it  up  at  last,  his 
baits  all  gone,  and  the  line  broken  amongst  the  weeds,  you  com- 
forted the  baffled  man.  There  are  many  good  fellows  yet  in  the 
world  who  will  like  to  know  that  poor  Burley  did  not  die  on  a 
dunghill.  Kiss  me  !  Come,  boy,  you  too.  Now,  God  bless  you, 
I  should  like  to  sleep."  His  cheeks  were  wet  with  the  tears  of 
both  his  listeners,  and  there  was  a  moisture  in  his  own  eyes, 
which,  nevertheless,  beamed  bright  through  the  moisture. 

He  laid  himself  down  again,  and  the  old  woman  would  have 
withdrawn  the  light.  He  moved  uneasily.  "  Not  that,"  he  mur- 
mured— "light  to  the  last!"  And  putting  forth  his  wan  hand, 
he  drew  aside  the  curtain,  so  that  the  light  might  fall  full  on 
his  face.  In  a  few  minutes  he  was  asleep,  breathing  calmly  and 
regularly  as  an  infant. 

The  old  woman  wiped  her  eyes,  and  drew  Leonard  softly  into 
the  adjoining  room,  in  which  a  bed  had  been  made  up  for  him. 
He  had  not  left  the  house  since  he  had  entered  it  with  Dr. 
Morgan.  "You  are  young,  sir,"  said  she  with  kindness,  "and  the 
young  want  sleep.  Lie  down  a  bit;  I  will  call  you  when  he  wakes." 

"  No,  I  could  not  sleep,"  said  Leonard.  "I  will  watch  for  you." 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head.  "I  must  see  the  last  of  him, 
sir;  but  I  know  he  will  be  angry  when  his  eyes  open  on  me,  for 
he  has  grown  very  thoughtful  of  others." 

"Ah,  if  he  had  but  been  as  thoughtful  of  himself!"  murmured 
Leonard;  and  he  seated  himself  by  the  table,  on  which,  as  he 
leaned  his  elbow,  he  dislodged  some  papers  placed  there.  They 
fell  to  the  ground  with  a  dumb,  moaning,  sighing  sound. 

"What  is  that?"  said  he,  starting. 

The  old  woman  picked  up  the  manuscripts  and  smoothed  them 
carefully. 

"Ah,  sir,  he  bade  rne  place  these  papers  here.  He  thought 
they  might  keep  you  from  fretting  about  him,  in  case  you  would 
sit" up  and  wake.  And  he  had  a  thought  of  me,  too ;  for  I  have 
so  pined  to  find  out  the  poor  young  lady  who  left  them  years 
ago.  She  was  almost  as  dear  to  me  as  he  is;  dearer  perhaps  until 
now — when — when  I  am  about  to  lose  him!" 

Leonard  turned  from  the  papers,  without  a  glance  at  their 
contents;  they  had  no  interest  for  him  at  such  a  moment. 

The  hostess  went  on- — 

"Perhaps  she  is  gone  to  heaven  before  him:  she  did  not  look 
like  one  long  for  this  world.  She  left  us  so  suddenly.  Many 
things  of  hers  besides  these  papers  are  still  here ;  but  I  keep 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  2OI 

them  aired  and  dusted,  and  strew  lavender  over  them,  in  case  she 
ever  come  for  them  again.  You  never  heard  tell  of  her,  did  you, 
sir?"  she  added,  with  great  simplieity,and  dropping  a  half-curtsey. 

"Of  her— of  whom?" 

"Did  not  Mr.  John  tell  you  her  name- — dear — dear ;  Mrs. 
Bertram." 

Leonard  started;  the  very  name  so  impressed  upon  his  memory 
by  Harley  L'Estrange. 

"Bertram!"  he  repeated.     "Are  you  sure?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir!  And  many  years  after  she  had  left  us,  and  we 
had  heard  no  more  of  her,  there  came  a  packet  addressed  to  her 
here,  from  over  sea,  sir.  We  took  it  in,  and  kept  it,  and  John 
would  break  the  seal,  to  know  if  it  would  tell  us  anything  about 
her;  but  it  was  all  in  a  foreign  language  like — we  could  notread 
a  word." 

"Have  you  the  packet?  Pray  show  it  to  me.  It  may  be  of  the 
greatest  value.  To-morrow  will  do — I  cannot  think  of  that  just 
now.  Poor  Burley  ! " 

Leonard's  manner  indicated  that  he  wished  to'talk  no  more, 
and  to  be  alone.  So  Mrs.  Goodyer  left  him,  and  stole  back  to 
Burley's  room  on  tiptoe. 

The  young  man  remained  in  deep  reverie  for  some  moments. 
"Light,"  he  murmured.  "How  often  'Light'  is  the  last  word  of 
those  round  whom  the  shades  are  gathering!"*  He  moved, 
and  straight  on  his  view  through  the  cottage  lattice  there 
streamed  light,  indeed — not  the  miserable  ray  lit  by  a  human 
hand — but  the  still  and  holy  effulgence  of  a  moonlit  heaven.  It 
lay  broad  upon  the  humble  floors — pierced  across  the  threshold 
of  the  death-chamber,  and  halted  clear  amidst  its  shadows. 

,  Leonard  stood  motionless,  his  eye  following  the  silvery  silent 
splendor. 

"  And,"  he  said  inly — "  and  does  this  large  erring  nature, 
marred  by  its  genial  faults — this  soul  which  should  have  filled 
the  land,  as  yon  orb  the  room,  with  a  light  that  linked  earth  to 
heaven— d,oes  it  pass  away  into  the  dark,  and  leave  not  a  ray 
behind?  Nay,  if  the  elements  of  light  are  ever  in  the  space,  and 
when -the.  flame  goes;  .out  return  to  the  vital  air — so  thought, 
once  kindled,  lives  for  ever  round  and  about  us,  a  part  of  our 

*  Every  one  remembers  that  Goethe's  last  words  are  said  to  have  been  "  More  light "; 
and  perhaps  what  has  occurred  in  the  text  may  be  supposed  a  plagiarism  from  those  words. 
But,  in  fact  nothing  is  more  common  than  the  craving  arid  demand  for  light  a  little  before 
death.  Let  any  consult  his  own  sad  experience  in  the  last  moments  of  those  whose  gradual 
close  he  has  watched  and  tended.  What  more  frequent  than  a  prayer  to  open  the  shutters 
and  let  in  the  sun  ?  What  complaint  more  repeated,  and  more  touching,  than  "that  it  is 
growing  dark  "  ?  I  once  knew  a  sufferer — who  did  not  then  seem  in  immediate  danger,  sud- 
denly order  the  sick-room  to  be  lit  up  as  if  for  a  gala.  When  this  was  told  to  the  physkiao, 
he  said  gravely,  "  No  worse  sign. " 


202  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

breathing  atmosphere.  Many  a  thinker,  many  a  poet,  may  yet 
illumine  the  world,  from  the  thoughts  which  yon  genius,  that 
will  have  no  name,  gave  forth  to  wander  through  air,  and 
recombine  again  in  some  new  form  of  light." 

Thus  he  went  on  in  vague  speculations,  seeking,  as  youth  en- 
amoured of  fame  seeks  too  fondly,  to  prove  that  mind  never 
works,  however  erratically,  in  vain — and  to  retain  yet,  as  an  in- 
fluence upon  earth,  the  soul  about  to  soar  far  beyond  the  atmos- 
phere where  the  elements  that  make  fame  abide.  Not  thus  had 
the  dying  man  interpreted  the  endurance  of  light  and  thought. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  his  reverie,  a  loud  cry  broke  on  his 
ear.  He  shuddered  as  he  heard,  and  hastened  forebodingly  into 
the  adjoining  room.  The  old  woman  was  kneeling  by  the  bed- 
side, and  chafing  Burley's  hand — eagerly  looking  into  his  face. 
A  glance  sufficed  to  Leonard.  All  was  over.  Burley  had  died 
in  sleep — calmly,  and  without  a  groan. 

The  eyes  were  half-open, with  that  look  of  inexpressive  soft- 
ness which  death  sometimes  leaves ;  and  still  they  were  toward 
the  light ;  and  the  light  burned  clear.  Leonard  closed  tenderly 
the  heavy  lids  ;  and,  as  he  covered  the  face,  the  lips  smiled  a  se- 
rene farewell. 

' 
CHAPTER  XIII. 

WE  have  seen  Squire  Hazeldean  (proud  of  the  contents  of  his 
pocket-book,  and  his  knowledge  of  the  mercenary  nature  of  for- 
eign women)  set  off  on  his  visit  to  Beatrice  di  Negra.  Randal 
thus  left,  musing  lone  in  the  crowded  streets,  revolved  with  as- 
tute complacency  the  probable  results  of  Mr.  Hazeldean's  bluff 
negotiation;  and,  convincing  himself  that' one  of  his  vistas  to- 
ward Fortune  was  becoming  more  clear  and  clear,  he  turned, 
with  the  restless  activity  of  some  founder  of  destined  cities  in  a 
new  settlement,  to  lop  the  boughs  that  cumbered  and  obscured 
the  others.  For  truly,  like  a  man  in  a  vast  Columbian  forest,  open- 
ing entangled  space,  now  with  the  ready  axe,  now  with  the  patient 
train  that  kindles  the  slower  fire,  this  child  of  civilized  life  went 
toiling  on  against  surrounding  obstacles,  resolute  to  destroy,  but 
ever  scheming  to  construct.  And  now  Randal  has  reached  Levy's 
dainty  business-room,  and  is  buried  deep  in  discussion  how  to 
secure  to  himself,at  the  expense  of  his  patron,  the  representation  of 
Lansmere,  and  how  to  complete  the  contract  which  shall  re-annex 
to  his  forlorn  inheritance  some  fragments  of  its  ancient  wealth. 

Meanwhile,  Chance  fought  on  his  side  in  the  boudoir  of  May 
Fair.  The  Squire  had  found  the  Marchesa  at  home, — briefly  in- 
trcnluccd  himself  and  his  business, — told  her  she  was  mistaken 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE. 

if  she  had  fancied  she  had  taken  in  a  rich  heir  in  his  son,— that, 
thank  Heaven,  he  could  leave  his  estates  to  his  ploughman,  should 
he  so  please,  but  that  he  was  willing  to  do  things  liberally  ;  and 
whatever  she  thought  Frank  was  worth,  he  was  ready  to  pay  for. 

At  another  time  Beatrice  would  perhaps  have  laughed  at  this 
strange  address ;  or  she  might,  in  some  prouder  moment,  have 
fired  up  with  all  a  patrician's  resentment,  and  a  woman's  pride  ; 
but  now  her  spirit  was  crushed,  her  nerves  shattered  ;  the  sense 
of  her  degraded  position,  of  her  dependence  on  her  brother,  com- 
bined with  her  supreme  unhappiness  at  the'loss  of  those  dreams 
with  which  Leonard  had  for  a  while  charmed  her  wearied,  wak- 
ing life — all  came  upon  her.  She  listened,  pale  and  speechless  ; 
and  the  poor  Squire  thought  he  was  quietly  advancing  toward  a 
favorable  result,  when  she  suddenly  burst  into  a  passion  of  hys- 
terical tears  ;  and  just  at  that  moment  Frank  himself  entered  the 
room.  At  the  sight  of  his  father,  of  Beatrice's  grief,his  sense  of  filial 
duty  gave  way.  He  was  maddened  by  irritation — by  the  insult  of- 
fered to  the  woman  he  loved,  which  a  few  trembling  words  from  her 
explained  tohim ;  maddened  yet  more  by  thefear  that  the  insult  had 
lost  her  to  him — warm  words  ensued  between  son  and  father,  to 
closewiththeperemptory  command  and  vehement  threat  of  thelast. 

"  Come  away  this  instant,  sir  !  Come  with  me,  or  before  the 
day  is  over  I  strike  you  out  of  my  will ! " 

The  son's  answer  was  not  to  his  father ;  he  threw  himself  at 
Beatrice's  feet. 

"  Forgive  him — forgive  us  both — " 

"What !  you  prefer  that  stranger  to  me — to  the  inheritance  of 
Hazeldean  ! "  cried  the  Squire,  stamping  his  foot. 

"Leave  your  estates  to  whom  you  will ;  all  that  I  care  for  in 
life  is  here  ! " 

The  Squire  stood  still  a  moment  or  so,  gazing  on  his  son,  with 
a  strange  bewildered  marvel  at  the  strength  of  that  mystic  pas- 
sion, which  none  not  laboring  under  its  fearful  charm  can  com- 
prehend,— which  creates  the  sudden  idol  that  no  reason  justi- 
fies, and  sacrifices  to  its  fatal  shrine  alike  the  Past  and  the  Fu- 
ture. Not  trusting  himself  to  speak,  the  father  drew  his  hand 
across  his  eyes,  and  dashed  away  the  bitter  tear  that  sprang  from 
a  swelling  indignant  heart ;  then  he  uttered  an  inarticulate  sound, 
and.  finding  his  voice  gone,  moved  away  to  the  door,  and  left 
the  house. 

He  walked  through  the  streets,  bearing  his  head  very  erect,  as 
a  proud  man  does  when  deeply  wounded,  and  striving  to  shake 
off  some  affection  that  he  deems  a  weakness  ;  and  his  trembling, 
nervous  fingers  fumbled  at  the  button  of  his  coat,  trying  to 


204  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

tighten  the  garment  across  his  chest,  as  if  to  confirm  a  resolu- 
tion that  still  sought  to  struggle  out  of  the  revolting  heart. 

Thus  he  went  on,  and  the  reader,  perhaps,  will  wonder  whither, 
and  the  wonder  may  not  lessen  when  he  finds  the  Squire  come 
to  a  dead  pause  in  Grosvenor  Square,  and  at  the  portico  of  his 
"distant  brother's"  stately  house. 

At  the  Squire's  brief  inquiry  whether  Mr.  Egerton  was  at  home, 
the  porter  summoned  the  groom  of  the  chambers  ;  and  the  groom 
of  the  chambers,  seeing  a  stranger,  doubted  whether  his  master 
was  not  engaged,  but  would  take  in  the  stranger's  card  and  see. 

"Ay,  ay,"  muttered  the  Squire,  "this  is  true  relationship! — 
my  child  prefers  a  stranger  to  me ;  why  should  I  complain  that 
I  am  a  stranger  in  my  brother's  house?  Sir,"  added  the  Squire, 
aloud,  and  very  meekly — "  sir,  please  to  say  to  your  master  that 
I  am  William  Hazeldean." 

The  servant  bowed  low,  and  without  another  word  conducted 
the  visitor  into  the  statesman's  library,  and  announcing  Mr.  Ha- 
zeldean, closed  the  door. 

Audley'  was  seated  at  his  desk,  the  grim  iron  boxes  still  at  his 
feet,  but  they  were  now  closed  and  locked.  And  the  ex-minis- 
ter was  no  longer  looking  over  official  documents  ;  letters  spread 
open  before  him  of  far  different  nature  ;  in  his  hand  there  lay  a 
long  lock  of  fair  silken  hair,  on  which  his  eyes  were  fixed  sadly 
and  intently.  He  started  at  the  sound  of  his  visitor's  name,  and 
the  tread  of  the  Squire's  stalwart  footstep ;  and  mechanically 
thrust  into  his  bosom  the  relic  of  younger  and  warmer  years, 
keeping  his  hand  to  his  heart,  which  beat  loud  with  disease  un- 
der the  light  pressure  of  thai  golden  hair. 

The  two  brothers  stood  on  the  great  man's  lonely  hearth,  fac- 
ing each  other  in  silence,  and  noting  unconsciously  the  change 
made  in  each  during  the  long  years  in  which  they  had  never  met. 

The  Squire,  with  his  portly  size,  his  hardy  sun-burnt  cheeks, 
the  partial  baldness  of  his  unfurrowed,  open  forehead,  looked 
his  full  age — deep  into  middle  life.  Unmistakably  he  seemed 
the  paterfamilias — the  husband  and  the  father — the  man  of  social 
domestic  ties.  But  about  Audley  (really  some  few  years  junior  to 
the  Squire),  despite  the  lines  of  care  on  his  handsome  face,  there 
still  lingered  the  grace  of  youth.  Men  of  cities  retain  youth  longer 
than  those  of  the  country — a  remark  which  Buffon  has  not  failed 
to  make  and  account  for.  Neither  did  Egerton  betray  the  air  of 
the  married  man;  for  ineffable  solitariness  seemed  stamped  upon 
one  whose  private  life  had  long  been  so  stern  a  solitude.  No  ray 
from  the  focus  of  Home  played  round  that  reserved,  unjoyous, 
melancholy  brow.  In  a  word,  Audley  looked  still  the  man  for 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  205 

whom  some  young  female  heart  might  fondly  sigh  ;  and  not  the 
less  because  of  the  cold  eye  and  compressed  lip,  which  chal- 
lenged interest  even  while  seeming  to  repel  it. 

Audley  was  the  first  to  speak,  and  to  put  forth  the  right  hand, 
which  he  stole  slowly  from  its  place  at  his  breast,  on  which  the 
lock  of  hair  still  stirred  to  and  fro  at  the  heave  of  the  laboring 
heart.  "  William,"  said  he,  with  his  rich  deep  voice,  "  this  is  kind. 
You  are  come  to  see  me,  now  that  men  say  I  am  fallen.  The 
minister  you  censured  is  no  more;  and  you  see  again  the  brother." 

The  Squire  was  softened  at  once  by  this  address.  He  shook 
heartily  the  hand  tendered  to  him ;  and,  then,  turning  away  his 
head,  with  an  honest  conviction  that  Audley  ascribed  to  him  a 
credit  which  he  did  not  deserve,  he  said,  "  No,  no,  Audley ;  I  am 
more  selfish  than  you  think  me.  I  have  come — I  have  come  to 
ask  your  advice — no,  not  exactly  that — your  opinion.  But  you 
are  busy? — " 

"Sit  down,  William.  Old  days  were  coming  over  me  when 
you  entered  ;  days  earlier  still  return  now — days,  too,  that  leave 
no  shadow  when  their  suns  are  set." 

The  proud  man  seemed  to  think  he  had  said  too  much.  His 
practical  nature  rebuked  the  poetic  sentiment  and  phrase.  He 
recollected  himself,  and  added,  more  coldly,  "  You  would  ask 
my  opinion?  What  on?  Some  public  matter — some  parliamen- 
tary bill  that  may  affect  your  property?" 

"Am  I  such  a  mean  miser  as  that?  Property — property?  What 
does  property  matter,  when  a  man  is  struck  down  at  his  own  hearth? 
Property,  indeed!  But  you  have  no  child— happy  brother  !" 

"Ay,  ay  ;  as  you  say,  I  am  a  happy  man  ;  childless  !  Has  your 
son  displeased  you?  I  have  heard  him  well  spoken  of,  too." 

"  Don't  talk  of  him.  Whether  his  conduct  be  good  or  ill,  is 
my  affair,"  resumed  the  poor  father  with  a  testy  voice — jealous 
alike  of  Audley's  praise  or  blame  of  his-  rebellious  son.  Then 
he  rose  a  moment,  and  made  a  strong  gulp,  as  if  for  air  ;  and  lay- 
ing his  broad  brown  hand  on  his  brother's  shoulder,  said — 
"Randal  Leslie  tells  me  you  are  wise— a  consummate-man  of 
the  world.  No  doubt  you  are  so.  And  Parson  Dale  tells  me  that 
he  is  sure  you  have  warm  feelings — which  I  take  to  be  a  strange 
thing  for  one  who  has  lived  so  long  in  London,  and  has  no  wife 
and  no  child — a  widower,  and  a  Member  of  Parliament— for  a 
commercial  city,  too.  Never  smile  ;  it  is  no  smiling  matter  with 
me.  You  know  a  foreign  woman,  called  Negra,  or  Negro — not 
a  blackymoor  though,  by  any  means — at  least  on  the  outside  of 
her.  Is  she  such  a  woman  as  a  plain  country  gentleman 
like  his  son  to  marry — ay  or  no  ? " 


2o6  MY    NOVEL;    OR, 

"  No,  indeed,"  answered  Audley,  gravely;  "and"  I  trust  your 
son  will  commit  no  action  so  rash.  Shall  I  see  him  or  her  ? 
Speak,  my  dear  William.  What  would  you  have  me  do?" 

"Nothing;  you  have  said  enough,"  replied  the  Squire,  gloom  • 
ily;  and  his  head  sank  on  his  breast. 

Audley  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it  fraternally.  "  William," 
said  the  statesman,  "  we  have  been  long  estranged;  but  I  do  not 
forget  that  when  we  last  met,  at — at  Lord  Lansmere's  house,  and 
when  I  took  you  aside,  and  said,  'William,  if  I  lose  this  elec- 
tion, I  must  resign  all  chance  of  public  life;  my  affairs  are  em- 
barrassed— I  would  not  accept  money  from  you — I  would  seek 
a  profession,  and  you  can  help  me  there,'  you  divined  my  mean- 
ing, and  said — 'Take  orders;  the  Hazeldean  living  is  just  va- 
cant. I  will  get  some  one  to  hold  it  till  you  are  ordained.'  I 
do  not  forget  that.  Would  that  I  had  thought  earlier  of  so  se- 
rene an  escape  from  all  that  then  tormented  me.  My  lot  might 
have  been  far  happier." 

The  Squire  eyed  Audley  with  a  surprise  that  broke  forth  from 
his  more  absorbing  emotions.  "  Happier  !  Why  all  things  have 
prospered  with  you;  and  you  are  rich  enough  now;  and — you 
shake  your  head.  Brother,  is  it  possible  !  do  you  want  money? 
Pooh,  not  accept  money  from  your  mother's  son  ! — stuff."  Out 
came  the  Squire's  pocket-book.  Audley  put  it  gently  aside. 

"Nay,"  said  he,  "I  have  enough  for  myself;  but  since  you 
seek  and  speak  with  me  thus  affectionately,  I  will  ask  you  one 
favor.  Should  I  die  before  I  can  provide  for  my  wife's  kins- 
man, Randal  Leslie,  as  I  could  wish,  will  you  see  to  his  fortunes, 
so  far  as  you  can,  without  injury  lo  others — to  your  own  son? " 

"  My  son  !  He  is  provided  for.  He  has  the  Casino  estate — 
much  good  may  it  do  him.  You  have  touched  on  the  very  matter 
that  brought  me  here.  This  boy,  Randal  Leslie,  seems  a  praise- 
worthy lad,  and  has  Hazeldean  blood  in  his  veins.  You  have 
taken  him  up  because  he  is  connected  with  your  late  wife.  Why 
should  I  not  take  him  up,  too,  when  his  grandmother  was  a 
Hazeldean  ?  My  main  object  in  calling  was  to  ask  what  you 
mean  to  do  for  him;  for  if  you  do  not  mean  to  provide  for  him, 
why,  I  will,  as  in  duty  bound.  So  your  request  comes  at  the 
right  time;  I  think  of  altering  my  will.  I  can  put  him  into  the 
entail,  besides  a  handsome  legacy.  You  are  sure  he  is  a  good 
lad — and  it  will  please  you  too,  Audley  I" 

"  But  not  at  the  experise  of  your  son.  And  stay,  William— u 
as  to  this  foolish  marriage  with  Madame  di  Negra — who  told 
you  Frank  meant  to  take  such  a  step?" 

"He  told  me  himself;  but  it  is  no  matter.     Randal  and  I  both 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  207 

did  all  we  could  to  dissuade  him  ;  and  Randal  advised  me  to 
come  to  you." 

"  He  has  acted  generously,  then,  our  kinsman  Randal — I  am 
glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Audley,  his  brow  somewhat  clearing.  "  I 
have  no  influence  with  this  lady  ;  but,  at  least,  I  can  counsel 
her.  Do  not  consider  the  marriage  fixed  because  a  young  man 
desires  it.  Youth  is  ever  hot  and  rash." 

"  Your  youth  never  was,"  retorted  the  Squire,  bluntly.  "You 
married  well  enough,  I  am  sure.  Lwill  say  one  thing  for  you  : 
you  have  been,  to  my  taste,  a  bad  politician — beg  pardon — but 
you  were  always  a  gentleman.  You  would  never  have  disgraced 
your  family  and  married  a — " 

"  Hush  ! "  interrupted  Egerton,  gently.  "  Do  not  make  matters 
worse  than  they  are.  Madame  di  Negra  is  of  high  birth  in  her 
own  country;  and  if  scandal — " 

"Scandal!"  cried  the  Squire,  shrinking  and  turning  pale. 
"  Are  you  speaking  of  the  wife  of  a  Hazeldean  ?  At  least  she 
shall  never  sit  by  the  hearth  at  which  now  sits  his  mother;  and 
whatever  I  may  do  for  Frank,  her  children  shall  not  succeed. 
No  mongrel  cross-breed  shall  kennel  in  English  Hazeldean. 
Much  obliged  to  you,  Audley,  for  your  .good  feelings — glad  to 
have  seen  you  ;  and  hark  ye,  you  startled  me  by  that  shake  of 
your  head,  when  you  spoke  of  your  wealth  ;  and,  from  what  you 
say  about  Randal's  prospects,  I  guess  that  you  London  gentle- 
men are  not  so  thrifty  as  we  are.  You  shall  let  me  speak.  I 
say  again,  that  I  have  some  thousands  quite  at  your  service.  And 
though  you  are  not  a  Hazeldean,  still  you  are  my  mother's  son; 
and  now  that  I  am  about  to  alter  my  will,  I  can  as  well  scratch 
in  the  name  of  Egerton  as  that  of  Leslie.  Cheer  up,  cheer  up; 
you  are  younger  than  I  am,  and  you  have  no  child  ;  so  you  will 
live  longer  than  I  shall." 

"  My  dear  brother,"  answered  Audley,  "believe  me,  I  shall 
never  live  to  want  your  aid.  And  as  to  Leslie,  add  to  the  ^5000 
I  mean  to  give  him,  an  equal  sum  in  your  will,  and  I  shall  feel 
that  he  has  received  justice." 

Observing  that  the  Squire,  though  he  listened  attentively, 
made  no  ready  answer,  Audley  turned  the  subject  again  to  Frank; 
and  with  the  adroitness  of  a  man  of  the  world,  backed  by  a  cor- 
dial sympathy  in  his  brother's  distress,  he  pleaded  so  well  Frank's 
lame  cause,  urged  so  gently  the  wisdom  of  patience  and  delay, 
and  the  appeal  to  filial  feeling  rather  than  recourse  to  paternal 
threats,  that  the  Squire  grew  mollified  in  spite  of  himself,  and 
left  his  brother's  house  a  much  less  angry,  and  less  doleful  man. 

Mr.  Hazeldean  was  still  in  the  square,  when  he  came  upon 


208  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Randal  himself,  who  was  walking  with  a  dark -whiskered,  showy 
gentleman,  toward  Egerton's  house.  Randal  and  the  gentle- 
man exchanged  a  hasty  whisper,  and  the  former  then  exclaimed — 

"What,  Mr.  Hazeldean,  have  you  just  left  your  brother's  house? 
Is  it  possible?" 

"Why,  you  advised  me  to  go  there,  and  I  did.  I  scarcely 
knew  what  I  was  about.  I  am  very  glad  I  did  go.  Hang  poli- 
tics !  hang  the  landed  interest !  what  do  I  care  for  either  now?" 

"  Foiled  with  Madame  di  Negra  ?  "  asked  Randal,  drawing 
the  Squire  aside. 

"  Never  speak  of  her  again  ! "  cried  the  Squire,  fiercely.  "And 
as  to  that  ungrateful  boy — but  I  don't  mean  to  behave  harshly 
to  him; — he  shall  have  money  enough  to  keep  her  if  he  likes — 
keep  her  from  coming  to  me —  keep  him,  too,  from  counting  on 
my  death,  and  borrowing  post-obits  on  the  Casino — for  he'll  be 
doing  that  next — no,  I  hope  I  wrong  him  there;  I  have  been  too 
good  a  father  for  him  to  count  on  my  death  already.  After  all," 
continued  the  Squire,  beginning  to  relax,  "  as  Audley  says,  the 
marriage  is  not  yet  made  ;  and  if  the  woman  has  taken  him  in, 
he  is  young,  and  his  heart  is  warm.  Make  yourself  easy,  my  boy. 
I  don't  forget  how  kindly  you  took  his  part ;  a-nd  before  I  do 
anything  rash,  I'll  at  least  consult  with  his  poor  mother." 

Randal  gnawed  his  pale  lip,  and  a  momentary  cloud  of  disap- 
pointment passed  over  his  face. 

"  True,  sir,"  said  he  gently;  "true,  you  must  not  be  rash.  In- 
deed, I  was  thinking  of  you  and  poor  dear  Frank  at  the  very  mo- 
ment I  met  you.  It  occurred  to  me  whether  we  might  not  make 
Frank's  very  embarrassments  a  reason  to  induce  Madame  di 
Negra  to  refuse  him ;  and  I  was  on  my  way  to  Mr.  Egerton,  in 
order  to  ask  his  opinion,  in  company  with  the  gentleman  yonder." 

"Gentleman  yonder!  Why  should  he  thrust  his  long  nose 
into  my  family  affairs?  Who  the  devil  is  he?" 

"Don't  ask,  sir.     Pray  let  me  act." 

But  the  Squire  continued  to  eye  askant  the  dark-whiskered 
personage  thus  interposed  between  himself  and  his  son,  and  who 
waited  patiently  a  few  yards  in  the  rear,  carelessly  re-adjusting 
the  camellia  in  his  buttonhole. 

"He  looks  very  outlandish.  Is  he  a  foreigner  too?"  asked 
the  Squire  at  last. 

"  No,  not  exactly.  However,  he  knows  all  about  Frank's  em- 
barrassments ;  and — " 

"  Embarrassments  !  What,  the  debt  he  paid  for  that  woman? 
How  did  he  raise  the  money?" 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Randal,  "and  that  is  the  reason  I 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  2OQ 

asked  Baron  Levy  to  accompany  me  to  Egerton's,  that  he  might 
explain  in  private  what  I  have  no  reason — " 

"Baron  Levy!"  interrupted  the  Squire.  "Levy,  Levy — I 
have  heard  of  a  Levy  who  has  nearly  ruined  my  neighbor  Thorn- 
hill — a  money-lender.  Zounds  !  is  that  the  man  who  knows  my 
son's  affairs !  I'll  soon  learn,  sir." 

Randal  caught  hold  of  the  Squire's  arm.  "  Stop,  stop;  if  you 
really  insist  upon  learning  more  about  Frank's  debts,  you  must 
not  appeal  to  Baron  Levy  directly,  and  as  Frank's  father  ;  he 
will  not  answer  you.  But  if  I  present  you  to  him  as  a  mere  ac- 
quaintance of  mine,  and  turn  the  conversation,  as  if  carelessly, 
upon  Frank — why,  since,  in  the  London  world,  such  matters  are 
never  kept  secret,  except  from  the  parents  of  young  men — I  have 
no  doubt  he  will  talk  out  openly." 

"  Manage  it  as  you  will,"  said  the  Squire. 

Randal  took  Mr.  Hazeldean's  arm,  and  joined  Levy — "A 
friend  of  mine  from  the  country,  Baron."  Levy  bowed  profound- 
ly, and  the  three  walked  slowly  on.  'r 

"  By  the  bye,"  said  Randal,  pressing  significantly  upon  Levy's 
arm,  "my  friend  has  come  to  town  upon  the  somewhat  unpleasant 
business  of  settlihgthe  debts  of  another— ayoung  man  of  fashion — 
a  relation  of  his  own.  No  one,  sir  (turning  to  the  Squire),  could 
so  ably  assist  you  in  such  arrangements  as  could  Baron  Levy." 

BARON  (modestly,  and  with  a  moralizing  air). — I  have  some 
experience  in  such  matters,  and  I  hold  it  a  duty  to  assist  the 
parents  and  relations  of  young  men,  who,  from  want  of  reflec- 
tion, often  ruin  themselves  for  life.  I  hope  the  young  gentleman 
in  question  is  not  in  the  hands  of  the  Jews  ? 

RANDAL. — Christians  are  as  fond  of  good  interest  for  their 
money  as  ever  the  Jews  can  be. 

BARON. — Granted,  but  they  have  not  always  so  much  money 
to  lend.  The  first  thing,  sir  (addressing  the  Squire) — the  first 
thing  for  you  to  do  is  to  buy  up  such  of  your  relation's  bills  and 
notes  of  hand  as  may  be  in  the  market.  No  doubt  we  can  get 
them  a  bargain,  unless  the  young  man  is  heir  to  some  property 
that  may  soon  be  his  in  the  course  of  nature. 

RANDAL. — Not  soon — Heaven  forbid!  His  father  is  still  a 
young  man — a  fine  healthy  man  (leaning  heavily  on  Levy's 
arm);  and  as  to  the  post-obits — 

BARON. — Post-obits  on  sound  security  cost  more  to  buy  up, 
however  healthy  the  obstructing  relative  may  be. 

RANDAL. — I  should  hope  that  there  are  not  many  sons  who 
can  calculate,  in  cold  blood,  on  the  death  of  their  fathers. 

BARON. — Ha,  ha — he  is  young,  our  friend  Randal;  eh,  sir? 


210  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

RANDAL. — Well,  I  am  not  more  scrupulous  than  others,  I  dare 
say  ;  and  I  have  often  been  pinched  hard  for  money,  but  I 
would  go  barefoot  rather  than  give  security  upon  a  father's 
grave !  I  can  imagine  nothing  more  likely  to  destroy  natural 
feeling,  nor  to  instil  ingratitude  and  treachery  into  the  whole 
character,  than  to  press  the  hand  of  a  parent,  and  calculate 
when  that  hand  may  be  dust — than  to  sit  down  with  strangers 
and  reduce  his  life  to  the  measure  of  an  insurance  table — than 
to  feel  difficulties  gathering  round  one,  and  mutter  in  fashion- 
able slang,  "  But  it  will  be  well  if  the  governor  would  but  die." 
And  he  who  has  accustomed  himself  to- the  relief  of  post-obits 
must  gradually  harden,  his  mind  to  all  this. 

The  Squire  groaned  heavily ;  and  had  Randal  proceeded 
another  sentence  in  the  same  strain,  the  Squire  would  have  wept 
outright.  "  But,"  continued  Randal,  altering  the  tone  of  his 
voi-ce,  "I  think  that  our  young  friend,  of  whom  we  were  talking 
just  now,  Levy,  before  this  gentleman  joined  us,  has  the  same 
opinions  as  myself  on  this  head.  He  may  accept  bills,  but  he 
would  never  sign  post-obits." 

BARON  (who  with  the  apt  docility  of  a  managed  charger  to 
the  touch  of  a  rider's  hand,  had  comprehended  and  complied 
with  each  quick  sign  of  Randal's). — Pooh  the  young  fellow  we 
are  talking  of  ?  Nonsense.  He  would  not  be  so  foolish  as  to  give 
five  times  the  percentage  he  otherwise  might.  Not  sign  post- 
obits  !  Of  course  he  has  signed  oner-  VJ.I.R 

RANDAL. — Hist — you  mistake,  you  mistake. 

SQUIRE  (leaving  Randal's  arm  and  seizing  Levy's).— Were 
you  speaking  of  Frank  Hazeldean  ?;srf  jrfi  ri 

BARON. — My  dear  sir,  excuse  me ;  I  never  mention  names 
before  strangers. 

SQUIRE. — Strangers  again  !  Man,  I  am  the  boy's  father  ! 
Speak  out,  sir;  and  his  hand  closed  on  Levy's  arm  with  the 
strength  of  an  iron  vise.  ob  ol  ; 

BARON. — Gently  ;  you  hurt  me,  sir ;  but  I  excuse  your  feel- 
ings. Randal,  you  are  to  blamq  for  leading  me  into  this  indis- 
cretion ;  but  I  beg  to  assure  Mr.  Hazeldean,  that  though  his  son 
has  been  a  little  extravagant — 

RANDAL. — Owing  chiefly  to  the  arts  of  an  abandoned  woman. 

BARON. — Of  an  abandoned  woman  ;  still  he  has  shown  more 
prudence  than  you  would  suppose  ;  and  this  very  post-obit  is  a 
proof  of  it.  A  simple  act  of  that  kind  has  enabled  him  to  pay  off  bills 
that  were  running  on  till  they  would  have  ruined  even  the  Hazel- 
dean  estate ;  whereas  a  charge  on  the  reversion  of  the  Casino — 

SQUIRE, — He  has  done  it  then  ?    He  has  signed  a  post-obit  ? 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  211 

RANDAL — No,  no,  Levy  must  be  wrong. 

BARON. — My  dear  Leslie,  a  man  of  Mr.  Hazeldean's  time  of 
life  cannot  have  your  romantic  boyish  notions.  He  must  allow 
that  Frank  has  acted  in  this  like  a  lad  of  sense — very  good  head 
for  business  has  my  young  friend  Frank  !  And  the  best  thing 
Mr.  Hazeldean  can  do  is  quietly  to  buy  up  the  post-obit,  and 
thus  he  will  place  his  son  henceforth  in  his  power. 

SQUIRE. — Can  I  see  the  deed  with  my  own  eyes  ? 

BARON.— Certainly,  or  how  could  you  be  induced  to  buy  it  up. 
But  on  one  condition:  you  must  not  betray  me  to  your  son.  And, 
indeed,  take  my  advice,  and  don't  say  a  word  to  him  on  the  matter. 

SQUIRE. — Let  me  see  it,  let  me  see  it  with  my  own  eyes.  His 
mother  else  will  never  believe  it — nor  will  I. 

BARON.- — I  can  call  on  you  this  evening. 

SQUIRE. — Now,  now. 

BARON. — You  can  spare  me,  Randal ;  and  you  yourself  can 
open  to  Mr.  Egerton  the  other  affair  respecting  Lansmere.  No 
time  should  be  lost,  lest  L'Estrange  suggest  a  candidate. 

RANDAL  (whispering). — Never  mind  me.  This  is  more  im- 
portant. (Aloud.) — Go  with  Mr.  Hazeldean.  My  dear  kind  friend 
(to  the  Squire),  do  not  let  this  vex  you  so  much.  After  all,  it 
is  what  nine  young  men  out  of  ten  would  do  in  the  same  cir- 
cumstances. And  it  is  best  you  should  know  it;  you  may  save 
Frank  from  farther  ruin,  and  prevent,  perhaps,  this  very  marriage. 

"We  will  see,"  exclaimed  the  Squire,  hastily.  "Now,  Mr. 
Levy,  come." 

Levy  and  the  Squire  walked  on,  not  arm  in  arm,  but  side  by 
side.  Randal  proceeded  to  Egerton's  house. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Leslie,"  said  the  ex-minister.  "What 
is  it  I  have  heard  ?  My  nephew,  Frank  Hazeldean,  proposes  to 
marry  Madame  di  Negra  against  his  father's  consent?  How 
could  you  suffer  him  to  entertain  an  idea  so  wild  ?  And  how 
never  confide  it  to  me?" 

RANDAL. — My  dear  Mr.  Egerton,  it  is  only  to-day  that  I  was 
informed  of  Frank's  engagement.  I  have  already  seen  him,  and 
expostulated  in  vain  ;  till  then,  though  I  knew  your  nephew 
admired  Madame  di  Negra,  I  could  never  suppose  he  har- 
bored a  serious  intention. 

EGERTON. — I  must  believe  you,  Randal.  I  will  myself  see 
Madame  di  Negra,  though  I  have  no  power,  and  no  right,  to 
dictate  to  her.  I  have  but  little  time  for  all  such  private  busi- 
ness. The  dissolution  of  Parliament  is  so  close  at  hand. 

RANDAL  (looking  down). — It  is  on  that  subject  that  I  wished 
to  speak  .to  you,  sir.  You  think  of  standing  for  Lansmere. 


212  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Well,  Baron  Levy  has  suggested  to  me  an  idea  that  I  could  not, 
of  course,  even  countenance,  till  I  had  spoken  to  you.  It  seems 
that  he  has  some  acquaintance  with  the  state  of  parties  in  that 
borough.  He  is  informed  that  it  is  not  only  as  easy  to  bring  in 
two  of  our  side,  as  to  carry  one,  but  that  it  would  make  your 
election  still  more  safe  not  to  fight  single-handed  against  two 
opponents  ;  that  if,  canvassing  for  yourself  alone,  you  could  not 
carry  a  sufficient  number  of  plumper  votes ;  that  split  votes 
would  go  from  you  to  one  or  other  of  the  adversaries;  that,  in  a 
word,  it  is  necessary  to  pair  you  with  a  colleague.  If  it  really 
be  so,  you,  of  course,  will  learn  best  from  your  own  committee; 
but  should  they  concur  in  the  opinion  Baron  Levy  has  formed — 
do  I  presume  too  much  on  your  kindness — to  deem  it  possible 
that  you  might  allow  me  to  be  the  second  candidate  on  your  side  ? 
I  should  not  say  this,  but  that  Levy  told  me  you  had  some  wish  to 
see  me  in  Parliament,  amongst  the  supporters  of  your  policy. 
And  what  other  opportunity  can  occur  ?  Here  the  cost  of  car- 
rying two  would  be  scarcely  more  than  that  of  carrying  one. 
And  Levy  says,  the  party  would  subscribe  for  my  election  ; 
you,  of  course,  would  refuse  all  such  aid  for  your  own  ;  and, 
indeed,  with  your  great  name,  and  Lord  Lansmere's  interest, 
there  can  be  little  beyond  the  strict  legal  expenses. 

As  Ra'ndal  spoke  thus  at  length^  he  watched  anxiously  his 
patron's  reserved,  unrevealing  countenance. 

EGERTON  (dryly). — I  will  consider.  You  may  safely  leave 
in  my  hands  any  matter  connected  with  your  ambition  and 
advancement.  I  have  before  told  you  I  hold  it  a  duty  to  do 
all  in  my  power  for  the  kinsman  of  my  late  wife — for  one  whose 
career  I  undertook  to  forward — for  one  whom  honor  has  com- 
pelled to  share  in  my  own  political  reverses. 

Here  Egerton  rang  the  bell  for  his  hat  and  gloves,  and  walk- 
ing into  the  hall,  paused  at  the  street-door.  There  beckoning 
to  Randal,  he  said  slowly,  "You  seem  intimate  with  Baron 
Levy  ;  I  caution  you  against  him — a  dangerous  acquaintance, 
first  to  the  purse,  next  to  the  honor." 

RANDAL. — I  know  it,  sir ;  and  am.  surprised  myself  at  the 
acquaintance  that  has  grown  up  between  us.  Perhaps  its  cause 
is  in  his  respect  for  yourself. 

EGERTON. — Tut. 

RANDAL. — Whatever  it  be,  he  contrives  to  obtain  a  singular 
hold  over  one's  mind,  even  where,  as  in  my  case,  he  has  no 
evident  interest  to  serve.  How  is  this?  It  puzzles  me ! 

EGERTON. — For  his  interest,  it  is  most  secured  where  he  suf- 
fers it  to  be  least  evident ;  for  his  hold  over  the  mind,  it  is 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  213 

easily  accounted  for.  He  ever  appeals  to  two  temptations,  strong 
with  all  men — Avarice  and  Ambition.  Good-day. 

RANDAL. — Are  you  going  to  Madame  di  Negra's  ?  Shall  I 
not  accompany  you  ?  Perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  back  your  own 
remonstrances. 

EGERTON. — No,  I  shall  not  require  you. 

RANDAL. — I  trust  I  shall  hear  the  result  of  your  interview  ? 
I  feel  so  much  interested  in  it.  Poor  Frank! 

Audley  nodded.     "  Of  course,  of  course." 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

ON  entering  the  drawing-room  of  Madame  di  Negra,  the 
peculiar  charm  which  the  severe  Audley  Egerton  had  been  ever 
reputed  to  possess  with  women,  would  have  sensibly  struck  one 
who  had  hitherto  seen  him  chiefly  in  his  relations  with  men  in 
the  business-like  affairs  of  life.  It  was  a  charm  in  strong  con- 
trast to  the  ordinary  manners  of  those  who  are  emphatically 
called  "  Ladies'  men."  No  artificial  smile,  no  conventional 
hollow  blandness,  no  frivolous  gossip,  no  varnish  either  of 
ungenial  gaiety  or  affected  grace.  The  charm  was  in  a  sim- 
plicity that  unbent  more  into  kindness  than  it  did  with  men. 
Audley's  nature,  whatever  its  faults  and  defects,  was  essentially 
masculine  ;  and  it  was  the  sense  of  masculine  power  that  gave 
to  his  voice-a  music  when  addressing  the  gentler  sex,  and  to  his 
manner  a  sort  of  indulgent  tenderness  that  appeared  equally 
void  of  insincerity  and  presumption. 

Frank  had  been  gone  about  half  an  hour,  and  Madame  di  Negra 
was  scarcely  recovered  from  the  agitation  into  which  she  had  been 
thrown  by  the  affront  from  the  father  and  the  pleading  of  the  son. 

Egerton  took  her  passive  hand  cordially,  and  seated  himself 
by  her  side. 

"My  dear  Marchesa,"  said  he,  "are  we  then  likely  to  be  near 
connections?  And  can  you  seriously  contemplate  marriage  with 
my  young  nephew,  Frank  Hazeldean  ?  You  turn  away.  Ay,  my 
fair  friend,  there  are  but  two  inducements  to  a  free  woman  to 
sign  away  her  liberty  at  the  altar.  I  say  a  free  woman,  for  widows 
are  free,  and  girls  are  not.  These  inducements  are,  first,  worldly 
position  ;  secondly,  love.  Which  of  these  motives  can  urge 
Madame  di  Negra  to  marry  Mr.  Frank  Hazeldean?" 

"  There  are  other  motives  than  those  you  speak  of — the  need 
of  protection — the  sense  of  solitude — the  curse  of  dependence — 
gratitude  for  honorable  affection.  But  you  men  never  know 


women 


2  14  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  I  grant  that  you  are  right  there — we  never  do  ;  neither  do 
women  ever  know  men.  And  yet  each  sex  contrives  to  dupe 
and  to  fool  the  other  !  Listen  to  me.  I  have  little  acquain- 
tance with  my  nephew,  but  I  allow  he  is  a  handsome  young 
gentleman,  with  whom  a  handsome  young  lady  in  her  teens 
might  fall  in  love  in  a  ball-room.  But  you,  who  have  known 
the' higher  order  of  our  species — you  who  have  received  the 
homage  of  men,  whose  thoughts  and  mind  leave  the  small-talk 
of  drawing-room  triflers  so 'poor  and  bald — you  cannot  look  me 
in  the  face  and  say  that  it  is  any  passion  resembling  love  which 
you  feel  for  my  nephew.  And  as  to  position,  it  is  right  that  I 
should  inform  you  if  he  marry  you  he  will  have  none.  He 
may  risk  his  inheritance.  You  will  receive  no  countenance  from 
his  parents.  You  will  be  poor,  but  not  free.  You  will  not  gain 
the  independence  you  seek  for.  The  sight  of  a  vacant,  discon- 
tented face  in  that  opposite  chair  will  be  worse  than  solitude. 
And  as  to  grateful  affection,"  added  the  man  of  the  world,  "it 
is  a  polite  synonym  for  tranquil  indifference." 

"Mr.  Egerton,"  said  Beatrice,  "people  say  you  are  made  of 
bronze.  Did  you  ever  feel  the  want  of  a  home?  " 

"I  answer  you  frankly," replied  the  statesman;  "if  I  had  not 
felt  it,  do  you  think  I  should  have  been,  and  that  I  should  be  to 
the  last,  the  joyless  drudge  of  public  life?  Bronze  though  you 
may  call  my  nature,  it  would  have  melted  away  long  since  like  wax 
in  the  fire,  if  I  had  sat  idly  down  and  dreamed  of  a  home!  " 

"But  we  women;"  answered  Beatrice,  with  pathos,  "have  no 
public  life,  and  we  do  idly  sit  down  and  dream.  Oh,"  she  con- 
tinued after  a  short  pause,  and  clasping  her  hands  firmly  to- 
gether," you  think  me  worldly,  grasping,  ambitious;  how  different 
myfatehad  been, had  I  known  a  home! — known  one  whom  I  could 
love  and  venerate — known  one  whose  smiles  would  have  devel- 
oped the  good  that  was  once  within  me,  and  the  fear  of  whose 
rebuking  or  sorrowful  eye  would  have  corrected  what  is  evil." 

"Yet,"  answered  Audley,  "nearly  all  women  in  the  great 
world  have  had  that  choice  once  in  their  lives,  and  nearly  all 
have  thrown  it  away.  How  few  of  your  rank  really  think  of 
home  when  they  marry — how  few  ask  to  venerate  as  well  as  to 
love—and  how  many,  of  every  rank,  when  the  home  has  been 
really  gained,  have  wilfully  lost  its  shelter ;  some  in  neglectful 
weariness — some  from  a  momentary  doubt,  distrust,  caprice— 
a  wild  fancy — a  passionate  fit — a  trifle — a  straw— a  dream  ! 
True,  you  women  are  ever  dreamers.  Common  sense,  common 
earth,  is  above  or  below  your  comprehension." 

Both  now  are  silent.  Audley  first  roused  himself  with  a  quick, 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  215 

writhing  movement.  "  We  two,"  said  he,  smiling  half  sadly, 
half  cynically — "  we  two  must  no  longer  waste  time  in  talking 
sentiment.  We  know  both  too  well  what  life,  as  it  has  been 
made  for  us  by  our  faults  or  our  misfortunes,  truly  is.  And  once 
again,  I  entreat  you  to  pause  before  you  yield  to  the  foolish  suit 
of  my  foolish  nephew.  Rely  on  it,  you  will  either  command  a 
higher  offer  for  your  prudence  to  accept ;  or,  if  you  needs  must 
sacrifice  rank  and  fortune,  you,  with  your  beauty  and  your  ro- 
mantic heart,  will  see  one  who,  at  least  for  a  fair  holiday  season 
(if  human  love  allows  no  more),  can  repay  you  for  the  sacri- 
fice. Frank  Hazeldean  never  can." 

Beatrice  turned  away  to  conceal  the  tears  that  rushed  to  her  eyes. 

"Think  over  this  well,"  said  Audley,  in  the  softest  tones  of 
his  mellow  voice.  "  Do  you  remember  that  when  you  first  came 
to  England,  I  told  you  that  neither  wedlock  nor  love  had  any 
lures  for  me  ?  We  grew  friends  upon  that  rude  avowal ;  and 
therefore  I  now  speak  to  you  like  some  sage  of  old,  wise  be- 
cause standing  apart  and  aloof  from  all  the  affections  and  ties 
that  might  mislead  our  wisdom.  Nothing  but  real  love  (how 
rare  it  is  !  has  one  human  heart  in  a  million  ever  known  it  ?) — 
nothing  but  real  love  can  repay  us  for  the  loss  of  freedom — the 
cares  and  fears  of  poverty — the  cold  pity  of  the  world  that  we  both 
despise  and  respect.  And  all  these,  and  much  more,  follow  the 
step  you  would  inconsiderately  take — an  imprudent  marriage!" 
-  "Audley  Egerton,"  said  Beatrice,  lifting  her  dark,  moistened 
eyes,  "you  grant  that  real  love  does  compensate  for  an  impru- 
dent marriage.  You  speak  as  if  you  had  known  such  love — you! 
Can  it  be  possible?" 

"  Real  love — I  thought  that  I  knew  it  once.  Looking  back  with 
remorse,  I  should  doubt  it  now  but  for  one  curse,  that  only  real 
love,  when  lost,  has  the  power  to  leave  evermore  behind  it." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  A  void  here,"  answered  Egerton,  striking  his  heart.  "  Deso- 
lation ! — Adieu !" 

He  rose  and  left  the  room. 

"  Is  it?"  murmured  Egerton,  as  he  pursued  his  way  through 
the  streets — "is  it  that,  as  we  approach  death,  all  the  first  fair 
feelings  of  young  life  come  back  to  us  mysteriously  ?  Thus  I  have 
heard,  or  read,  that  in  some  country  of  old,  children  scattering 
flowers  preceded  a  funeral  bier." 

CHAPTER  XV. 

AND  so  Leonard  -stood  beside  his  friend's  mortal  clay,  and 
watched,  in  the  ineffable  smile  of  death,  the  last  gleam  which 


2l6  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

the  soul  had  left  there  ;  and  so,  after  a  time,  he  crept  back  to 
the  adjoining  room  with  a  step  as  noiseless  as  if  he  had  feared 
to  disturb  the  dead.  Wearied  as  he  was  with  watching,  he  had 
no  thought  of  sleep.  He  sat  himself  down  by  the  little  table, 
and  leaned  his  face  on  his  hand,  musing  sorrowfully.  Thus 
time  passed.  He  heard  the  clock  from  below  strike  the  hours. 
In  the  house  of  death  the  sound  of  a  clock  becomes  so  solemn. 
The- soul  that  we  miss  has  gone  so  far  beyond  the  reach  of 
time  !  A  cold,  superstitious  awe  gradually  stole  over  the  young 
man.  He  shivered,  and  lifted  his  eyes  with  a  start,  half-scorn- 
ful, half-defying.  The  moon  was  gone — the  gray  comfortless 
dawn  gleamed  through  the  casement,  and  carried  its  raw,  chill- 
ing light  through  the  open  doorway  into  the  death-room.  And 
there,  near  the  extinguished  fire,  Leonard  saw  the  solitary 
woman,  weeping  low,  and  watching  still.  He  returned  to  say  a 
word  of  comfort — she  pressed  his  hand,  but  waved  him  away. 
He  understood.  She  did  not  wish  for  other  comfort  than  her 
quiet  relief  of  tears.  Again,  he  returned  to  his  own  chamber, 
and  his  eye  this  time  fell  upon  the  papers  which  he  had  hitherto 
disregarded.  What  made  his  heart  stand  still,  and  the  blood 
then  rush  so  quickly  through  his  veins?  Why  did  he  seize  upon 
those  papers  with  so  tremulous  a  hand — then  lay  them  down — 
pause,  as  if  to  nerve  himself — and  look  so  eagerly  again  ?  He 
recognized  the  .  handwriting — those  fair,  clear  characters — so 
peculiar  in  their  woman-like  delicacy  and  grace — the  same  as 
in  the  wild,  pathetic  poems,  the  sight  of  which  had  made  an 
era  in  his  boyhood.  From  these  pages  the  image  of  the  myste- 
rious Nora  rose  once  more  before  him.  He  felt  that  he  was 
with  a  mother.  He  went  back,  and  closed  the  door  gently,  as 
if  with  a  jealous  piety,  to  exclude  each  ruder  shadow  from  the 
world  of  spirits,  and  be  alone  with  that  mournful  ghost.  For  a 
thought  written  in  warm,  sunny  life,  and  then  suddenly  rising 
up  to:  us,  when  the  .hand  that  traced,  and  the  heart  that  cher- 
ished it,  are  dust — is  verily  as  a  ghost.  It  is  a  likeness  struck 
off  of  the  fond  human  being,  and  surviving  it.  Far  more  truth- 
ful than  bust  or  portrait,  it  bids  us  see  the  tear  flow,  and  the 
pulse  beat.  What  ghost  can  the  church-yard  yield  to  us  like 
the  writing  of  the  dead  ? 

The  bulk  of  the  papers  had  been  once  lightly  sewn  to  each 
other — they  had  come  undone,  perhaps  in  Burley's  rude  hands; 
but  their  order  was  easily  apparent.  Leonard  soon  saw  that 
they  formed  a  kind  of  journal — not,  indeed,  a  regular  diary,  nor 
always  relating  to  the  things  of  the  day.  There  were  gaps  in 
time — no  attempt  at  successive  narrative.  Sometimes,  instead 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  217 

of  prose,  a  hasty  burst  of  verse,  gushing  evidently  from  the  heart — 
sometimes  all  narrative  was  left  untold,  and  yet,  as  it  were,  epi- 
tomized by  a  single  burning  line — a  single  exclamation — of  woe 
or  joy!  Everywhere  you  saw  records  of  a  nature  exquisitely 
susceptible;  and,  where  genius  appeared,  it  was  so  artless,  that 
you  did  not  call  it  genius,  but  emotion.  At  the  onset  the  writer 
did  not  speak  of  herself  in  the  first  person.  The  MS.  opened 
with  descriptions  and  short  dialogues,  carried  on  by  persons,  to 
whose  names  only  initial  letters  were  assigned,  all  written  in  a 
style  of  simple  innocent  freshness,  and  breathing  of  purity  and 
happiness,  like  a  dawn  of  spring.  Two  young  persons,  humbly 
born — a  youth  and  a  girl — the  last  still  in  childhood,  each  chiefly 
self-taught,  are  wandering  on  Sabbath  evenings  among  green 
dewy  fields  near  the  busy  town,  in  which  labor  awhile  is  still. 
Few  words  pass  between  them.  You  see  at  once,  though  the 
writer  does  not  mean  to  convey  it,  how  far  beyond  the  scope  of 
her  male  companion  flies  the  heavenward  imagination  of  the 
girl.  It  is  he  who  questions — it  is  she  who  answers;  and  soon 
there  steals  upon  you,  as  you  read,  the  conviction  that  the  youth 
loves  the  girl,  and  loves  in  vain.  All  in  this  writing,  though 
terse,  is  so  truthful!  Leonard,  in  the  youth,  already  recognizes 
the  rude  imperfect  scholar — the  village  bard — Mark  Fairfield. 
Then,  there  is  a  gap  in  description — but  thereare  short  weighty 
sentences,  which  show  deepening  thought,  increasing  years,  in 
the  writer.  And  though  the  innocence  remains,  the  happiness 
begins  to  be  less  vivid  on  the  page. 

Now,  insensibly,  Leonard  finds  that  there  is  a  new  phase  in 
the  writer's  existence.  Scenes,  no  longer  of  humble  work-day 
rural  life,  surround  her;  and  a  fairer  and  more  dazzling  image 
succeeds  to  the  companion  of  the  Sabbath  eves.  This  image 
Nora  evidently  loves  to  paint — it  is  akin  to  her  own  genius-— it 
captivates  her  fancy — it  is  an  image  that  she  (inborn  artist,  and 
conscious  of  her  art)  feels  to  belong  to  a  brighter  and  higher 
school  of  the  Beautiful.  And  yet  the  virgin's  heart  is  not  awak- 
ened—no trace  of  the  heart  yet  there!  The  new  image  thus  in- 
troduced is  one  of  her  own  years,  perhaps;  nay,  it  may  be  younger 
still,  for  it  is  a  boy  that  is  described,  with  his  profuse  fair  curls, 
and  eyes  new  to  grief,  and  confronting  the  sun  as  a  young  eagle's; 
with  veins  so  full  of  the  wine  of  life,  that  they  overflow  into  every 
joyous  whim;  with  nerves  quivering,  alive  to  the  desire  of  glory; 
with  the  frank,  generous  nature,  rash  in  its  laughing  scorn  of 
the  world,  which  it  has  not  tried.  Who  was  this  boy,  it  perplexed 
Leonard;  he  feared  to  guess.  Soon,  less  told  than  implied,  you 
saw  that  this  companionship,  however  it  chanced,  brings  fear 


2l8  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

and  pain  oh  the  writer.  Again,  as  before,  with  Mark  Fairfield, 
there  is  love  on  the  one  side  and  not  on  the  other — with  her  there 
is  affectionate,  almost  sisterly,  interest,  admiration,  gratitude — 
but  a  something  of  pride  or  of  terror  that  keeps  back  love. 

Here  Leonard's  interest  grew  intense.  There  were  touches  by 
which  conjecture  grew  certainty;  and  he  recognized,  through  the 
lapse  of  years,  the  boy-lover  in  his  own  generous  benefactor! 

Fragments  of  dialogue  now  began  to  reveal  the  suit  of  an  ar- 
dent, impassioned  nature,  and  the  simple  wonder  and  strange 
alarm  of  a  listener  who  pitied,  but  could  not  sympathize.  Some 
great  worldly  distinction  of  rank  between  the  two  became  visi- 
ble— that  distinction  seemed  to  arm  the  virtue  and  steel  the  affec- 
tions of  the  lowlier  born.  Then  a  few  sentences,  half -blotted  out 
with  tears,  told  of  wounded  and  humbled  feelings — some  one  in- 
vested with  authority,  as  if  the  suitor's  parent,  had  interfered,ques- 
tioned,  reproached,  counselled.  And  it  was  evident  that  the  suit 
was  not  one  that  dishonored,  itwooed  to  flight,but  still  tomarriage. 

And  now  these  sentences  grew  briefer  still,  as  with  the  deci- 
sion of  a  strong  resolve.  And  to  these  there  followed  a  passage 
so  exquisite,  that  Leonard  wept  unconsciously  as  he  read..  It  was 
the  description  of  a  visit  spent  at  home  previous  to  some  sorrow- 
ful departure.  He  caught  the  glimpse  of  a  proud  and  vain,  but  a 
tender  wistful  mother — of  a  father's  fond  but  less  thoughtful  love. 
And  then  came  a  quiet  soothing  scene  between  the  girl  and  her 
first  village  lover,  ending  thus — "  So  she  put  M.'s  hand  into  hei 
sister's, and  said: 'Youlovedmethroughthefancy,loveherwith  the 
heart,'  and  left  them  comprehending  each  other,  and  betrothed." 

Leonard  sighed.  He  understood  now  how  Mark  Fairfield  saw, 
in  the  homely  features  of  his  unlettered  wife,  the  reflection  of 
the  sister's  soul  and  face. 

A  few  words  told  the  final  parting — words  that  were  a  picture. 
The  long  friendless  highway,  stretching  on — on — toward  the  re- 
morseless city.  And  the  doors  of  borne  opening  on  the  desolate 
thoroughfare — and  the  old  pollard  tree  beside  the  threshold,  with 
the  ravens  wheeling  round  it  and  calling  to  their  young.  He  too 
had  watched  that  threshold  from  the  same  desolate  thoroughfare. 
He  too  had  heard  the  cry  of  the  ravens.  Then  came  some  pages 
covered  with  snatches  of  melancholy  verse,  or  some  reflections 
of  dreamy  gloom. 

The  writer  was  in  London,  in  the  house  of  some  high-born 
patroness — that  friendless  shadow  of.  a  friend  which  the  jargon 
of  society  calls  "  companion."  And  she  was  looking  on  the 
bright  storm  of  the  world  as  through  prison  bars.  Poor  bird, 
•afar  from  the  greenwood,  she  had  need  of  song — it  was  her  las* 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  2 19 

link  with  freedom  and  nature.  The  patroness  seems  to  share  in 
hen  apprehensions  of  the  boy  suitor,  whose  wild  rash  prayers  the 
fugitive  had  resisted  ;  but  to  fear  lest  the  suitor  should  be  de- 
graded, not  the  one  whom  he  pursues — fear  an  alliance  ill-suited 
to  a  high-born  heir.  And  this'  kind  of  fear  stings  the  writer's 
pride,  and  she  grows  harsh  in  her  judgment  of  him  who  thus 
causes  but  pain  where  he  proffers  love.  Then  there  is  a  refer- 
ence to  some  applicant  for  her  hand,  who  is  pressed  upon  her 
choice.  And  she  is  told  that  it  is  her  duty  so  to!choose,  and  thus 
deliver  a  noble  family  from  a  dread  that  endures  so  long  as  her 
hand  is  free.  And  of  this  fear,  and  of  this  applicant,  there  breaks 
out  a  petulant  yet  .pathetic  scorn.  After  this  the  'narrative,  to 
judge  by  the  dates,  pauses  for  days  and  weeks,  as  if  the  writer 
had  grown  weary  and  listless — suddenly  to  re-open  in  a  new  strain, 
eloquent  with  hopes  and  with  fears  never  known  before.  The  first 
person  was  abruptly  assumed- — it  was  the  living  "I  "  that  now 
breathed  and  moved  along  the  lines.  How  was  this  ?  The  woman 
was  no  more  a  shadow  and  a  secret  unknown  to  herself;  she  had 
assumed  the  intense  and  vivid  sense  of  individual  being  ;  and 
love  spoke,  loud  in  the  awakened  human  heart. 

A  personage  not  seen  till  then  appeared  on  the  page.  And  ever 
afterward  this  personage  was  only,  named  as  "He"  as  if  the  one 
and  sole  representative  of  all  the  myriads  that  walk  the  earth. 
The  first  notice  of  this  prominent  character  on  the  scene  showed 
the  restless  agitated  effect  produced  on  the  writer's  imagination. 
He  was  invested  with  a  romance  probably  not  his  own.  He 
was  described  in  contrast  to  the  brilliant  boy  whose  suit  she  had 
feared,  pitied,  andnow  sought  to  shun — descrfbedwithagraveand 
serious,  but  gentle  mien — a  voice  that  imposed  respect — -an  eye 
and  lip  that  showed  collected  dignity  of  will.  Alas!  the  writer 
betrayed  herself,  and  the  charm  was  in  the  contrast,  not  to  the 
character  of  the  earlier  lover,  but  her  own.  And  now,  leaving 
Leonard  to  explore  and  guess  his  way  through  the  gaps  and  chasms 
of  the  narrative,  it  is  time  to  place  before  the  reader  what  the  nar- 
rative alone  will  not  reveal  to  Leonard. 

. 

: 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

NORA  AVENEL  had  fled  from  the  boyish  love  of  Harley  L'Es- 
trange — recommended  by  Lady  Lansmere  to  a  valetudinarian 
relative  of  her  own,  Lady  Jane  Horton,  as  a  companion.  But 
Lady  Lansmere  could  not  believe  it  possible  that  the  low-born 
girl  could  long  sustain  her  generous  pride,  and  reject  the  ardent 
suit  of  one  who  could  offer  to  her  the  prospective  coronet  of  a 


220  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

countess.  She  continually  urged  upon  Lady  Jane  the  necessity 
of  marrying  Nora  to  some  one  of  rank  less  disproportioned  to 
her  own,  and  empowered  that  lady  to  assure  any  such  wooer  of 
a  dowry  far  beyond  Nora's  station.  Lady  Jane  looked  around, 
and  saw,  in  the  outskirts  of  her  limited  socialring,  a  young  solici- 
tor, a  peer's  natural,  son,  who  was  on  terms  of  more  than  business- 
like intimacy  with  the  fashionable  clients  whose  distresses  made 
the  origin  of  his  wealth.  The  young  man  was  handsome,  well- 
dressed,  and  bland.  Lady  Jane  invited  him  to  her  house;  and, 
seeing  him  struck  with  the  rare  loveliness  of  Nora,  whispered 
the  hint  of  the  dower.  The  fashionable  solicitor,  who  afterward 
ripened  into  Baron  Levy,  did  not  need  that  hint;  for,  though 
then  poor,  he  relied  on  himself  for  fortune,  and  unlike  Randal, 
he  had  warm  blood  in  his  veins.  But  Lady  Jane's  suggestions 
made  him  sanguine  of  success;  and  when  he  formally  proposed, 
and  was  as  formally  refused,  his  self-love  was  bitterly  wounded. 
Vanity  in  Levy  was  a  powerful  passion;  and  with  the  vain,  hatred 
is  strong,  revenge  is  rankling.  Levy  retired,  concealing  his  rage; 
nor  did  he  himself  know  how  vindictive  that  rage,  when  it  cooled 
into  malignancy,  could  become,  until  the  arch-fiend  OPPORTU- 
NITY prompted  its  indulgence  and  suggested  its  design. 

Lady  Jane  was  at  first  very  angry  with  Nora  for  the  rejection 
of  a  suitor  whom  she  had  presented  as  eligible.  But  the  pathetic 
grace  of  this  wonderful  girl  had  crept  into  her  heart,  and  softened 
it  even  against  family  prejudice;  and  she  gradually  owned  to  her- 
self that  Nora  was  worthy  of  some  one  better  than  Mr.  Levy. 

Now,  Harley  had  ever  believed  that  Nora  returned  his  love, 
and  that  nothing  but  her  own  sense  of  gratitude  to  his  parents—- 
her own  instincts  of  delicacy,  made  her  deaf  to  his  prayers.' 
To  do  him  justice,  wild  and  headstrong  as  he  then  was,  his  suit 
would  have  ceased  at  once,  had  he  really  deemed  it  persecution. 
Nor  was  his  error  unnatural;  for  his  conversation,  till  it  had  re- 
vealed his  own  heart,  could  not  fail  to  have  dazzled  and  delighted 
the  child  of  genius;  and  her  frank  eyes  would  have  shown  the 
delight.  How,  at  his  age,  could  he  see  the  distinction  between 
the  Poetess  and  the  Woman  ?  The  poetess  was  charmed  with 
rare  promise  in  a  soul  of  which  the  very  errors  were  the  extrav- 
agances of  richness  and  beauty.  But  the  woman — no!  the 
woman  required  some  nature  not  yet  developed,  and  all  at  tur- 
bulent, if  brilliant,  strife  with,  its  own  noble  elements, — but  a 
nature  formed  and  full-grown.  Harley  was  a  boy,  and  Nora 
was  one  of  those  women  who  must  find  or  fancy  an  Ideal  that 
commands  and  almost  awes  them  into  love. 
•Harley  discovered,  not  without  difficulty,  Nora's  new  resi- 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  221 

dence.  He  presented  himself  at  Lady  Jane's,  and  she,  with  grave 
rebuke,  forbade  him  the  house.  He  found 'it  impossible  to  ob- 
tain an  interview  with  Nora.',  He  wrote,  but  he  felt  sure  that 
his  letters  never  reached  her,  since  they  were  unanswered.  His 
young  heart  swelled  with  rage.  He  dropped  threats,  which 
alarmed  all  the  fears  of  Lady  Lansmerej  and  even  the  prudent 
apprehensions  of  his  friend,  Audley  Egerton.  .At  the  request 
of  the  mother,  and  equally  at  the  wish  of  the  son,  Audley  con- 
sented to  visit  at  Lady  Jane's  and  make  acquaintance  with  Nora. 

"  I  have  such  confidence  in  you,"  said  Lady  Lansmere,  "that 
if  you  once  know  the  girl,  your  advice  will  be  sure  to  have 
weight «with  her.— You  will  show  her  how  wicked  it  would  be 
to  let  Harley  break  our  hearts  and  degrade  his  station." 

"I  have  such  confidence  in  you,"  said  young  Harley,  "that  if 
you  once  know  my  Nora,  you  will  no  longer  side  with  my  mother. 
You  will  recognize  the  nobility  which  nature  only  can  create — 
you  will  own  that  Nora  is  worthy  a  rank  more  lofty  than  mine; 
and  my  mother  so  believes  in  your  wisdom,  that,  if  you  plead 
in  my  cause,  you  will  convince  even  her." 

Audley  listened  to  both  with  intelligent,  half-incredulous 
smile;  and  wholly  of  the  same  opinion  as  Lady  Lansmere,  and 
sincerely  anxious  to  save  Harley  from  an  indiscretion  that  his 
own  notions  led  him  to  regard  as  fatal,  he  resolved  to  examine 
this  boasted  pearl,  and  to  find  out  its  flaws.  Audley  Egerton 
was  then  in  the  prime  of  his  earnest,  resolute,  ambitious  youth. 
The  stateliness  of  his  natural  manners  had  then  a  suavity  and 
polish  which,  even  in  later  and  busier  life,  it  never  wholly  lost; 
since,  in  spite  of  the  briefer  words  and  the  colder  looks  by 
which  care  and  power  mark  the  official  man,  the  Minister  had 
ever  enjoyed  that  personal  popularity  which  the  indefinable, 
external  something,  that  wins  and  pleases,  can  alone  confer. 
But  he  had  even  then,  as  ever,  that  felicitous  reserve  which 
Rochefoucauld  has  called  the  "  mystery  of  the  body" — that 
thin  yet  guardian  veil  which  reveals  but  the  strong  outlines  of 
character,  and  excites  so  much  of  interest  by  provoking  so  much 
of  conjecture.  To  the  man  who  is  born  with  this  reserve,  which 
is  wholly  distant  from  shyness,  the  world  gives  credit  for  qual- 
ities and  talents  beyond  those  that  it  perceives;  and  such  char- 
acters are  attractive  to  others  in  proportion  as  these  last  are 
gifted  with  the  imagination  which  loves  to  divine  the  unknown. 

At  the  first  interview,  the  impression  which  this  man  pro- 
duced upon  Nora  Avenel  was  profound  and  strange.  She  had 
heard  of  him  before  as  the  one  whom  Harley  most  loved  and 
looked  up  to ;  and  she  recognized  at  once  in  his  mien,  his  as- 


222  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

pect,  his  words,  the  very  tone  of  his  deep  tranquil  voice,  the 
power:  to  which  woman,  whatever  her  intelle-ct,  never  attains; 
and  to  which,  therefore,  she  imputes  a  nobility  not  always 
genuine — viz.,  the  power  of  deliberate  purpose,  and  self-collected, 
serene  ambition..  The  effect  that  Nora  produced  on  Egerton 
was  not  less  suddeh.  He  was  startled  by  a  beauty  of  face  and 
form  that  belonged  to  that  rarest  order,  which  we  never  behold 
but  once  or  twice  in  our  .'lives.  He  was  yet  more  amazed  to 
discover  that  the  aristocracy  of  mind  could  bestow  a  grace  that 
no  aristocracy  of  birth  could  surpass.  He  was  prepared  for  a 
simple,  blushing  village  girl,  and  involuntarily  he  bowed  low  his 
proud  front  at  the  first  sight  of  that  delicate  bloom,  and  that 
exquisite  gentleness  which  is  woman's  surest  passport  to  the 
respect  of  man.  Neither  irt  the  first,  nor  the  second,  nor  the 
third  interview,  nor,  indeed,  till  after  many  interviews,  could  he 
summon  up  courage  to  commence  his  missio.n,  and  allude  to 
Harley.  And  when  he;  did  so  at  last,  his  words  faltered.  But 
Nora's  words  were  clear  to  him.  He  saw  that  Harley  was  not 
loved;  and  a  joy,  which  he  felt  as  guilty,  darted  through  his 
whole  frame;  From  that  interview  Andley  returned  home, 
greatly  agitated,  and  at  war  with  himself.  Often,  in  the  course 
of  this  story,  has  it  been  hinted  that,  under  all  Bgerton's  ex- 
ternal coldness,  and  measured  self-control,  lay  a  nature  capable 
of  strong  and  stubborn  passions.  Those  passions  broke  forth 
then.  He  felt  that  love  had  already  entered  into  the  heart, 
which  the  trust  :of  his  friend  should  have  sufficed  to  guard. 

"  I  will  go  there  no  more,"  said  he,  abruptly,  to  Harley. 

"  But  why  ?  " 

"  The  girl  does  not  love  you.     Cease,  then,  to  think  of  her." 

Harley  disbelieved  him,  and  grew  indignant.  But  Audley 
had  every  worldly  motive  to  assist  his  sense  of  honor.  He  was 
poor,  though  with  the  reputation  of  wealth — deeply  involved  in 
debt — resolved  to  rise  in  life— tenacious  of  his  position  in  the 
world's  esteem.  Against  a  host  of  counteracting  influences, 
love  fought  single-handed.  Audley's  was  a  strong  nature;  but, 
alas!  in  strong  natures,  if  resistance  to  temptation  is  of  granite, 
so  the  passions  that  they  admit  are  of  fire. 

Trite  is  the  remark,  that  the  destinies  of  our  lives  often  date 
from  the  impulses  of  unguarded  moments.  It  was  so  with  this 
man,  to  an  ordinary  eye  so  cautious  and  so  deliberate.,  Harley 
one  day  came  to  him  in  great  grief;  he  had  heard  that  Nora 
was  ill;  he  implored  Audley  to  go  once  more  and  ascertain. 
Audley  went.  Lady  Jane  Horton,  who  was  suffering  under  a 
disease  which  not  long  afterward  proved  fata!,  was  too  ill  to 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  223 

receive  him.  He  was  shown  into  the  room  set  apart  as  Nora's. 
While  waiting  for  her  entrance,  he  turned  mechanically  the 
leaves  of  an  album  which  Nora,  suddenly  summoned  away  to 
attend  Lady  Jane,  had  left  behind  her  on  the  table.  He  saw 
the  sketch  of  his  own  features;  he  read  words  inscribed  below 
it — words  of  such  artless  tenderness,  and  such  vmhoping  sorrow 
—words  written  by  one  who  had  been  accustomed  to  regard  her 
genius  as  her  sole  confidant,  under  Heaven  ;  to  pour  out  to  it, 
as  the  solitary  poet-heart  is  impelled  to  do,  thoughts,  feelings^ 
the  confession  of  mystic  sighs,  which-  it  would  never  breathe  to 
a  living  ear,  and,  save  at  such  moments,  scarcely  acknowledge 
to  itself.  Audley  saw  that  he  was  beloved,  and  the  revelation^ 
with  a  sudden  light,  consumed  all  the  barriers  between  himself 
and  his  own  love.  And  at  that  moment  Nora  entered.  She  saw 
him  bending  over  the  book.  She  uttered  a  cry — sprang  forward 
— and  then  sank  down,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands.  But 
Audley  was-  at  her  feet.  He  forgot  his  friend — his  trust ;  he 
forgot  ambition — he  forgot  the  world.  It  was  his  own  cause 
that  he  pleaded — his  own  love  that  burst  forth  from  his  lips. 
And  when  the  two  that  day  parted,  they  were  betrothed  each 
to  each.  Alas  for  them^  and  alas  for  Harley  ! 

And  now  this  man,  who  had  hitherto  valued  himself  as  the 
very  type  of  gentleman — whom  all  his  young  contemporaries 
had  so  regarded  and  so  revered — had  to  press  the  hand  of  a 
confiding  friend,  and  bid  adieu  to  truth.  He  had  to  amuse,  to 
delay,  to  mislead  his  boy-rival — to  say  that  he  was  already  sub- 
duing Nora's  hesitating  doubts — and  that  with  a  little  time,  she 
could  be  induced  to  consent  to  forget  Harley's  rank,  and  his 
parents'  pride,  and  become  his  wife.  And  Harley  believed  in 
Egerton,  without  one  suspicion  on  the  mirror  of  his  loyal  soul. 

Meanwhile,  Audley,  impatient  of  his  own  position — impatient, 
as  strong  minds  ever  are,  to  hasten  what  they  have  once  re- 
solved— to  terminate  a  suspense  that  every  interview  with  Harley 
tortured  alike  by  jealousy  and  shame — to  pass  out  of  the  reach 
of  scruples,  and  to  say  to  himself,  "Right  or  wrong,  there  is  no 
looking  back;  the  deed  is  done," — Audley,  thus  hurried  on  by 
the  impetus  of  his  awn  power  of  will,  pressed  for  speedy  and 
secret  nuptials — secret,  till  his  fortunes,  then  wavering,  were 
more  assured — his  career  fairly  commenced.  This  was  not  his 
strongest  motive,  though  it  was  one.  He  shrank  from  the  dis- 
covery of  his  wrong  to  his  friend — desired  to  delay  the  self- 
humiliation  of  such  announcement,  until,  as  he  persuaded  him- 
self, Harley's  boyish  passion  was  over — -had  yielded  to  the  new 
allurements  that  would  naturally  beset  his  way.  Stifling  his 


224  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

conscience,  Audley  sought  to  convince  himself  that  the  day 
would  soon  come  when  Harley  could  hear  with  indifference 
that  Nora  Avenel  was  another's.  "The  dream  of  an  hour,  at 
his  age,"  murmured  the  elder  friend;  "but at  mine  the  passion 
of  a  life  ! "  He  did  no.t  speak  of  these  latter  motives  for  con- 
cealment to  Nora.  He  felt  that  to  own  the  extent  of  his  treason 
to  a  friend,  would  lower  him  in  her  eyes.  He  spoke  therefore 
but  slightingly  of  Harley — treated  the  boy's  suit  as  a  thing  past 
and  .gone.  He  dwelt  only  on  reasons  that  compelled  self-sacri- 
fice on  his  side  or  hers.  She  did  not  hesitate  which  to  choose. 
And  so,  where  Nora  loved,  so  submissively  did  she  believe  in 
the  superiority  of  the  lover,  that  she  would  not  pause  to  hear  a 
murmur  from  her  own  loftier, nature^  or  question  the  propriety 
of  what  he  deemed  wise  and  good. 

Abandoning  prudence  in  this  arch  affair  of  life,  Audley  still 
preserved  his  customary  caution  in  minor  details.  And  this  indeed 
w.as  characteristic  of  him  throughout  all  his  career— heedless  in 
large  things — wary  in  small.  He  would  not  trust  Lady  Jane 
Horton  with  his  secret,  still  less  Lady  Lansmere.  He  simply 
represented  to  the  former,,  that  Nora  was  no  longer  safe  from 
Harley's  determined  pursuit  under  Lady  Jane's  roof,  and  that  she 
had  better  elude  the  boy's  knowledge  of  her  movements,  and  go 
quietly  away  for  a  while  to  lodge  with  some  connection  of  her  own. 

And  so,  with  Lady  Jane's  acquiescence,  Nora  went  first  to  the 
houseof  avery  distant  kinswoman  of  her  mother's  and  afterward 
to  one  that  Egerton  took  as  their  bridal  home,  under  the  name  of 
Bertram.  Rearranged  all  that  might  render  their  marriage  most 
free  from  the  chance  of  premature  discovery.  But  it  so  happened, 
on  the  very  morning  of  their  bridal,  that  one  of  the  witnesses  he 
selected  (a  confidential  servant  of  his  own)  was  seized  with  apo- 
plexy. Considering,  in  haste,  where  to  find  a  substitute,  Egerton 
thought  of  Levy,  his  own  private  solicitor,  his  own  fashionable 
money-lender,  a  man  with  whom  he  was  then  as  intimate  as  a  fine 
gentleman  is  with  the, lawyer  of  his  own  age,  who  knows  all  his 
affairs,  and  has  helped,  from  pure  friendship,  to  make  them  as 
bad  as  they  are  !  Levy  was  thus  suddenly  summoned.  Egerton, 
who  was  in  great  haste,  did  not  at  first  communicate  to  him  the 
name  of  the  intended  bride;  but  he  said  enough  of  the  imprud- 
ence of  the  marriage,  and  .his  reasons  for  secrecy,  to  bring  on 
himself  the  strongest  remonstrances  ;  for  Levy  had  always  reck- 
oned on  Egerton'smakingawealthy  marriage, — leaving  to  Egerton 
the  wife,  .and  hoping  to  appropriate  to  himselt  the  wealth,  all  in 
the  natural  course  of  business.  Egerton  did  not  listen  to  him, 
but  hurried  him  on  toward  the  place  at  which  the  ceremony  was 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  22$ 

to  be  performed  ;  and  Levy  actually  saw  the  bride  before  he  had 
learned  her  name.  The  usurer  masked  his  raging  emotions,  and 
fulfilled  his  part  in  the  rites.  His  smile,  when  he  congratulated 
the  bride,  might  have  shot  cold  into  her  heart ;  but  her  eyes  were 
cast  on  the  earth,  seeing  there  but  a  shadow  from  heaven,  and 
her  heart  was  blindly  sheltering  itself  in  the  bosom  to  which  it 
was  given  evermore.  She  did  not  perceive  the  smile  of  hate  that 
barbed  the  words  of  joy.  Nora  never  thought  it  necessary  later 
to  tell  Egerton  that  Levy  had  been  a  refused  suitor.  Indeed, 
with  the  exquisite  tact  of  love,  she  saw  that  such  a  confidence, 
the  idea  of  such  a  rival,  would  have  wounded  the  pride  of  her 
high-bred,  well-born  husband. 

And  now,  while  Harley  L'Estrange,  frantic  with  the  news  that 
Nora  had  left  Lady  Jane's  roof,  and  purposely  misled  into  wrong 
directions,  was  seeking  to  trace  her  refuge  in  vain — now  Egerton, 
in  an  assumed  name,  in  a  remote  quarter,  far  from  the  clubs  in 
which  his  word  was  oracular — far  from  the  pursuits,  whether  of 
pastime  or  toil,  that  had  hitherto  engrossed  his  active  mind,  gave 
himself  up,  with  wonder  at  his  own  surrender,  to  the  only  vision 
of  fairy-lund  that  ever  weighs  down  the  watchful  eyelids  of  hard 
ambition.  The  world  for  a  while  shut  out,  he  missed  it  not.  He 
knew  not  of  it.  He  looked  into  two  loving  eyes  that  haunted  him 
ever  after,  through  a  stern  and  arid  existence,  and  said,  murmur- 
ingly,  "Why,  this,  then,  is  real  happiness!"  Often,  often,  in  the 
solitude  of  other  years,  he  repeated  to  himself  the  same  words, 
save  that  for  is,  he  then  murmured  was!  And  Nora,  with  her 
grand,  full  heart,  all  her  luxuriant  wealth  of  fancy  and  of  thought, 
child  of  light  and  of  song,  did  she  then  never  discover  that  there 
was  something  comparatively  narrow  and.  sterile  in  the  nature  to 
which  she  had  linked  her  fate  ?  Not  there,  could  ever  be  sympathy 
in  feelings,  brilliant  and  shifting  as  the  tints  of  the  rainbow. 
When  Audley  pressed  her  heart  to  his  own,  could  he  comprehend 
one  finer  throb  of  its  beating?  Was  all  the  iron  of  his  mind  worth 
one  grain  of  the  gold  she  had  cast  away  in  Harley 's  love  ? 

Did  Nora  already  discover  this?  Surely  no.  Genius  feels  no 
want,  no  repining  while  the  heart  is  contented.  Genius  in  her 
paused  and  slumbered;  it  had  been  as  theministrant  of  solitude; 
it  was  needed  no  more.  If  a  woman  love  deeply  someone  below 
her  own  grade  in  the  mental  and  spiritual  orders,  how  often  we 
see  that  she  unconsciously  quits  her  own  rank,  comes  meekly 
down  to  the  level  of  the  beloved,  is  afraid  lest  he  should  deem 
her  the  superior — she  who  would  not  even  be  the  equal.  Nora 
knew  no  more  that  she  had  genius;  she  only knewthatshehad  love. 

And  so  here,  the  journal  which  Leonard  was  reading  changed 


226  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

its  tone,  sinking  into  that  quiet  happiness  which  is  but  quiet  be- 
cause it  is  so  deep.  This  interlude  in  the  life  of  a  man  like  Aud- 
ley  Egefton  could  never  have  been  long;  many  circumstances 
conspired  to  abridge  it.  His  affairs  were  in  great  disorder;  they 
were  all  under  Levy's  management.  Demands  that  had  before 
slumbered,  or  been  mildly  urged,  grew  menacing  and  clamorous. 
Harley,  too,  returned  to  London  from  his  futile  researches,  and 
looked  out  for  Audley.  Audley  was  forced  to  leave  his  secret 
Eden,  and  reappear  in  the  -'common  world;  and  thenceforward 
it  was  only  by  stealth  that  he  came  to  his  bridal  home— a  visitor, 
no  more  the  inmate.  But  more  loud  and  fierce  grew  the  demands 
of  his  creditors,  now  when  Egerton  had  most  need  of  all  which 
respectability,  and  position,  and  belief  of  pecuniary  independ- 
ence can  do  to  raise  the  man  who  has  encumbered  his  arms,  and 
crippled  his^steps  toward  fortune.  He  was  threatened  with  writs, 
with  prison.  Levy  said  "  that  to  borrow  more  would  be  but  larger 
ruin," — shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  even  recommended  a  vol- 
untary retreat  to  the  King's  Bench.  "No  place  so  good  for 
frightening  one's  creditors  into  compounding  their  claims;  but 
why,"  added  Levy,  with  covert  sneer,  "why  not  go  to  young 
L'Estrange — a  boy  made  to  be  borrowed  from  ! " 

Levy,  who  had  known  from  Lady  Jane  of  Harley's  pursuit  of 
Nora,  had  learned  already  how  to  avenge  himself,  on  Egerton. 
Audley  could  not  apply  to  the  friend  he  had  betrayed.  And  as 
to  the  other  friends,  no  man  in  town  had  a  greater  number; 
and  no  man  in  town  knew  better  that  he  should  lose  them  all 
if  he  were  once  known  to  be  in  want  of  their  money.  Mortified, 
harassed,  tortured- — shunning  Harley— yet  ever  sought  by  him — 
fearful  of  each  knock  at  his  door,  Audley  Egerton  escaped  to 
the  mortgaged  remnant  of  his  paternal  estate,  on  which  there 
was  a  gloomy  manor-house,  long  uninhabited,  and  there  applied 
a  mind,  afterward  renowned  for  its  quick  comprehension  of  busi- 
ness, to  the  investigation  of  his  affairs,  with  a  view  to  save  some 
wreck  from  the  flood  that  swelled  momently  around  him. 

And  now — to  condense  as  much  as  possible  a  record  that  runs 
darkly  on  into  pain  and  sorrow— -now  Levy  began  to  practise  his 
vindictive  arts;  and  the  arts  gradually  prevailed.  On  pretence 
of  assisting  Egerton  in  the  arrangement  of  'his  affairs — which 
he  secretly  contrived,  however,  still  more  to  complicate — he  came 
down  frequently  to  Egerton  Hall  for  a  few  hours,  arriving  by  the 
mail,  and  watching  the  effect  which  Nora's  almost  daily  letters 
produced  on  the  bridegroom,  irritated  by  the  practical  cares  of 
life.  He  was  thus  constantly  at  hand  to  instil  into  the  mind  of 
the  ambitious  man  a  regret  for  the  imprudence  of  hasty  passion 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  227 

or  to  embitter  the  remorse  which  Audley  felt  for  his  treachery 
to  L'Estrange.  Thus  ever  bringing  before  the  mind  of  the  har- 
assed debtor  images  at  war  with  love,  and  with  the  poetry  of 
life,  he  disattuned  it  (so  to  speak)  for  the  reception  of  Nora's 
letters,  all  musical  as  they  were  with  such  thoughts  as  the  most 
delicate  fancy  inspires  to  the  most  earnest  love.  Egerton  wasone 
of  those  men  who  never  confide  their  affairs  frankly  to  women. 
Nora,  when  she  thus  wrote,  was  wholly  in  the  dark  as, to  the  ex- 
tent of  his  stern  prosaic  distress.  And  so — and  so — Levy  always 
near  (type  of  the  prose  of  life  in  its  most  cynic  form) — so  by  de- 
grees, all  that  redundant  affluence  of  affection,  with  its  gushes  of 
grief  for  his  absence,  prayers  for  his  return,  sweet  reproach  if  a 
post  failed  to  bring  back  an  answer  to  the  woman's  yearning 
sighs — all  this  grew,  to  the  sensible,  positiye'manof  real  life,  like 
"  sickly  romantic  exaggeration:  The  bright  arrows  shot  too  high  into 
heaven  to  hit  the  mark  set  so  near  to  the  earth.  Ah,  common  fate 
of  all  superior  natures!  What  treasure,  and  how  wildly  wasted! 

''By  the  bye,"  said  Levy  one  morning,  as  he  was  about  to  take 
leave  of  Audley  and  return  to  town— "by  the  bye,  I  shall  be 
this  evening  in  the  neighborhood  of  Mrs.  Egerton." 

EGERTON. — Say  Mrs.  Bertram ! 

LEVY. — Ay;  will  she  not  be  in  want  of  some  pecuniary  supplies? 

EGERTON. — My  wife  ! — Not  yet.  I  must  first  be  wholly  ruined 
before  she  can  want;  and  if  I  were  so,  do  you  think  I  should 
not  be  by  her  side? 

LEVY. — I  beg  pardon,  my  dear  fellow;. your  pride  of  gentle- 
man is  so  susceptible  that  it  is  hard  for  a  lawyer  not  to  wound 
it  unawares.  Your  wife,  then,  does  not  know  the  exact  state  of 
your  affairs  ? 

EGERTON. — Of  course  not.  AVho  would  confide  to  a  woman 
things  in  which  she  could  do  nothing,  except  to  tease  one  the  more? 

LEVY.— True,  and  a  poetess  too  !  I  have  prevented  your  fin- 
ishing your  answer  to  Mrs.  Bertram's  last  letter.  Can  I  take  it — 
it  may  save  a  day's  delay — that  is,  if  you  do  not  object  to  my 
calling  on  her  this  evening. 

EGERTON  (sitting  down  to  his  unfinished  letter). —Object!  no. 

LEVY  (looking  at  his  watch). — :Be  quick,  or  I  shall  lose  the  coach. 

EGERTON  (sealing  the  letter). — There.  And  I  should  be 
obliged  to  you  if  you  would  ca\\\  and  without  alarmingherasto 
my  circumstances,  you  can  just  say  that  you  know  I  am  much 
harassed  about  important  affairs  at  present,  and  so  soothe  the 
effect  of  my  very  short  answers — 

LEVY. — To  those  doubly-crossed,  very  long  letters — I  wilt. 

"Poor  Nora,"  said  Egerton,   sighing,  "she  will  think  this 


228  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

answer  brief  and  churlish  enough.  Explain  my  excuses  kindly, 
so  that  they  will  serve  for  the  future.  I  really  have  no  time,  and 
no  heart  for  sentiment.  The  little  I  ever  had  is  well-nigh  wor- 
ried out  of  me.  Still  I  love  her  fondly  and  deeply." 

LEVY. — You  must  have  done  so.  I  never  thought  it  in  you 
to  sacrifice  the  world  to  a  woman. 

EGERTON. — Nor  I  either;  but  (added  the  strong  man,  conscious 
of  that  power  which  rules  the  world  infinitely  more  than  knowl- 
edge— conscious  of  tranquil  courage) — but  I  have  not  sacrificed 
the  world  yet.  This  right  arm  shall  bear  up  her  and  myself  too. 

LEVY. — Well  said  !  but  in  the  meanwhile,  for  heaven's  sake, 
don't  attempt  to  go  to  London,  nor  to  leave  this  place;  for,  in 
that  case,  I  know  you  will  be  arrested,  and  then  adieu  to  all 
hopes  of  Parliament — of  a  career. 

Audley's  haughty  countenance  darkened;  as  the  dog,  in  his 
bravest  mood,  turns  dismayed  from  the  stone  plucked  from  the 
mire,  so,  when  Ambition  rears  itself  to  defy  mankind,  whisper 
"disgrace  and  a  gaol" — and,  lo,  crestfallen,  it  slinks  away! 
That  evening  Levy  called  on  Nora,  and  ingratiating  himself  into 
her  favor  by  praise  of  Egerton,  with  indirect  humble  apologetic 
allusions  to  his  own  former  presumption,  he  prepared  the  way 
to  renewed  visits; — she  was  so  lonely,  and  she  so  loved  to  see  one 
who  was  fresh  from  seeing  Audley — one  who  would  talk  to  her 
of  him  !  By  degrees  the  friendly  respectful  visitor  thus  stole  into 
her  confidence;  and  then,  with  all  his  panegyrics  on  Audley's 
superior  powers  and  gifts,  he  began  to  dwell  upon  the  young 
husband's  worldly  aspirations,  and  care  for  his  career;  dwell  oh 
them  so  as  vaguely  to  alarm  Nora — to  imply  that,  dear  as  she 
was,  she  was  still  but  second  to  Ambition.  His  way  thus  pre- 
pared, he  next  began  to  insinuate  his  respectful  pity  at  her 
equivocal  position,  dropped  hints  of  gossip  and  slander^  feared 
that  the  marriage  might  be  owned  too  late  to  preserve  reputa- 
tion. And  then  what  would  be  the  feelings  of  the  proud  Egerton 
if  his  wife  were  excluded  from  that  world,  whose  opinion  he  so 
prized?  Insensibly  thus  he  led  her  on  to  express  (though  timidly) 
her  own  fear — her  own  natural  desire,  in  her  letters  to  Audley. 
When  could  the  marriage  be  proclaimed  ?  Proclaimed!  Audley 
felt  that  to  proclaim  such  a  marriage,  at  such  a  moment,  would 
be  to  fling  away  his  last  cast  for  fame  and  fortune.  AndHarley, 
too — Harley  still  so  uncured  of  his  frantic  love  !  Levy  was  sure 
to  be  at  hand  when  letters  like  these  arrived. 

And  now  Levy  went  further  still  in  his  determination  to  alienate 
these  two  hearts.  He  contrived,  by  means  of  his  various  agents, 
to  circulate  through  Nora's  neighborhood  the  very  slanders  at 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  229 

which  he  had  hinted.  He  contrived  that  she  should  be  insulted 
when  she  went  abroad,  outraged  at  home  by  the  sneers  of  her 
own  servants,  and  tremble  with  shame  at  her  own  shadow  upon 
her  abandoned  bridal  hearth. 

Just  in  the  midst  of  this  intolerable  anguish,  Levy  reappeared. 
His  crowning  hour  was  ripe.  He  intimated  his  knowledge  of  the 
humiliations  Nora  had  undergone,  expressed  his  deep  compas- 
sion, offered  to  intercede  with  Egerton  "to  do  her'justice."  He 
used  ambiguous  phrases,  that  shocked  her  ear  and  tortured  her 
heart,  and  thus  provoked  her  on  to  demand  him  to  explain;  and 
then,  throwing  her  into  a  wild  state  of  indefinite  alarm,  in  which 
he  obtained  her  solemn  promise  not  to  divulge  to  Audley  what 
he  was  about  to  communicate,  he  said,  with  villanous  hypocrisy 
of  reluctant  shame,  "  that  her  marriage  was  not  strictly  legal ; 
that  the  forms  required  by  the  law  had  not  been  complied  with; 
that  Audley,  unintentionally  or  purposely,  had  left  himself  free  to 
disown  the  rite  and  desert  the  bride."  While  Nora  stood  stunned 
and  speechless  at  a  falsehood  which,  with  lawyer-like  show,  he 
contrived  to  make  truth-like  to  her  inexperience,  he  hurried  rap- 
idly on,  to  re-awake  on  her  mind  the  impression  of  AudleyV 
pride,  ambition,  and  respect  for  worldly  position.  "These  are 
your  obstacles,"  said  he;  "but  I  think  I  may  induce  him  to  repair 
the  wrong,  and  right  you  at  last."  Righted  at  last — oh,  infamy' 

Then  Nora's  anger  burst  forth.  She  believe  such  a  stain  on 
Audley's  honor ! 

"But  where  was  the  honor  when  he  betrayed  his  friend?  Did 
you  not  know  that  he  was  intrusted  by  Lord  L'Estrange  to  plead 
for  him  ?  How  did  he  fulfil  the  trust?" 

Plead  for  L'Estrange!  Nora  had  not  been  exactly  aware  of 
this.  In  the  sudden  love  preceding  those  sudden  nuptials,  so 
little  touching  Harley  (beyond  Audley's  first  timid  allusions  to 
his  suit,  and  her  calm  and  cold  reply)  had  been  spoken  by  either. 

Levy  resumed.  He  dwelt  fully  on  the  trust  and  the  breach  of 
it,  and  then  said — "In  Egerton 's  world,  man  holds  it  far  more 
dishonor  to  betray  a  man  than  to  dupe  a  woman  ;  and  if  Eger- 
ton could  do  the  one,  why  doubt  that  he  would  do  the  other? 
But  do  not  look  at  me  with  those  indignant  eyes.  Put  himself  to- 
the  test;  write  to  him  to  say  that  the  suspicions  amidst  which 
you  live  have  become  intolerable — that  they  infect  even  your- 
self, despite  your  reason — that  the  secrecy  of  your  nuptials,  his 
prolonged  absence,  his  brief  refusal,  on  unsatisfactory  grounds, 
to  proclaim  your  tie,  all  distract  you  with  a  terrible  doubt.  Ask 
him,  at  least  (if  he  will  not  yet  declare  your  marriage),  to  satisfy 
you  that  the  rites  were  legal." 


230  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

-"  I  will  go  to  him,"  cried  Nora,  impetuously. 

"Go  to  him! — in  his  own  house!  What  a  scene,  what  a  scandal! 
Could  he  ever  forgive  you?" 

"At  least,  then,  I  will  implore  him  to  come  here.  I  cannot 
write  such  horrible  words;  I  cannot— I  cannot — Go,  go." 

Levy  left  her,  and  hastened  to  two  or  three  of  Audley's  most 
pressing  creditors — men,  in  fact,  who  went  entirely  by  Levy's 
own  advice.  He  bade  them  instantly  surround  Audley's  country 
residence  with  bailiffs.  Before  Egerton  could  reach  Nora,  he 
would  be  thus  lodged  in  gaol.  These  preparations  made,  Levy 
himself  went  down  to  Audley,  and  arrived,  as  usual,  an  hour  or 
two  before  the  delivery  of  the  post.  :-tq  nn 

And  Nora's  letter  came;  and  never  was  Audley's  grave,  brow 
more  dark  than  when  he  read  it.  Still  with  his  usual  decision,  he 
resolved  to  obey  her  wish — -rang  the  bell,  and  ordered  his  ser- 
vant to  put  up  a  change  of  dress,  and  send  for  post-horses. 

Levy  then  took  him  aside,  and  led  him  to  the  window. 

"Look  under  yon  tree.  Do  you  see  those  men?  They  are 
bailiffs.  This  is  the  true  reason  why  I  come  to  you  to-day.  You 
cannot  leave  this  house."  f  bn 

Egerton  recoiled.  "And  this  frantic  foolish  letter  at  such  a 
time,"  he  muttered,  Striking  the  open  page,  full,  of  love  in  the 
midst  of  terror,  with  his  clenched  hand. 

O  Woman,  Woman!  if  thy  heart  bedeep,'and  its  chords  tender, 
beware  how  thou  lovest  the  man  with  whom  all  that  plucks  him 
from  the  hard  cares  of  the  work-day  world  is  a  frenzy  or  a  folly! 
He  will  break  thy  heart,  he  will  shatter  its  chords,  he  will 
trample  out  from  its  delicate  framework  every  sound  that  now 
makes  musical  the  common  air,  and  swells  into  unison  with  the 
harps  of  angels,  ii&  $?.-,  wi'ib-i^Qi*-- 

"  She  has  before  written  to  me,"  continued  Audley,  pacing 
the  room  with  angry,  disordered  strides,  "asking  me  when  our 
marriage  can  be  proclaimed,  and  I  thought  my  replies  would 
have  satisfied  any  reasonable  woman.  But  now,  now  this  is  worse, 
immeasurably  worse — she  actually  doubts  my  honor!  I,  who  have 
made  such  sacrifices — actually  doubts  whether  I,  Audley  Eger- 
ton, an  Eriglish  gentleman,  could  have  been  base  enough  to — " 

"What  ?"  interrupted  Levy,  "  to  deceive  your  friend  L'Es- 
trange?  Did-not  she  know  '-that  9  " 

"Sir!"  exclaimed  Egerton,  turning  white. 

"Don't  be  angry — all's  fair  in  love  as  in  war;  and  L'Estrange 
will  live  yet  to  thank  you  for  saving  him  from  such  a  misal- 
liance. But  you  are  seriously  angry;  pray  forgive  me." 

With  some  difficulty,  and  much  fawning,  the  usurer  appeased 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  23! 

the  storm  he  had  raised  in  Audley's  conscience.  And  he  then 
heard,  as  if  with  surprise,  the  true  purport  of  Nora's  letter. 

"It  is  beneath  me  to  answer,  much  less  to  satisfy,  such  a 
doubt,"  said  Audley.  "I  could  have  seen  her,  and  a  look  of  re- 
proach would  have  sufficed  ;  but  to  put  my  hand  to  paper,  and 
condescend  to  write,  'I  am  not  a  villain,  and  I  will  give  you  the 
proofs  that  I  am  not,' — never." 

"  You  are  quite  right  ;  but  let  us  see  if  we  cannot  reconcile 
matters  between  your  pride  and  her  feelings.  Write  simply 
this: — 'All  that  you  ask  me  to  say  or  to  explain,  I  have  instructed 
Levy,  as  my  solicitor,  to  say  and  explain  for  me ;  and  you  may 
believe  him  as  you  would  myself." 

"Well,  the  poor  fool,  she  deserves  to  be  punished;  and  I  sup- 
pose that  answer  will  punish  her  more  than  a  lengthier  rebuke. 
My  mind  is  so  distracted,  I  cannot  judge  of  these  trumpery 
woman-fears  and  whims;  there,  I  have  written  as  you  suggest. 
Give  her  all  the  proof  she  needs,  and  tell  her  that  in  six  months 
at  farthest,  come  what  will,  she  shall  bear  the  name  of  Eger- 
ton,  as  henceforth  she  must  share  his  fate."  ' 

"Why  say  six  months?" 

"Parliament  must  be  dissolved,  and  there  must  be  a  general 
election  before  then.  I  shall  either  obtain  a  seat,  be  secure  from 
a  gaol,  have  won  a  field  for  my  energies,  or — " 

"Or  what  ?" 

"  I  shall  renounce  ambition  altogether — ask  my  brother  to 
assist  me  toward  whatever  debts  remain  when  all  my  property 
is  fairly  sold^-they  cannot  be  much.  He  has  a  living  in  his  gift — 
the  incumbent  is  old,  and,  I  hear,  very  ill.  I  can  take  orders." 

"  Sink  into  a  country  parson  !" 

"And  learn  content.  I  have  tasted  it  already.  She  was  then 
by  my  side.  Explain  all  to  her.  This  letter,  I  fear,  is  too  unkind — 
but  to  doubt  me  thus!" 

Levy  hastily  placed,  the  letter  in  his  pocket-book  ;  and,  for 
fear  it  should  be  withdrawn,  took  his  leave. 

And  of  that  letter  he  made  such  rise,  that  the  day-after  he  had 
given  it  to  Nora,  she  had  left  the  house— the  neighborhood; 
fled,  arid  not  a  trace!  Of  all  the  agonies  in  life,  that  which  is 
most  poignant  and  harrowing — that  which  for  the  time  most 
annihilates  reason,  and  leaves  our  whole  organization  one  lac- 
erated, mangled  heart — is  the  conviction  that  we  have  been  de- 
ceived Where  we  placed  all  the  trust  of  love.  The  morrient  the  an- 
chor snaps,  the  storm  comes  on— the'  stars  vanish  behind  the  cloud. 

When  Levy  returned,  filled  with  the  infamous  hope  which 
had  stimulated  his  revenge — the  hope  that  if  he  could  succeed 


232  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

in  changing  into  scorn  and  indignation  Nora's  love  for  Audley, 
he  might  succeed  also  in  replacing  that  broken  and  degraded 
Idol— his  amaze  and  dismay  were  great  on  hearing  of  her  de- 
parture. For  several  days  he  sought  her  traces  in  vain.  He 
went  to  Lady  Jane  Hor.ton's — Nora  had  not  been  there.  He 
trembled  to  go  back  to  Egerton.  Surely  Nora  would  have  written 
to  her  husband,  and,  in  spite  of  her  promise,  revealed  his  own 
falsehood;  but  as  days  passed  and  not  a. clue  was  found,  he  had 
no  option  but  to  repair  to  Egerton  .Hall,  taking  care  that  the 
bailiffs  still  surrounded  it.  Audley  had  received  no  line  from 
Nora.  The  young  husband  was  surprised,  perplexed,  uneasy — 
but  had  no  suspicion  of  the  truth. 

At;  length  Levy  was  forced  to  break  to  Audley  the  intelligence 
pf  Nora's  flight.  He  gave  his  own  color  to  it.  Doubtless  she  has 
gone  to  seek  her  own  relations,  and,  by  their  advice,  take  steps 
to  make  her  marriage  publicly  known.  This  idea  changed  Aud- 
ley's  first  shock  into  deep  and  stern  resentrnent.  His  mind  so 
little  comprehended  Nora's,  and  was  even  so  disposed  to  what 
is  called  the  common-sense :  view,  of  things^  that  he  saw  no  other 
mode  to  account  for  her  flight  and  her  silence.  Odious  to  Eger- 
ton as  such  a  proceeding  would  be,  he  was  far  too  proud  to  take 
any  step  to  guard  against  it.  .'-Let  her  do  her  worst,"  .said  he, 
coldly,  masking  emotion  with  his  usual  self-command  j  "it  will 
be  but  a  nine  days'  wonder  to  the  world — a  fiercer  rush  of  my 
creditors  on  their,  hunted  prey — "  ;;  r,-^r,  33>: 

"And  a  challenge  from  Lord  L'Estrange." 

"So  be  it,"  answered  Egerton,  suddenly  placing  his  hand  at 
his  heart.  iyr  ,j.c 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?     Are  you  ill  ? " 

"A  strange  sensation  here.  My  father  died  of  a  complaint 
of  the  heart,  and  I  myself  was  once  told  to  guard,  through.life, 
against  excess  of  emotion.  I  smiled  at  such  a  warning,  then. 
.Let  us  sit  do^vn  to  business." 

'But  when  Levy  had  gone,  and  solitude  reclosed  r<)nnd  that 
Man  of  the  Iron  Mask,  there  grew  upon  him  more  and  more 
the  sense  of  a  mighty  loss.  Nora1  s  sweet,  loving  face  started 
from  the  shadows  of  the  forlorn  walls.  Her  docile,  yielding 
'temper,  ruer  generous,  self-immolating  spirit; — came  back  to  his 
memory,  to  refute  the  idea  that  wronged  her.  His  love,  that 
had.  been  suspended  for  awhile  by  busy  cares,  but ,  which,  if 
without  much  refining  sentiment,  was  still  the  master  passion 
of  his  soul,  flowed  back  into  all  his  thoughts— circumfused  the 
very  atmosphere  with  a  fearful  softening  charm.  He  escaped 
under  cover  of  the  night  from  the  watch  of  the  bailiffs.  He 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  233 

arrived  in  London.  He  himself  sought  everywhere  he  could 
think  of  for  his  missing  bride.  Lady  Jane  Horton  was  confined 
to  her  bed,  dying  fast— incapable  even  to  receive  and  reply  to 
his  letter.  He  secretly  sent  down  to  Lansmere,  to  ascertain  if 
Nora  had  gone  back  to  her  parents.  She  was  not  there.  The 
Avenels  believed  her  still  with  Lady  Jane  Horton. 

He  now  grew  most  seriously  alarmed ;  and  in  the  midst  of 
that  alarm,  Levy  secretly  contrived  that  he  should  be  arrested 
for  debt;  but  he  was  not  detained  in  confinement  many  days. 
Before  the  disgrace  got  wind,  the  writs  were  discharged — Levy 
baffled.  He  was  free.  Lord  L'Estrange  had  learned  from 
Audley's  servant  what  Audley  would  have  concealed  from  him 
out  of  all  the  world.  And  the  generous  boy — who,  besides  the 
munificent  allowance  he  received  from  the  Earl,  was  heir  to  an 
independent  and  considerable  fortune  of  his  own,  when  he 
should  attain  his  majority — -hastened  to  borrow  the  money  and 
discharge  all  the  obligations  of  his  friend.  The  benefit  was  con- 
ferred before  Audley  knew  of  it,  or  could  prevent.  Then  a  new 
emotion,  and  perhaps  scarce  less  stinging  than  the  loss  of  Nora, 
tortured  the  man  who  had  smiled  at  the  warning  of  science  ; 
and  the  strange  sensation  at  .the  heart  was  felt  again  and  again. 

And  Harley,  too,  was  in  search  of  Nora — would  talk  of  noth- 
ing but  her — and  looked  so  haggard  and  grief-worn-.  The 
bloom  of  the  boy's  youth  was  gone.  "Gould  Audley  then  lizve 
said,  "She  you  seek  is  another's;  your  love  is  razed  out  of 
your  life  ;  and,  for  consolation,  learn  that  your  friend  has  be- 
trayed you  ? "  Could  Audley  say  this  ?  He  did  not  dare. 
Which  of  the  two  suffered  the  most  ? 

And  these  two  friends,  of  characters  so  different,  were  so 
singularly  attached  to  each  other.  Inseparable  at  school — 
thrown  together  in  the  world,  with  a  wealth  of  frank  confidences 
between  them,  accumulated  since  childhood.  And  now,  in  the 
midst  of  all  his  own  anxious  sorrow,  Harley  still  thought  and 
planned  for  Egerton.  And  self-accusing  remorse,  and  aU  the 
sense  of  painful  gratitude,  deepened  Audley's  affection  for  Har- 
ley into  a  devotion  as  to  a  superior,  while  softening  it  into  a  rever- 
ential pity  that  yearned  to  relieve,  to  atone; — but  how — oh,  how  ? 

A  general  election  was  now  at  hand,  still  no  news  of  Nora.  Levy 
kept  aloof  from  Audley,  pursuing  his  own  silent  search.  A  seat  for 
the  borough  of  Lansmere  was  pressed 'upon  Audley,  not  only  by 
Harley,  but  his  parents,  especially  by  the  Countess,  who  tacitly  as- 
cribed to  Audley's  wise  counsel  Nora's  mysterious  disappearance. 

Egerton  at  first  resisted  the  thought  of  a  new  obligation  to 
his  injured  friend  ;  but  he  burned  to  have  it,  some  day,  in  his 


234  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

power  to  repay  at  least  his  pecuniary  debt;  the  sense  of  that 
debt  humbled  him  more  than  all  else.  Parliamentary  success 
might  at  last  obtain  for  him  some  lucrative  situation,  and  thus 
enable  him  gradually  to  remove  this  load  from  his  heart  and 
his  honor.  No  other  chance  of  repayment  appeared  open  to 
him.  He  accepted  the  offer,  and  went  down  to  Lansmere.  His 
brother,  lately  married,  was  asked  to  meet  him  ;  and  there,  also, 
was  Miss  Leslie  the  heiress,  whom  Lady  Lansmere  secretly 
hoped  her  son  Harley  would  admire,  but  who  had  long  since,  no 
less  secretly,  given  her  heart  to  the  unconscious  Egerton. 

Meanwhile,  the  miserable  Nora,  deceived  by  the  arts  and  rep- 
resentations of  Levy — acting  on  the  natural  impulse  of  a  heart 
so  susceptible  to  shame — flying  from  a  home  which  she  deemed 
dishonored — flying  from  a  lover  whose  power  over  her  she  knew 
to  be  so  great,  that  she  dreaded  lest  he  might  reconcile  her  to 
dishonor  itself — had  no  thought  save  to  hide  herself  for  ever 
from  Audley's  eye.  She  would  not  go  to  her  relations — -to  Lady 
Jane;  that  we.re  to  give  the  clue,  and  invite  the  pursuit!  An 
Italian  lady  of  high  rank  had  visited  at  Lady  Jane's— take' .  a 
great  fancy  to  Nora— and  the  lady's  husband  having  been 
obliged  to  precede  her  return  to  Italy,  had  suggested  the  no- 
tion of  engaging  some  companion — the  lady  had  spoken  of  this 
to  Nora  and  to  Lady  Jane  Horton,  who  had  urged  Nora  to  accept 
the  offer,  elude  Harley'sipursuit,  and  go  abroad  for  a  time.  Nora 
then  had  refused;  for  she  then  had>seen  Audley  Egerton. 
,JTo  this  Italian  lady  she  now  went,  and  the  offer  was  renewed 
with  the  most  winning  kindness,  and  grasped  at  in  the  passion 
of  despair.  But  the  Italian-.had  accepted  invitations  to  Eng- 
lish country-houses  before  she  .finally  departed  for  the  Conti- 
nent. Meanwhile,  Norai  took  refuge  in  a  quiet  lodging  in  a1  se- 
questered suburb,  which  an  English  servant  in  the  employment 
of  the  fairrforeigner  recommended.  Thus  had  she  first  come 
to  the  cottage  in  which.  Burley  died.  Shortly  afterward,  she 
left  England  with  her  new  companion,  unknown  to  all — to 
Lady  Jane  as  to  her  parents. 

All  this  time  the  poor  girl  was  under  a  moral  delirium — aeon- 
fused  fever— haunted  by  dreams  from  which  she  sought  to  fly. 
Sound  physiologists  agree  that  madness  is  rarest  among  persons 
of  thejinest  imagination.  But  those  persons  are,  of  all  others, 
liable  to  a  temporary  state  of  mind  in  which  judgment  sleeps — • 
imagination  alone  prevails  with  a  dire  and  awful  tyranny.  A 
single  idea  gains  ascendency — expels  all  others — presents  itself 
everywhere  with  an  intolerable  blinding  glare.  Nora  was  at  that 
time  under  the  dread  .one  '^ea — to  fly  from  shame  ! 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  235 

But,  when  the  seas  rolled,  and  the  dreary  leagues  interposed 
between  her  and  her  lover — when  new  images  presented  them- 
selves— when  the  fever  slaked,  and  reason  returned — doubt 
broke  upon  the  previous  despair.  Had  she  not  been  too  credu- 
lous, too  hasty?  Fool,  fool!  Audley  have  been  so  poor  a 
traitor !  How  guilty  was  she,  if  she  had  wronged  him.  And 
in  the  midst  of  this  revulsion  of  feeling,  there  stirred  within  her 
another  life.  She  was  destined  to  become  a  mother.  At  that 
thought  her  high  nature  bowed  ;  the  last  struggle  of  pride  gave 
way;  she  would  return  to  England,  see  Audley,  learn  from  his  lips 
the  truth,  and  even  if  the  truth  were  what  she  had  been  taught  to 
believe,  plead,  not  for  herself,  but  for  the  false  one's  chiid. 

Some  delay  occurred  in  the  then  warlike  state  of  affairs  on 
the  Continent,  before  she  could  put  this  purpose  into  execu- 
tion ;  and  on  her  journey  back,  various. obstructions  lengthened 
the  way.  But  she  returned  at  last,  and  resought  the  suburban 
cottage  in  which  she  had  last  lodged  before  quitting  England. 
At  night,  she  went  to  Audley 's  London  house  ;  there  was  only 
a  woman. in  charge  of  it.  Mr.  Egerton  was  absent — electioneer- 
ing somewhere — Mr.  Levy,  his  lawyer,  called  every  day  for  any 
letters  to  be  forwarded  to  him.  Nora  shrank  from  seeing  Levy, 
shrank  from  even  writing  a  letter 'that  would  pass  through  his 
hands.  If  she  had  been  deceived,  it  had  been  by  him,  and 
wilfully.  But  Parliament  was  already  dissolved  ;  the  election 
would  soon  be  over ;  Mr.  Egerton  was  expected  to  return  to 
town  within  a  week.  Nora  went  back  to  Mrs.  Goodyer's  and 
resolved  to  wait,  devouring  her  own1  heart  in  silence,  But  the 
newspapers  might  inform  her  where  Audley  really  was  ;  the 
newspapers  were  sent  for  and  conned  daily. 

And  one  morning  this  paragraph  met  her  eye  : — 

"The  Earl  and  Countess  of  Lansmere  are  receiving  a  distin- 
guished party  at  their  country-seat  Among  the  guests  is  MisS 
Leslie,  whose  wealth  and  beauty  have  excited-much  sensation 
in  the  fashionable  world.  To  the  disappointment  of  numerous 
aspirants  among  our  aristocracy,  we  hear  that  this  lady  has, 
however,  made  her  distinguished  choice  in  Mr.  Audley  Eger- 
ton. That  gentleman  is  now  a  candidate  for  the  borough  of 
Lansmere,  as  a  supporter  of  the  Government;  his  success  is 
considered  certain,  and,  according  to  the  report  of  a  large  circle 
of  friends,  few  new  members  will  prove  so  valuable  an  addition 
to  the  Ministerial  ranks ;  a  great  career,  may,  indeed,  be  pre- 
dicted for  a  young  man  so  esteemed  for  talent'  and  character, 
aided  by  ai  fortune  so  immense  as  that  which»-he will  shortly 
receive  with  the  hand  of  the  accomplished  heiress." 


236  MY   NOVEL  ;    OR, 

,  Again  the  anchor  snapped — again  the  storm  descended — 
again  the  stars  vanished.  Nora  was  now  once  more  under  the 
dominion  of  a  single  thought,  as  she  had  been  when  she  fled  from 
her  bridal  home.  Then, 'it  was  to  escape  from  her  lover — now  it 
was  to  see  him.  As  the  victim  stretched  on  the  rack  implores  to  be 
led  at  once  to  death,  so  there  are  moments  when  the  annihilation 
of  hope  seems  more  merciful  than  the  torment  of  suspense. 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

WHEN  the  scenes  in  some  long  diorama  pass  slowly  before  us, 
there  is  sometimes  one  solitary  object,  contrasting,  perhaps,  the 
view  of  stately  cities  or  the  march  of  a  mighty  river,  that  halts 
on  the  eye  for  a  moment,  and  then  glides  away,  leaving  on  the 
mind  a  strange,  comfortless,  undefined  impression. 

Why  was  the  object  presented  to  us  ?  In  itself  it  seemed  com- 
paratively insignificant.  It  may  have  been  but  a  broken  column — 
a  lonely  pool  with  a  star-beam  on  its  quiet  surface — yet  it  awes 
us.  We  remember  it  when  phantasmal  pictures  of  bright  Damas- 
cus, or  of  colossal  pyramids- — of  bazaars  in  Stamboul,  or  length- 
ened caravans  that  defile  slow  amidst  the  sands  of  Araby — have 
sated  the  wondering  gaze.  Why  were  we  detained  in  the  shad- 
owy procession  by  a  thing  that  would  have  been  so  common- 
place had  it  not  been  so-lone?  Some  latent  interest  must  attach 
to  it.  Was  it  there  that  a  vision  of  woe  had  lifted  the  wild  hair 
of  a  Prophet? — there  where  same  Hagar  had  stilled  the  wail  of 
her  child  on  her  indignant  breast !  We  would  fain  call  back  the 
pageantry  procession-r-fain  see  again  the  solitary  thing  that 
seemed  so  little  worth  the  hand  of  the  artist- — and  ask,  "Why  art 
thou  here,  and  wherefore  dost  thou  haunt  us?" 

Rise  up — rise  up  once  more — by  the  broad  great  thoroughfare 
that  stretches  onward  to  the  jemorseless  London— -Rise  up — 
rise  up,  O  solitary  tree  with  the  green  leaves  on  thy  bough,  and 
the  deep  rents  in  thy  heart;  and  the  ravens,  dark  birds  of  omen 
and  sorrow,  that  build  their  nest  amidst  the  leaves  of  ihe  bough, 
and  drop  with  ndiseless  plumes  down  through  the  hollow  rents 
of  the  heart — or  are  heard,  it  may  be,  in  the  growing  shadows 
of  twilight,  calling  out  to  their  young!  > 

Under  the  old  pollard  tree,  by  the  side  of  John  Avenel'shouse, 
there  co  w-ered,  breathless  and  listening,  John  Avenel's  daughter 
Nora.  Now,  when  that  fatal  newspaper  paragraph,  which  lied 
so  like  truth,  met  her  eyes,  she  obeyed  the  first  impulse  of  her 
passionate  heart — she  tore  the  wedding  ring  from  her  finger — 
she  inclosed  it,  with  the  paragraph  itself,  in  a  letter  to  Audley— 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  237 

a  letter  that  she  designed  to  convey  scorn  and  pride  ; — alas  !  it 
expressed  only  jealousy  and  love.  She  could  not  rest  till  she 
had  put  this  letter  into  the  post  with  her  own  hand,  addressed 
to  Audley,  at  Lord  Lansmere's.  Scarce  had  it  left  her,  ere  she 
repented.  What  had  she  done? — resigned  the  birthright  of  the 
child  she  was  so  soon  to  bring  into  the  world — resigned  her  last 
hope  in  her  lover's  honor — given  .up  her  life  of  life — and  from 
belief  in  what? — a  report  in  a  newspaper  !  No,  no  ;  she  would 
go  herself  to  Lansmere — to  her  father's  home — she  could  con- 
trive to  see  Audley  before  that  letter  reached  his  hand.  The 
thought  was  scarcely  conceived  before  obeyed.  She  found  a 
vacant  place  in  a  coach  that  started  from  London  some  hours 
before  the  mail,  and  went  within  a  few  miles  of  Lansmere  ; 
those  last  miles  she  travelled  on  foot.  Exhausted — fainting — 
she  gained,  at  last,  the  sight  of  home,  and  there  halted — for  in 
the  little  garden  in  front  she  saw  her  parents  seated.  She  heard 
the  murmur  of  their  voices,  and  suddenly  she  remembered  her 
altered  shape,  her  terrible  secret.  How  answer  the  question, 
"  Daughter,  where  and  who  is  thy  husband  ? "  Her  heart  failed 
her ;  she  crept  under  the  old  pollard  tree,  to  gather  up  resolve, 
to  watch  and  to  listen.  She  saw  the  rigid  face  of  the  thrifty, 
prudent  mother,  with  the  deep  lines  that  told  of  the  cares  of  ah 
anxious  life,  and  the  chafe  of  excitable  temper  and  warm  affec- 
tions against  the  restraint  of  decorous  sanctimony  and  resolute 
pride.  The  dear,  stern  face  never  seemed  to  her  more  d«ar  and 
more  stern.  She  saw  the  comely,  easy,  indolent,  good-humored 
father ;  not  then  the  poor  paralytic  sufferer,  who  could  yet 
recognize  Nora's  eyes  under  the  lids  of  Leonard,  but  stalwart 
and  jovial — first  bat  in  the  Cricket  Club,  first  voice  in  the  Glee 
Society,  the  most  popular  canvasser  of  the  Lansmere  Consti- 
tutional True  Blue  Party,  and  the  pride  and  idol  of  the  Calyin- 
istical  prim  wife  ;  never  from  those  pinched  lips  of  hers  had  come 
forth  even  one  pious  rebuke  to  the  careless,  social  man.  As  he 
sat,  one  hand  in  his  vest,  his  profile  turned  to  the  road,  the  light 
smoke  curling  playfully  up  from  the  pipe,  ov^r  which  his  lips, 
aqcustomed  to  bland  smile  and  hearty  laughter,  closed  as  if  re- 
luctant to  be  closed  at  all,  he  was  the  very  model  of  the  respectable 
retired  trader  in  easy  circumstance,  and  released  from  the  toil  of 
making  money  while  life  could  yet  enjoy  the  delight  of  spend- 
ing it. 

"Well,  old  woman,"  said  John  Avenel,  "I  must  be  off  pres- 
ently to  see  to  those  three-shaky  voters  in  Fish  Lane ;  they  will  have 
done  their  work  soon, and  I  shall  catch  'em  at  home.  They  do  say 
we  may  have  an  opposition;  and  I  know  that  oldSmikes 


238  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

has  gone  to  London  in  search  of  a  candidate.  We  can't  have  the 
Lansmere  Constitutional  Blues  beat  by  a  Lonnoner !  Ha,  ha,  ha ! " 

"But,  you  will  be  home  before  Jane  and  her  husband  Mark 
come?  How  ever  could  she  marry  a  common  carpenter !  " 

"Yes,"  said  John,  " he  t's  a  carpenter ;  but  he  has  a  vote,  and 
that  strengthens"  the  family  interest.  If  Dick  was  not  gone  to 
Amerikay,  there  would  be  three  on  us.  But  Mark  is  a  real  good 
Blue  !  A  Lonnoner,  indeed  !— a  Yellow  from  Lonnon  beat  my 
Lord  and  the  Blues  !  Ha,  ha  !  " 

"But  John,  this  Mr.  Egerton  is  a  Lonnoner!" 

"You  don't  understand  things,  talking  such  nonsense.  Mr. 
Egerton  is  the  Blue  candidate,and  the  Blues  are  the  County  Party ; 
therefore,  how  can  he  be  a  Lonnoner?  An  uncommon  clever, 
well-grown,  handsome  young  man,  eh !  and  my  young  lord's 
particular  friend." 

Mrs.  Averrel  sighed. 

"What  are  you  sighing  and  shaking  your  head  for?" 

"1  was  thinking  of  our  poor,  dear,  dear  Nora!" 

"God  bless  her !  "  cried  John  heartily. 

There  was  artistic  under  the  boughs  of  the  old  hollow-hearted 
pollard  tree. 

"  Ha !  ha  !  Hark  !  I  said  that  so  loud,  that  I  have  startled 
the  ravens  !" 

"How  he  did  love  her  ! "  said  Mrs.  Avenel,  thoughtfully.  "  I 
am  sure  he  did  ;  and  no  wonder,  for  she-looks  everyinch  a  lady; 
and  why  should  not  she  be  my  lady,  after  all?" 

"He?  Who?  Oh,  that  foolish  fancy  of  yours  about  my  young 
lord  ?  A  prudent  woman  like  you  ! — stuff  !  I  am  'glad  my  little 
beauty  is  gone  to  Lonnon,  out  of  harm's  way." 

"  John — John — John  !  Noharni  could  evercome  to  my  Nora. 
She's  ^66  pure  and  too  good,  arid  has  too  proper  a  pride  in  her, 
to—" 

"To  listen  to  any  yOung  lords,  I  hope,"  said  John  ;  "though," 
he  added,  after  a  pause,  "she  might  well  be  a  lady,  too.  My 
lord,  the  young  one,  took  me  by  the  hand  so  kindly  the  other 
day,  and  said, 'Have  not  you  heard-  from  her-1— I  mean  Miss 
Avenel — lately  ? '  and  those  bright  eyes  of  his  were  as  full  of  tears 
as — as— as  yours  are  nqw."-:y>ii' 

"Well,  John,  well;  go  on."  ' 

"That  is  all.  My.  lady  came  up  and  took  me  away  to  talk 
about  the  election  ;  and  just  as  I  was  going,  she  whispered, 
'  Don't  let  my  wild  boy  talk  to  you  about  that  sweet  girl  of  yours. 
We  must  both  see  that  she  does  not  come  to  disgrace.'  '  Dis- 
grace !  ' — that  word  made  me  very  angry  for  the  moment.  But 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  239 

my  lady  has  such. a  way  with  her,  that  she  soon  put  me  right 
again.  Yet,  I  do  think  Nora  must  have  loved  my  young  lord,, 
only  she  was  too  good  to  show  it.  What  do  you  say  ?"  and  the 
father's  voice  was  thoughtful. 

"I  hope  she'll  never  love  any  man  till  she's  married  to  him  ; 
it  is  not  proper,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Avenel,  somewhat  starchly, 
though  very  mildly. 

"  Ha  !  ha  ! "  laughed  John,  chucking  his  prim  wife  under  the 
chin.  "You  did  not  say  that  to  me  when  I  stole  your  first  kiss 
under  that  very  pollard  tree — no  house  near  it  then  !  " 

"Hush,  John,  hush  !  "  and  the  prim  wife  blushed  like  a  girl. 

"Pooh,"  continued  John,  merrily,  "I  don't  see  w,hy  we  plain 
folks  should  pretend  to  be  more  saintly  and  prudish,  than  our 
betters.  There's  that  handsome  Miss  Leslie,  who  is  to  many 
Mr.  Egerton — -easy  enough  to  see  how  much  she  is  in  love  with 
him — could  not  keep  her  eyes  off  from  him  even  in  church,  old 
girl !  Ha,ha  !  What  the  deuce  is  the  matter  with  the  ravens  ?" 

"They'll  be  a  comely  couple,  John.  .And  I  hear  tell  she  has 
a  power  of  money.  When  is  the  marriage  to  be? " 

"Oh, .they  say  as  soon  as  ever  the  election  is  over.  A  fine 
wedding  we  shall  have  of  it !  I  dare  say  my  young  lord  will  be 
bridesman.  We'll  send  for  our  little  Nora,  to  see  the  gay  doings!" 

Out  from  the  boughs  of  the  old  tree  came  the  shriek  of  a  lost 
spirit — one  of  those  strange  appalling  sounds  of  human  agony, 
which,  once  heard,  are  never  forgotten.  It  is  as  the  wail  of  Hope, 
when  SHE,  too,  rushes  forth  from  the  Coffer  of  Woes,  and  van- 
ishes into  viewless  space  ; — it  is  the  dread  cry  of  Reason  part- 
ing from  clay — and  of  Soul  that  would  wrench  itself  from  life  ! 
For  a  moment  all  was  still — and  then  a  dull,  dumb,  heavy  fall ! 

The  parents  gazed  on  each  other,  speechless  ;  they  stole  to  the 
pales  and  looked  over.  Under  the  boughs,  at  the  gnarled  roots 
of  the  oak,  they  saw — gray  and  indistinct — a  prostrate  form. 
John  opened  the  gate  and  went  round  ;  the  mother  went  to  the 
roadside,  and  there  stood  still. . 

"Oh,  wife,  wife  !"  cried  John  Avenel,. from  under  the  green 
bough,  "it  is  our  child  Nora  !  Our  child — our  child  !  " 

And,  as  he  spoke,  out  from  the  green  boughs  started  the  dark 
ravens,  wheeling  round  and  round,  and  calling  to  their  young. 

*.*  *  *  #  *  #  * 

And  when  they  had  laid  her  on  the  bed,  Mrs.  Avenel  whis- 
pered John  to  withdraw  a  moment ;  and>  with  set  lips  but  trem- 
bling hands,  began  to  unlace  the  dress,  under  the  pressure  of 
which  Nora's  heart  heaved  convulsively.  And  John  went  out 
of  the  room  bewildered  and  sat  himself  down  on  the  landing- 


240  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

place,  and  wondered  whether  he  was  awake  or  sleeping ;  and  a 
cold  numbness  crept  over  one  side  of  him,  and  his  head  felt 
very  heavy,  with  a  loud,  booming  noise  in  his  ears.  Suddenly 
his  wife  stood  by  his  side,  and  said,  in  a  very  low  voice — 

"John,  run  for  Mr.  Morgan — make  haste.  But  mind — don't 
speak  to  any  one  on  the  way.  Quick,  quick  !  " 

"Is  she  dying?" 

"I  don't  know.  Why  not  die  before?"  said  Mrs.  Avenel  be- 
tween her  teeth.  "  But  Mr.  Morgan  is  a  discreet,  friendly  man." 

"  A  true  Blue  ! "  muttered  poor  John,  as  if  his  mind  wandered; 
and  rising  with  difficulty,  he  stared  at  his  wife  a  moment,  shook 
his  head,  and  was  gone. 

An  hour  or  two  later,  a  little  covered  taxed-cart  stopped  at 
Mr.  Avenel's  cottage,  out  of  which  stepped  a  young  man  with 
pale  face  and  spare  form,  dressed  in  the  Sunday  suit  of  a  rustic 
craftsman  ;  then  a  homely,  but  pleasant,  honest  face  bent  down 
to  him  smilingly;  and  two  arms  emerging  from  under  covert  of 
a  red  cloak,  extended  an  infant  which  the  young  man  took  ten- 
derly. The  baby  was  cross  and  very  sickly  ;  .it  began  to  cry. 
The  father  hushed  and  rocked,  and  tossed  it,  with  the  air  of  one 
to  whom  such  a  charge  was  familiar. 

"  He'll  be  good  when  we  get  in,  Mark,"  said  the  young  woman, 
as  she  extracted  from  the  depths  of  the  cart  a  large  basket  con- 
taining poultry  and  home-made  bread. 

"  Don't  forget  the  flowers  that  the  Squire's  gardener  gave  Us," 
said  Mark  the  Poet. 

Without  aid  from  her  husband,  the  wife  took  down  basket  and 
nosegay,  settled  her  cloak,  smoothed  her  gown,  and  said,  "Very 
odd  ! — they  don't  seem  to  expect  us,  Mark.  How  still  the  house 
is!  Go  and  knock  ;  they  can't  ha'  gone  to  bed  yet." 

Mark  knocked  at  the  door — no  answer.  A  light  passed  rap- 
idly across  the  windows  on  the  upper  floor,  but  still  no  one  came 
to  his  summons.  Mark  knocked  again.  A  gentleman  dressed  in 
clerical  costume,  now  coming  from  Lansmere  Park,  on  the  op- 
posite side  of  the  road,  paused  at  the  sound  of  Mark's  second 
and  more  impatient  knock,  and  said,  civilly — 

"Are  you  not  the  young  folks  my  friend  John  Avenel  told  me 
this  morning  he  expected  to  visit  him?" 

"Yes,  please,  Mr.  Dale,"  said  Mrs.  Fairfield,  dropping  her 
curtsey.  "  You  remember  me'!  and  this  is  my  dear  good  man  ! " 

"  What !  Mark  the  Poet  ?  "  said  the  curate  of  Lansmere  with 
a  smile.  "Come  to  write  squibs  for  the  election?" 

"Squibs,  sir!"  cried  Mark,  indignantly. 

"Burns  wrote  squibs,"  said  the  curate  mildly. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  241 

Mark  made  no  answer,  but  again  knocked  at  the  door. 

This  time,  a  man,  whose  face,  even  seen  by  the  starlight,  was 
much  flushed,  presented  himself  at  the  threshold. 

"Mr.  Morgan !"  exclaimed  the  curate,  in  benevolent  alarm  ; 
"no  illness  here,  I  hope?" 

"  Cott !  it  is  you,  Mr.  Dale  ! — Come  in,  come  in  ;  I  want  a  word 
with  you.  But  who  the  teuce  are  these  people?" 

"Sir,"  said  Mark,  pushing  through  the  doorway,  "my  name  is 
Fail-field,  and  my  wife  is  Mr.  Avenel's  daughter  !  " 

"  Oh,  Jane — and  her  baby  too  ! — Good — cood  !  Come  in ; 
but  be  quiet,  can't  you?  Still,  still — still  as  death  !  " 

The  party  entered,  the  door  closed  ;  the  moon  rose,  and  shone 
calmly  on  the  pale  silent  house,  on  the  sleeping  flowers  of  the 
little  garden,  on  the  old  pollard  with  its  hollow  core.  The  horse 
in  the  taxed-cart  dozed,  unheeded  ;  the  light  still  at  times  flitted 
across  the  upper  windows.  These  were  the  only  signs  of  life,  ex- 
cept when  a  bat,  now  and  then  attracted  by  the  light  that  passed 
across  the  windows,  brushed  against  the  panes,  and  then,  dipping 
downward,  struck  up  against  the  nose  of  the  slumbering  horse, 
and  darted  merrily  after  the  moth  that  fluttered  round  the  raven's 
nest  in  the  old  pollard. 

CHAPTER   XVIII. 

ALL  that  day  Harley  L'Estrange  had  been  more  than  usually 
mournful  and  dejected.  Indeed,  the  return  to  scenes  associated 
with  Nora's  presence  increased  the  gloom  that  had  settled  on  his 
mind  since  he  had  lost  sight  and  trace  of  her.  Audley,  in  the 
remorseful  tenderness  he  felt  for  his  injured  friend,  had  induced 
L'Estrange  toward  evening  to  leave  the  Park,  and  go  into  a  dis- 
trict some  miles  off,  on  pretence  that  he  required  Harley 's  aid 
there  to  canvass  certain  important  outvoters  ;  the  change  of  scene 
might  rouse  him  from  his  reveries.  Harley  himself  was  glad  to 
escape  from  the  guests  at  Lansmere.  He  readily  consented  to 
go.  He  would  not  return  that  night.  The  outvoters  lay  remote 
and  scattered — he  might  be  absent  for  a  day  or  two.  When  Har- 
ley was  gone,  Egerton  himself  sank  into  deep  thought.  There 
was  rumor  of  some  unexpected  opposition.  His  partisans  were 
alarmed  and  anxious.  It  was  clear  that  the  Lansmere  interest, 
if  attacked,  was  weaker  than  the  Earl  would  believe  ;  Egerton 
might  lose  his  election.  If  so,  what  would  become  of  him  ?  How 
support  his  wife,  whose  return  to  him  he  always  Counted  on,  and 
whom  it  would  then  become  him  at  all  hazards  to  acknowledge? 
It  was  that  day  that  he  had  spoken  to  William  Hazeldean  as  to  the 
family  living — "  Peace  at  least,"  thought  the  ambitious  man — "I 


242  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

shall  havepeace ! "  And  the  Squire  had  promised  him  the  rectory  if 
needed  ;  not  without  a  secret  pang,  for  his  Harry  was  already 
using  her  conjugal  influence  in.  favor  of  her  old  school-friend's 
husband,  Mr.  Dale ;  and  the  Squire  thought  Audley  would  be 
but  a  poor  country  parson,  and  Dale — if  he  would  only  grow  a 
little  plumper  than  his  curacy  would  permit  him  to  be — would 
be  a  parson  in  ten  thousand.  But  while  Audley  thus  prepared 
for  the  worst,  he  still  brought  his  energies  to  bear  on  the  more 
brilliant  optio'n  ;  and  sat  with  his  committee,  looking  into  can- 
vass-books,  and  discussing  the  characters,  politics,  and  local  in- 
terests of  every  elector,  until  the  night  was  well-nigh  gone.  When 
he  gained  his  room,  the  shutters  were  unclosed,  and  he  stood  a 
few  moments  at  the  window  gazing  on  the  moon.  Atlhat  sight, 
the  thought  of  Nora,  lost  and  afar,  stole  over  him.  :  The  man, 
as  we  know,  had  in  his  nature  little  of  romance  and  sentiment. 
Seldom  was  it  his  wont  to  gaze  upon  moon  or  stars.  But  when- 
ever some  whisper  of  romance  did  soften  his  hard,  strong  mind, 
or  whenever  moon  or  stars  did  charm  his  gaze  from  earth,  Nora's 
bright  Muse-like  face-— Nora's  sweet  loving  eyes,  were  seen  in 
moon  and  starbeam — Nora's  low  tender  voice,  heard  in  the  whis- 
per of  that  which  we  call  romance,  and  which  is  but  the  sound 
of  the  mysterious  poetry  that  is  ever  in  the  air,  would  we  but 
deign  to  hear  it !  He 'turned  with  a  sigh,  undressed,  threw  him- 
self on  his  bed,  and  extinguished  his  light.  But  the  light  of  the 
moon  would h\\  the  room.  It  kept  him  awake  fora  little  time  ; 
he  turned  his  face  from  the  calm  heavenly  beam,  resolutely  to- 
ward the  dull  blind  wall,  and  fell  asleep.  And,  in  the  sleep,  he 
was  with  Nora  ; — again  in  the  humble  bridal-home.  Never  in  his 
dreams  had  she  seemed  to  -him  so  distinct  and  life-like — her 
eyes  upturned  to  his — her  hands  clasped  together,  and  resting 
on  his  shoulder,  as  had  been  her  graceful  wont — her  voice  mur- 
muring meekly,  "Has  it,  then,  been  my  fault  that  we  parted? — 
forgive,  forgive  me !". 

And  the  sleeper  imagined  that  he  answered,  "  Never  part  from 
me  again- — never,  never!"  and  that  he  bent  down,  to  .kiss  the 
chaste  lips  that  so. tenderly  sought  his  .own.  And  suddenly  he 
heard  a  knocking  sound,  as  of  a  hammer— regular,  but  soft,  sub- 
dued. Did  you  ever,  O  reader,  hear  the  sound  of  the  hammer 
on  the  lid  of  a  coffin  in  a  house  of  woe, — when  the  undertaker's 
decorous  hireling  fears  that  the  living  may  hear  how  he  parts 
them  from  the  dead?  Such  seemed  the  sound  to  Audley— the 
dream  vanished  abruptly.  He  woke,  and  again  heard  the  knock; 
it  was  at  his  door.  He  sat  up  wistfully — the  moon  was  gone — 
it  was  morning.  "Who  is  there?"  he  cried,  peevishly. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  243 

A  low  voice  from  without  answered,  "Hush,  it  is  I;  dress 
quick  ;  let  me  see  you." 

Egerton  recognized  Lady  Lansmere's  voice.  Alarmed  and  sur- 
prised, he  rose,  dressed  in  haste,  and  went  to  the  door.  Lady 
Lansmere  was  standing  without,  extremely  pale.  She  put  her 
ringer  to  her  lip,  and  beckoned  him  to  follow:  her.  He  obeyed 
mechanically.  They  entered  her  dressing-room,  a  few  doors 
from  his  own  chamber,  and  the  Countess  closed  the  door. 

Then  laying  her  slight  firm  hand  on  his  shoulder,  she  said,  in 
suppressed  and  passionate  excitement — 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Egerton,  you  must  serve — serve  me,  and  at  once; — 
Harley — Harley — save  my  Harley— go  to  him — prevent  his  com- 
ing back  here;  stay  with  him — give  up  the  election — it  is  but  a 
year  or twblost  in  your  life — you  will  have  other  opportunities — 
make  that  sacrifice  to  your  friend." 

"Speak — what  is  the  matter?  I  can  make  no  sacrifice  too 
great  for  Harley!" 

"  Thanks — I  was  sure  of  it.  Go  then,  I  say,  at  once,  to  Har- 
ley; keep  him  away  from  Lansmere  on  any  excuse  you  can  in- 
vent, until  you  can  break  the  sad  news  to  him — gently,  gently. 
Oh, how  will  he  bear  it — how  recover  the  shock?  My  boy,  my  boy ! " 

"Calm  yourself!  Explain!  Break  what  news? — recover  what 
shock?" 

"  True,  you  do  not  know — you  have  not  heard.  Nora  Avenel 
lies  yonder,  in  her  father's  house — dead — dead!" 

Audley  staggered  back,  clapping  his  hand  to  his  heart,  and  then 
dropping  on  his  knee  as  if  bowed  down  by  the  stroke  of  Heaven. 

"  My  bride,  my  wife,"  he  muttered.     "  Dead — it  cannot  be!" 

Lady  Lansmere  was  so  startled  at  this  exclamation,  so  stunned 
by  a  confession  wholly  unexpected,  that  she  remained  unable  to 
soothe — to  explain,  and  utterly  unprepared  for  the  fierce  agony 
that  burst  from  the  man  she  had  ever  seen  so  dignified  and 
cold — when  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  all  sense  of  his  eternal 
loss  rushed  upon  his  heart. 

At  length  he  crushed  back  his  emotions,  and  listened  in  appa- 
rent calm,  and  in  a  silence  broken  by  quick  gasps  for  breath,  to 
Lady  Lansmere's  account. 

One  of  the  guests  in  the  house,  a  female  relation  of  Lady 
Lansmere's,  had  been  taken  suddenly  ill  about  an  hour  or  two 
before!-r-the  house  had  been  disturbed,  the  Countess  herself 
aroused,  and  Mr.  Morgan  summoned  as  the  family  medical  prac- 
titioner. From  him  she  had  learned  that  Nora  Avenel  had  re- 
turned to  her  father's  house  late  on  the  previous  evening;  had 
been  seized  with  brain  fever,  and  died  in  a  few  hours. 


244  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

Audley  listened,  and  turned  to  the  door,  still  in  silence. 

Lady  Lansmere  caught  him  by  the  arm — "Where  are  you 
going  ?  Ah,  can  I  now  ask  you  to  save  my  Son  from  the  awful  news, 
you  yourself  the  sufferer  ?  And  yet — yet — you  know  his  haste, his 
vehemence,  if  he  learnt  that  you  were  his  rival — her  husband; 
you  whom  he  so  trusted!  What,  what  would  be  the  result — I 
tremble!" 

"  Tremble  not — I  do  not  tremble !  Let  me  go — T  will  be  back 
soon  and  then  (his  lips  writhed) — then  we  will  talk  of  Harley." 

Egerton  went"f6rth,  stunned  and  dizzy.  Mechanically  he  took 
his  way  across  the  park  to  John  Avenel's  house.  He  had  been 
forced  to  enter  that  house,  formally,  a  day  or  two  before,  in  the 
course  of  his  canvass ;  and  his  worldly  pride  had  received  a 
shock  when  the. home,  the  birth,  and  the  manners,  of  his  bride's 
parents  had  been  brought  before  him.  He  had  even  said  to  him- 
self, "And  is  it  the  child  of  these  persons  that  I,  Audley  Eger- 
ton, must  announce  to  the  world  as  my  wife!  "  Now,  if  she  had 
been  the  child  of  a.  beggars-nay,  of  a  felon — now,  if  he  could 
but  recall  her  to  life,  how  small  and  mean  would  all  that  dreaded 
world  appear  to  him!  Too  late — too  late!  The  dews  were 
glistening  in  the  sun — the  birds  were  singing  overhead — life 
waking  all  around  him — and  his  own  heart  felt  like  a  charnel- 
house.  Nothing  but  death  and  the  dead  there — nothing!  He 
arrived  at  the  door;  it  was  open;  he  called,  no  one  answered  ; 
he  walked  up  the  narrow  stairs,  undisturbed,  unseen;  he  came 
into  the  chamber  of  death.  At  the  opposite  side  of  the  bed  was 
seated  John  Avenel;  but  he  seemed  in  a  heavy  sleep.  In  fact, 
paralysis  had  smitten  him;  but  he  knew  it  not;  neither  did  any 
one.  Who  could  heed  the  strong  hearty  man  in  such  a  moment  ? 
Not  even  the  poor  anxious  wife!  He  had  been  left  there  to  guard 
the  house,  and  watch  the  dead — an  unconscious  man;  numbed, 
himself,  by  the  invisible  icy  hand!  Audley  stole  to  the  bedside; 
.he  lifted  the  coverlid  thrown  over  the  pale  still  face.  What 
passed  within  him,  during  the  minute  he  stayed  there,  who  shall 
say?  But  when  he  left  the  room,  and  slowly  descended  the 
stairs,  he  left  behind  him  love  and  youth,  all  the  sweet  hopes  and 
joys  of  the  household  human  life — for  ever  and  ever! 

He  returned  to  Lady  Lansmere,  who  awaited  his  coming  with 
the  most  nervous  anxiety. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  dryly,  "  I  will  go  to  Harley,  and  I  will  pre- 
vent his  returning  hither." 

"  You  have  seen  the  parents.  Good  heavens!  do  they  know 
of  your  marriage  ?" 

"No;  to  Harley  I  must  own  it  first.     Meanwhile,  silence!  " 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  24$ 

"Silence!"  echoed  Lady  Lansmere;  and  her  burning  hand 
rested  in  Audley's,  and  Audley's  was  as  ice. 

In  another  hour  Egerton  had  left  the  house,  and  before  noon 
he  was  with  Harley. 

It  is  necessary  now  to  explain  the  absence  of  all  the  Avenel 
family  except  the  poor  stricken  father. 

Nora  had  died  in  giving  birth  to  a  child — died  delirious.  In 
her  delirium  she  had  spoken  of  shame — of  disgrace;  there  was 
no  holy  nuptial  ring  on  her  finger!  Through  all  her  grief,  the 
first  thought  of  Mrs.  Avenel  was  to  save  the  good  name  of  her 
lost  daughter — the  unblemished  honor  of  all  the  living  Avenels. 
No  matron,  long  descended  from  knights  or  kings,  had  keener 
pride  in  name  and  character,  than  the  poor  punctilious  Calvin- 
istic  trader's  wife.  "Sorrow  later,  honor  now!"  Withharddry 
eyes  she  mused  and  mused,  and  made  out  her  plan.  Jane  Fair- 
field  should  take  away  the  infant  at  once,  before,  the  day  dawned, 
and  nurse  it  with  her  own.  Mark  should  go  with  her,  for  Mrs. 
Avenel  dreaded  the  indiscretion  of  his  wild  grief.  She  would 
go  with  them  herself  part  of  the  way,  in  order  to  command  or 
reason  them  into  guarded  silence.  But  they  could  not  go  back 
to  Hazeldean  with  another  infant;  Jane  must  go  where  none 
knew  her;  the  infants  might  pass  as  twins.  And  Mrs.  Avenel, 
though  naturally  a  humane,  kindly  woman,  and  with  a  mother's 
heart  to  infants,  looked  with  almost  a  glad  sternness  .at  Jane's 
puny  babe,  and  thought  to  herself,  "  All  difficulty  would  be  over 
should  there  be  only  one  !  Nora's  child  could  thus  pass  through- 
out life  for  Jane's! " 

Fortunately  for  the  preservation  of  the  secret,  the  Avenels 
kept  no  servant — only  an  occasional  drudge,  who  came  a  few 
hours  in  the  day,  and  went  home  to  sleep.  Mrs,  Avenel  could 
count  on  Mr.  Morgan's  silence  as  to  the  true  cause. of  Nora's 
death.  And  Mr.  Dale,  why  should  he  reveal  the  dishonor  of  a 
family  ?  That  very  day,  or  the  next  at  farthest,  she  could  induce 
her  husband  to  absent  himself,  lest  he  should  blab  out  the  tale 
while  his  sorrow  was  greater  than  his  pride.  She  alone  would 
then  stay  in  the  house  of  death  until  she  could  feel  assured  that 
all  else  were  hushed  into  prudence.  Ay,  she  felt  that  with  due 
precautions,  the  name  was  still  safe.  And  so  she  awed  and  hur- 
ried Mark  and  his  wife  away,  and  werit  with  them  in  the  covered 
cart — that  hid  the  faces  of  all  three: — leaving  for  an  hour  or  two 
the  house  and  the  dead  to  her  husband's  charge,,  with  many  an 
admonition,  to  which  he  nodded  his  head,  and  which  he  did  not 
hear!  Do  you  think  this  woman  was  unfeeling  and  inhuman  ? 
Had  Nora  looked  from  .heaven  into  her  mother's  heart,  Nora 


246  MV    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

would  riot  have  thought  so.  A  good  name,  when  the  burial-stone 
closes  over  dust,  is  still  a  possession  upon  the  earth;  on  earth  it 
is  indeed  our  only  one!  Better. for  our  friends  to  guard  for  us 
that  treasure,  than  to  sit  down  and  weep  over  perishable  clay. 
And  weep! — Oh!  stern  mother,  long  years  were  left  to  thee  for 
weeping!  No  tears  shed  for  Nora  made  such  deep  furrows  on 
the  cheeks  as  thine  did!  Yet  who  ever  saw  them  flow? 

Harley  was  la  great  surprise  to  see  Egerton;  more  surprised 
when  Egerton  told  him  that  he  found  he  was  to  be  opposed-— 
that  he  had  no  chance  of  success -at  Lansmere,  and  had,  there- 
fore, resolved  to  retire  from  the  contest.  He  wrote  to  the  Earl 
to  that  effect;  but  the  Countess  knew  the  true  cause,  and  hinted 
it  to  the  Earl;  so  that,  as  we  saw  at  the  commencement  of  this 
history,  Egerton's  cause  did  not  suffer  when  Captain  Dashmore 
appeared  in  the  borough;  and  thanks  to  Mr.  Hazeldean's  exer- 
tions and  oratory,  Audley  came  in  by  two  votes — the  votes  of 
John  Avenel  and  Mark  Fairfield.  For  though  the  former  had 
been  remo ved  a  little  way  from  the  town,  and  by  medical  advice — 
and  though,  on  other  matters,  the  disease  that  had  smitten  him 
left  him  docile  as  a  child  (and  he  had  but  vague  indistinct  ideas 
of  all  the  circumstances  connected  with  Nora's  return,  save  the 
sense  of  her  loss) — yet  he  still  would  hear  how  the  Blues  went  on, 
and  would  get  out  of  bed  to  keep  his  word ;  and  even  his  wife  said, 
"He  is  right;  better  die  of  it,  than  break  his  promise!"  The  crowd 
gaveway  asthebroken  man  they  hadseen  a  fewdaysbef  ore  so  jovial 
and  healthful  was  brought  up  in  a  chair  to  the  poll, and  said, with 
his  tremulous,  quavering  voice,  "I'm  a  true  Blue — Blue  for  ever! " 

Elections  are  wondrous  things!  No  man  who  has  not  seen 
can  guess  how  the  zeal  in  them  triumphs  over  sickness,  sorrow, 
the  ordinary  private  life  of  us! 

There  was  forwarded  to  Audley,  i/om  Lansmere  Park,  Nora's 
last  letter.  The  postman  had  left  it  there  an  hour  or  two  after 
he  himself  had  gone.  The  wedding-ring  fell  on  the  ground,  and 
rolled  under  his  feet.  And  those  burning,  passionate  reproaches — • 
all  that  anger  of  the  wounded  dove — explained  to  him  the  mys- 
tery of  her  return — her  unjust  suspicions — the  cause  of  her  sud- 
den death,  which  he  still  ascribed  to  brain  fever,  brought  on  by 
excitement  and  fatigue.  For  Nora  did  not  speak  of  the  child 
about  to  be  born;  she  had  not  remembered  it  when  she  wrote, 
or  she  would  not  have  written.  On  the  receipt  of  this  letter, 
Egerton  could  not  remain  in  the  dull  village  district— alone^  too, 
wifch  Harley.  He  said,  abruptly,  that  he  must  go  to  London — 
prevailed  on  L'Estrange  to  accompany  him;  and  there,  when  he 
heard  from  Lady  Lansmere  that  the  funeral  was  over,  he  broke 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  247 

to  Harley,  with  lips  as  white  as.  the  dead,  and  his  hand  pressed 
to  his  heart,  on  which  his  hereditary  disease  was.fastening  quick 
and  fierce,  the  dread  truth  that  Nora  was  no  more.  The  'effect 
upon  the  boy's  health  and  spirits  was  even  more  crushing  than 
Audley  could  anticipate.  He  only  woke  from  grief  to  feel  re- 
morse. "For,"  said  the  noble  Harley,  "had  it  not  been  for  my 
passion— my  rash  pursuit — would  she  ever  have  left  her  safe 
asylum — ever  even  have  left  her  native  town?  And  then — and 
then — the  struggle  between  her  sense  of  duty  and  her  love  to 
me!  I  see  it  all — all!  But  for  me  she  were  living  still!  " 

"Oh,  no!"  cried  Egerton — his  confession  now  rushing  to  his 
lips.  "Believe  me,  she  never  loved  you  as  you  think.  Nay — nay — 
hear  me !  Rather  suppose  that  she  loved  another — fled  with 
him — was  perhaps  married  to  him,  and—" 

"Hold!"  exclaimed  Harley,  with  a  terrible  burst  of  passion— 
"you  kill  her  twice  to  me  if  you  say  that !  I  can  still  feel  that 
she  lives — Hves  here,  in.  my  heart — while  I  dream  that  she  loved 
me — or,  at  least,  that  no  other  lip  ever  knew  the  kiss  that  was 
denied  to  mine  !  But  if  you  tell  me  to  douht  that ;— you — you  ! " 
The  boy's  anguish  was  too  great  for  his  frame  ;  he  fell  suddenly 
back  into  Audley's  arms  ;  he  had  broken  a  blood-vessel.  For 
several  daysihe  was  in  great  danger;  but  his  eyes  were  constantly 
fixed  on  Audley's  with  wistful  intense  gaze.  "Tell  me,"  hemub 
tered,  at  the  risk  of  re-opening  the  ruptured  veins,  and  of  the 
instant  loss  of  life — "tell  me — you  did  not  mean  that!  Tell  me 
you  have  no  cause  to  think  she  loved  another — was  another's  !" 

"  Hush,  hush — no  cause— none — none.  I  meant  but  to  comfort 
you,  as  I  thought — fool  that  I  .was — that  is  all !  "  cried  the  miser- 
able friend.  And  from  that  hour  Audley  gave  up  the  idea  of 
righting  himself  in  his  own  eyes,  and  submitted  still  to  be  the 
living  lie — he,  the  .haughty  gentleman  ! 

Now,  while  Harley  was  still  very  weak  and  suffering,  Mr.  Dale 
came  to  London  and  called  on  Egerton.  The  curate,  in  promising 
secrecy  to  Mrs.  Avenel,  had  made  one  condition,  that  it  should 
not  be  to  the  positive  injury  of  Nora's  living  son.  What  if  Nora 
were  married,  after  all?  And  would  it  not  be  right,  at  least,  to 
learn  the  name  of  the  child's  father?  Some  day  he  might  need  a 
father.  Mrs.  Avenel  was  obliged  to  content  herself  with  these 
reservations.  However,  she  implored  Mr.  Dale  not  to  make  in- 
quiries. What  could  they  do?  If  Nora  were  married,  her  husband 
would  naturally,  of  his  own  accord,  declare  himself;  if  seduced 
and  forsaken,  it  would  but  disgrace  her  memory  (now  saved  from 
stain)  to  discover  the  father  to  a  child  of  whose  very  existence 
the  world  as  yet  knew  nothing.  These  arguments  perplexed  the 


243  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

good  curate.  But  Jane  Fairfield  had  a  sanguine  belief  in  her 
sister's  innocence  ;  and  all  her  suspicions  naturally  pointed  to 
Lord  L' Estrange.  So,  indeed,  perhaps,  did  Mrs.  Avenel's,  though 
she  never  owned  them.  Of  the  correctness  of  these  suspicions 
Mr.  Dale  was  fully  convinced  ; — the  young  lord's  admiration, 
Lady  Lansmere's  fears,  had  been  too  evident  to  one  who  had  often 
visited  at  the  Park — Harley's  abrupt  departure  just  before  Nora's 
return  home — Egerton's  sudden  resignation  of  the  borough  before 
even  opposition  was  declared,  in  order  to  rejoin  his  friend,  the 
very  day  of  Nora's  death — all  confirmed  his  ideas  that  Harley 
was  the  betrayer  or  the  husband.  Perhaps  there  might  have  been  a 
secret  marriage — possibly  abroad — since  Harley  wanted  some 
years  of  his  majority.  He  would,  at  least,  try  to  see  and  to  sound 
Lord  L'Estrange.  Prevented  this  interview  by  Harley's  illness, 
the  curate  resolved  to  ascertain  how  far  he  could  penetrate  into 
the  mystery  by  a  conversation  with  Egerton.  There  was  much  in 
the  grave  repute  which  the  latter  had  acquired,  and  the  singular 
and  pre-eminent  character  for  truth  and  honor  with  which  it  was 
accompanied,  that  made  the  curate  resolve  upon  this  step. 
Accordingly,  he  saw  Egerton,  meaning  only  diplomatically  to 
extract  from  the  new  member  for  Lansmere  what  might  benefit 
the  family  of  the  voters  who  had  given  him  his  majority  of  two. 

He  began  by  mentioning,  as  a  touching  fact,  how  poor  John 
Avenel^  bowed  down  by  the  loss  of  his  child,  and  the  malady 
which  had  crippled  his  limbs  and  enfeebled  his  mind,  had  still 
risen  from  his  bed  to  keep  his  word.  And  Audley's  emotions 
seemed  to  him  so  earnest  and  genuine,  to  show  so  good  a  heart, 
that  out  by  little  and  little  came  more  ;  first,  his  suspicions  that 
poor  Nora  had  been  betrayed  ;  then  his  hopes  that  there  might 
have  been  a  private  marriage  ;  and  as  Audley,  with  his  iron 
self-command,  showed  just  the  proper  degree  of  interest,  and 
no  more,  he  went  on,  till  Audley  knew  that  he  had  a  child. 

"Inquire  no  further  !"  said  the  man  of  the  world.  "Respect 
Mrs.  Avenel's  feelings  and  wishes,  I  entreat  you ;  they  are  the 
right  ones.  Leave  the  rest  to  me.  In  my  position— I  mean  as  a 
resident  of  London — I  can  quietly  and  easily  ascertain  more  than 
you  could,  and  provoke  no  scandal !  If  I  can  right  this — this 
— poor  (his  voice  trembled) — right  the  lost  mother,  or  the  living 
child — sooner  or  later  you  will  hear  from  me  ;  if  not,  bury  this 
secret  where  it  now  rests,  in  a  grave  which  slander  has  not  reached. 
But  the  child — give  me  the  address  where  it  is  to  be  found — 
in  case  I  succeed  in  finding  the  father,  and  touching  his  heart." 

"Oh,  Mr,  Egerton,  may  I  not  say  where  you  may  find  that 
father — who  he  is  ? " 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  249 

"Sir!" 

"  Do  not  be  angry;  and  after  all,  I  cannot  ask  you  to  betray  any 
confidence  which  a  friend  may  have  placed  in  you.  I  know  what 
you  men  of  high  honor  are  to  each  other — even  in  sin.  No,  no — I 
beg  pardon ;  I  leave  all  in  your  hands.  I  shall  hear  from  you  then?" 

"  Or  if  not — why,  then,  believe  that  all  search  is  hopeless. 
My  friend  !  if  you  mean  Lord  L'Estrange,  he  is  innocent.  I — 
I — I  (the  voice  faltered) — am  convinced  of  it." 

The  curate  sighed,  but  made  no  answer.  "Oh,  ye  men  of  the 
world!"  thought  he.  He  gave  the  address  which  the  member 
for  Lansmere  had  asked  for,  and  went  his  way,  and  never  heard 
again  from  Audley  Egerton.  He  was  convinced  that  the  man 
who  had  shown  such  deep  feeling  had  failed  in  his  appeal  to  Har- 
ley's  conscience,  or  had  judged  it  best  to  leave  Nora's  name  in 
peace,  and  her  child  to  her  own  relations  and  the  care  of  Heaven. 

Harley  L'Estrange,  scarcely  yet  recovered,  hastened  to  join 
our  armies  on  the  continent,  and  seek  the  Death  which,  like  its 
half-brother,  rarely  comes  when  we  call  it. 

As  soon  as  Harley  was  gone,  Egerton  went  to  the  village  to 
which  Mr.  Dale  had  directed  him,  to  seek  for  Nora's  child. 
But  here  he  was  led  into  a  mistake  which  materially  affected  the 
tenor  of  his  own  life,  and  Leonard's  future  destinies.  Mrs.  Fair- 
field  had  been  naturally  ordered  by  her  mother  to  take  another 
name  in  the  village  to  which  she  had  gone  with  the  two  infants, 
so  that  her  connection  with  the  Avenel  family  might  not  be 
traced,  to  the  provocation  of  inquiry  and  gossip.  The  grief  and 
excitement  through  which  she  had  gone  dried  the  source  of  nu- 
triment in  her  breast.-  She  put  Nora's  child  out  to  nurse  at  the 
house  of  a  small  farmer,  at  a  little  distance  from  the  village,  and 
moved  from  her  first  lodging  to  be  nearer  to  the  infant.  Her  own 
child  was  so  sickly  and  ailing,  that  she  could  not  bear  to  entrust 
it  to  the  care  of  another.  She  tried  to  bring  it  up  by  hand;  and 
the  poor  child  soon  pined  away  and  died.  She  and  Mark  could 
not  endure  the  sight  of  their  baby's  grave;  they  hastened  to 
return  to  Hazeldean,  and  took  Leonard  with  them.  From  that 
time  Leonard  passed  for  the  son  they  had  lost. 

When  Egerton  arrived  at  the  village,  and  inquired  for  the 
person  whose  address  had  been  given  to  him,  he  was  referred 
to  the  cottage  in  which  she  had  last  lodged,  and  was  told  that 
she  had  been  gone  some  days — the  day  after  her  child  was  buried. 
Her  child  buried  !  Egerton  stayed  to  inquire  no  more  ;  thus  he 
heard  nothing  of  the  infant  that  had  been  put  out  to  nurse.  He 
walked  slowly  into  the  churchyard,  and  stood  for  some  minutes 
gazing  on  the  small  new  mound  ;  then,  pressing  his  hand  on  the 


250  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

heart  to  which  all  emotion  had  been  forbidden,  he  re-entered  his 
chaise  and  returned  to  London.  The  sole  reason  for  acknowl- 
edging, his  marriage  seemed  to  him  now  removed.  Nora's  name 
had  escaped  reproach.  Even  had  his  painful  position  with  re- 
gard to  Harley  not  constrained  him  to  preserve  his  secret,  there 
was  every  motive  to  the  World's  wise  and  haughty  son  not  to 
acknowledge  a  derogatory  and  foolish  marriage,  now  that  none 
lived  whom  concealment  could  wrong, 

Audley  mechanically  resumed  his  former  life — sought  to  re- 
settle his  thoughts  on  the  grand  objects  of  ambitious  men.  His 
poverty  still  pressed  on  him  ;  his  pecuniary  debt  to  Harley  stung 
and  galled  his  peculiar  sense  of  honor.  He  saw  no  way  to  clear 
his  estates,  to  repay  his  friend,  but  by  some  rich  alliance.  Dead 
to  love,  he  faced  this:  prospect  first  with  repugnance,  then  with 
apathetic  indifference.  Levy,  of  whose  treachery  toward  himself 
and  Nora  he  was.  unaware,  still  held  over  him  the  power  that 
the  money-lender  never  loses  over  the  man  that  has  owed,  owes, 
or  may  owe  again.  Levy  was  .-ever  urging  him  to  propose  to  the 
rich  Aliss  Leslie  ;— Lady  Lansmere,  willing  to  atone  as  she 
thought,  for  his  domestic  loss,  urged  the  same ; — Harley,  influ- 
enced by  his  mother,  wrote  froip  the  Continent  to  the  same  effect. 

"Manage  it  as  you  will,"  at  last  said  Egerton  to  Levy,  "so 
that  I  am  not  a  wife's  pensioner." 

"  Propose  for  me,  if  you  will,"  he  said  to  Lady  Lansmere  — 
"I  cannot  woo — I  cannot  talk  of  love." 

Somehow  or  other  the  marriage,  with  all  its  rich  advantages 
to  the  ruined  gentleman,  was  thus  made  up.  And  Egerton,  as 
we  have  seen,  was  the  polite  and  dignified  husband  before  the 
world — married  to  a  woman  who  adored  him.  It  is  the  com- 
mon fate  of  men  like  him  to  be  loved  too  well ! 

On  her  death-bed  his  heart  was. touched  by  his  wife's  melan- 
choly reproach — "  Nothing  I  could  do  has  ever  made  you  love 
me !  "  "  It  is  true,"  answered  Audley,  with  tears  in  his  voice 
and  eyes—"  Nature  gave  me  .but  a  small  fund  of  what  women 
like  you  call  'love,'  and  I  lavished  it  all  away."  And  he  then 
told  her,  though  with  reserve,,  some  portion  of  his  former  his- 
tory; arid  that  soothed  her ;  for  when  she  saw  that  he  had 
loved,  and  could  grieve,  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  human  heart 
she  tiadnot  seen  before.  She  died,  forgiving  him,  and  blessing. 

Audley's  spirits  were  much  affected  by  this  new  loss.  He 
inly  resolved  never  to  marry  again.  He  had  a  vague  thought 
at  first  of  retrenching  his  expenditures,  and  making  young  Ran- 
dal Leslie  his  heir.  But  when  he  first  saw  the  clever  Eton  boy, 
his-feelings  did  not  warm  to  him,  though  his  intellect  appreciated 


JSH    LIFE.  251 

Randal's  quick,  keen  talents.  He  contented  himself  with  re- 
solving to  push  the  boy  ; — to  do  what  was  merely  just  to  the  dis- 
tant kinsman  of  his  late  wife.  Always  careless  and  lavish  in 
money  matters,  generous  and  princely,  not  from  the  delight  of 
serving  others,  but  from  a  grand  seigneur's  sentiment  of  what 
was  due  to  himself  and  his  station,  Audley  had  a  mournful 
excuse  for  the  lordly  waste  of  the  large  fortune  at  his  control. 
The  morbid  functions  of  the  heart  had  become  organic  disease. 
True,  he  might  live  many  years,  and  die  at  last  of  some  other 
complaint  in  the  course  of  nature  ;  but  the  progress  of  the  dis- 
ease would  quicken  with  all  emotional  excitement ; — he  might 
die  suddenly — any  day- — in  the  very  prime,  and,  seemingly,  in 
the  full  vigor  of  his  life.  And  the  only  physiciaH  in  whom  he 
confided  what  he  wished  to  keep  concealed  from  the  world  (for 
ambitious  men  would  fain  be  thought  immortal),  told  him 
frankly  that  it  was  improbable  that,  with  the  wear  and  tear  of 
political  strife  and  action,  he  could  advance  far  into  middle:age. 
Therefore,  no  son  of  his  succeeding — his  nearest  relations  all 
wealthy — Egerton  resigned  himself  to  his  constitutional  disdain 
of  money;  he  could  look  into  no  affairs,  provided  the  balance 
in  his  banker's  hands  were  such  as  became  the  munificent  com- 
moner. All  else  he  left  to  his  steward  and  to  Levy.  Levy 
grew  rapidly  rich — very,  very  rich — and  the  steward  thrived. 

The  usurer  continued  to  possess  a  determined  hold  over  the 
imperious  great  man.  He  knew  Audley's  secret;  he  could  reveal 
that  secret  to  Harley.  And  the  one  soft  and 'tender  side  of  the 
statesman's  nature — the  sole  part  of  him  not  dipped  in  the  nine- 
fold Styx  of  practical  prosaic  life,  which  renders  man  so  invul- 
nerable to  affection — was  his  remorseful  love  for  the  school- 
friend  whom  he  still  deceived. 

Here,  then,  you  have  the  key  to  the  locked  chambers  of  Aud- 
ley Egerton's  character,  the  fortified  castle  of  his  mind.  The 
envied  minister — the  joyless  man  ; — the  oracle  on  the  economies 
of  an  empire — the  prodigalin  a  usurer's  hands;  the  august, 
high-crested  gentleman,  to  whom  princes  would  refer  for  the 
casuistry  of  honor — ^the  culprit,  trembling  lest  the  friend  he 
best  loved  on  earth  should  detect  his  lie  !  Wrap  thyself  in  the 
decent  veil  that  the  Arts  or  the  Graces  weave  for  thee,  O  Human 
nature !  It  is  only  the  statue  of  marble  whose  nakedness  the  eye 
can  behold  without  shame  and  offence. 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

OF  the  narrative  just  placed  before  the  reader,  it  is  clear  that 
Leonard  could  gather  only  desultory  fragments.  He  could  but 


252  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

see  that  his  ill-fated  mother  had  been  united  to  a  man  she  had 
loved  with  surpassing  tenderness ;  had  been  led  to  suspect  that 
the  marriage  was  fraudulent;  had  gone  abroad  in  despair,  re- 
turned repentant  and  hopeful ;  had  gleaned  some  intelligence 
that  her  lover  was  about  to  be  married  to  another,  and  there  the 
manuscript  closed  with  the  blisters  left  on  the  page  by  agonizing 
tears.  The  mournful  end  of  Nora— her  lonely  return  to  die 
under  the  roof  of  her  parents — this  he  had  learned  before  from 
the  narrative  of  Dr.  Morgan. 

But  even  the  name  of  her  supposed  husband  was  not  revealed. 
Of  him  Leonard  could  form  no  conjectures,  except  that  he  was 
evidently  of  higher  rank  than  Nora.  Harley'L'Estrange  seemed 
clearly  indicated  in  the  early  boy-lover.  If  so,  Harley  must 
know  all  that  was. left  dark  to  Leonard,  and  to  him  Leonard  re- 
solved to  confide  the  manuscript.  With  this  resolution  he  left 
the  cottage,  resolving  to  return  and  attend  the  funeral  obsequies  of 
his  departed  friend.  Mrs,  Goodyer  willingly  permitted  him  to  take 
away  the  papers  she  had  lent  him,  and  added  to  them  the  packet 
which  had  been  addressed  to  Mrs.  Bertram  from  the-jCpnlinent. 

Musing  in  anxious  gloom  over  the  record  he  had  read,  Leon- 
ard entered  London  on  foot,  and  bent  his  way  toward  Harley's 
hotel  ;  when,  just  as  he 'had  crossed  into  Bond  Street,  a  gentle- 
man in  company  with  Baron  Levy,  and  who  seemed,  by  the 
flush  .on  his  brow  and  the  sullen  tone  of  his  voice,  to  have 
had  rather  an  irritating  colloquy  with  the  fashionable  usurer, 
suddenly  caught  sight  of  Leonard,  and,  abruptly  quitting  Levy, 
seized  the  young  man  by  the  arm. 

"Excuse  me,  sir,"  said  the  gentleman,  looking  hard  into 
Leonard's  face  ;  "but  unless  these  sharp  eyes  of  mine  are  mis- 
taken, which  they  seldom  are,  I  see  a  nephew  whom,  perhaps,  I 
behaved  to  rather  too  harshly,  but  who  still  has  no  right  to  for- 
get Richard  Avenel." 

"  My  dear  uncle,"  exclaimed  Leonard,  "  this  is  indeed  a  joyful 
surprise;  at  a  time,  too,  when  I  needed  joy.  No;  I  have  never  for- 
gotten your  kindness,  and  always  regretted  our  estrangement." 

"  That  is  well  said  ;  give  us  your  fist  again.  Let  me  look  at 
you — quite. the  .gentleman,  I  declare! — still  so  good-looking  too. 
We  Avenel^  always  were  a  handsome  family.  Good-bye,  Baron 
Levy.  Need  not  wait  for  me  ;  I  am  not  going  to  run  away.  I 
shall  see  you  again  soon." 

"  But,"  whispered  Levy,  who  had  followed  Avenel  across  the 
street,and  eyed  Leonard  with  a  quick,  curious,searching  glance — 
"  but  it  must  be  as  I  said  with  regard  to  the  borough;  or  (to  be 

plain)  you  must  cash  the  bills  on  the  day  they  are  due." 

j  ,      j 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  253 

"Very  well,  sir — very  well.  So  you  think  to  put  the  screw- 
on  me,  as  if  I  were  a  poor  little  householder.  I  understand — 
my  money  or  my  borough  ?  " 

"  Exactly  so,"  said  the  Baron,  with  a  soft  smile. 

"  You  shall  hear  from  me.  [Aside,  as  Levy  strolled  away.] — 
D — d,  tarnation  rascal!  " 

Dick  Avenel  then  linked  his  arm  in  his  nephew's,  and  strove 
for  some  minutes  to  fdrget  his  own  troubles,  in  the  indulgence 
of  that  curiosity  in  the  affairs  of  another  which  was  natural  to  him, 
and  in  this  instance,  increased  by  the  real  affection  which  he  had 
felt  for  Leonard.  But  still  his  curiosity  remained  unsatisfied;  for 
long  before  Leonard  could  overcome  his  habitual  reluctance  to 
speak  of  his  success,  Dick's  mind  wandered  t>aek  to  his  rival  at 
Screwstown  and  the  curse  of  "  over-competition, "•«— to  the  bills 
which  Levy  had  discounted,  in  order  to  enable  Dick  to  meet 
the  crushing  force  of  a  capitalist  larger  than  himself — and  the 
"  tarnation  rascal  "  who  now  wished  to  obtain  two  seats  at  Lans- 
mere,  one  for  Randal  Leslie,  one  for  a  rich  Nabob  whom  Levy 
had  just  caught  as  a;client;  and  Dick,though  willing  to  aid  Leslie, 
had  a  mind  to  the  other  seat  himself.  Therefore  Dick  soon  broke 
in  upon  the  hesitating  confessions  of  Leonard, with  exclamations 
far  from  pertinent  to  the  subject,  and  rather  for  the  sake  of 
venting  his  own  griefs  and  resentment,  than  with  any  idea  that 
the  sympathy  or  advice  of  his  nephew  could  serve. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  Dick,  "  another  time  for  your  history.  I 
see  you  have  thrived,  and  that  is  enough  for  the  present.  Very 
odd;  but  just  now  I  can  only  think  of  myself.  I'm  in  a  regular 
fix,  sir.  Screwstown  is  not  the  respectable  Screwstown  that  you 
remember  it— all  demoralized  and  turned  topsy-turvy  by  a  de- 
moniacal monster  capitalist,with  steam-engines  that  might  bring 
the  falls  of  Niagara  into  your  back  parlor,  sir!  And  as;if  that  was 
not  enough  to  destroy  and  drive  into-almighty  shivers  a  decent 
fair-play  Britisher  like  myself,  I  hear  he  is  just  in  treaty  for  some 
patent  infernal  invention  that  will  make  his  engines  do  twice  as 
much  work  with  half  as  many  hands!  That's  the  way  those  un- 
feeling ruffians  increase  our  poor-rates!  But  I'll  get  up  a  riot 
against  him— I  will!  Don't  talk  to  me  of  the  law!  What  the  devil 
is  the  good  of  the  law,  if  it  don't  protect  a  man's  industry — a 
liberal  man,  too,  like  me  !  "  Here  Dick  burst  into  a  storm  of 
rituperation  against  the  rotten  old  country  m  general,  and  Mr. 
Dyce,  the  monster  capitalist  of  Screwstown,  in  particular. 

Leonard  started  ;  for  Dick  now  named,  in  that  monster  cap- 
italist, the  very  person  who  was  in  treaty  for  Leonard's  own 
mechanical  improvement  on  the:  steam-engine. 


254  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  Stop,  uncle — stop!  Why,  then,  if  this  man  were  to  bAiy  the 
contrivance  you  speak  of,  it  would  injure  you  ?  ". 

"  Injure  me,  sir  !  I  should  be  a  bankrupt — that  is,  if  it  suc- 
ceeded ;  but  I  dare  say  it  is  all  a  humbug." 

"  No,  it  will  succeed — I'll;  answer  for  that !  " 

"  You!     You  have  seen  it  ?*' 

"Why,  I  invented  it." 

Dick  hastily  withdrew  his  arm  from  Leonard's. 

"  Serpent's  tooth  !  "  he  said,  falteringly;  "  so  it  is  you,\vhom  I 
warmed  at  my  hearth,  who  are  to  ruin  Richard  Avenel  ?  " 

'*  No— but  to  save  him!  Come  into  the  city  and  look  at  my 
model.  If  you  like  it  the  patent  shall  be  yours  !  " 

"  Cab — cab — cab,"  cried  Dick  Avenel,  stopping  a  "Hansom  "; 
"jump  in,  Leonard— jump  in.  I'll  buy  your  patent — that  is,  if 
it  be  worth  a  straw ;  and  as  for  payment—" 

"  Payment  !     Don't  talk  of  that." 

"  Well,  I  won't,"  said  Dick  mildly ;  "for  'tis  not  the  topic  of 
conversation  I  should  choose  myself,  just  at  present.  And  as  for 
that  black-whiskered  alligator,  the  Baron,  let  me  first  get  out  of 
those  rambustious,  unchristian,  filbert-shaped  claws  of  his,  and 
then — But  jump  in— jump  in — and  tell  the  man  where  to  drive!" 

A  very  brief  inspection  of  Leonard's  invention  sufficed  to  show 
Richard  Avenel  how  invaluable  it  would  be  to  him.  Armed  with 
a  patent,  of  which  the  certain  effects  in  the  increase  of  power 
and  diminution  of  labor  were  obvious  to  any  practical  man, 
Avenel  felt  that  he  should  have  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  such 
advances  of  money  as  he  required,,  whether  to  alter  his  engines, 
meet  the  .bills  discounted  by  Levy,  or  carry  on  the  war  with  the 
monster  capitalist.  It  might  be  necessary  to  admit  into  partner- 
ship some  other  monster  capitalist— What  then  ?  Any  partner 
better  than  Levy.  A  bright  idea  struck  him. 

"  If  I  can  just  terrify  and  whop  that  infernal  intruder  on  my 
own  ground,  for  a  few  months,  he  may  offer,  himself,  to  enter 
into  partnership — make  the  two  concerns  a  joint-stock  friendly 
combination,  and  then  we  shall  flog  the  world." 

His  gratitude  to  Leonard  became  so  lively*  that  Dick  offered 
to  bring  his  nephew  in  for.Lansmere  instead  of  himself;  and 
when  Leonard  declined  the  offer,  exclaimed,  "Well  then,  any 
friend  of  yours;  I'm  all  for  reform  against  those  high  and  mighty 
right  honorable  borough-mongers;  and  what  with  loans  and  mort- 
gages on  the  small  house-holders,  and  a  long  course  of  '  Free 
and  Easies '  with  the  independent  freemen,  I  carry  ohe  seat  cer- 
tain, perhaps  both  seats  of  the  town  of  Lansmere,  in  my  breeches- 
pocket."  Dick,  then,  appointing  an  interview  with  Leonard  at 


VARIETIES    IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  255 

his  lawyers,  to  settle  the  transfer  of  the  invention,  upon  terms, 
which  he  declared  "  should  be  honorable  to  both  parties,"  hurried 
off, to  search  amongst  his  friends  in  the  city  for  some  monster  cap- 
italist, who  might  be  induced  to  extricate  him  from  the  jaws  of 
Levy,  and  the  engines  of  his  rival  at  Screwstown.  "  Mulling  is 
the  man  if  I  can. catch  him,"  said  Dick.  "You  have  heard  of 
Muilins? — A  wonderful  great  man  ;  you  should  see  his  nails  ; 
he  never  cuts  them  I  Three  millions,  at  least,  he  has  scraped 
together  with  those  nails  of  his,  sir.  And  in  this  rotten  old  coun- 
try, a  man  must  have  nails  a  yard  long  to  fight  with  a  devil  like 
Levy! — Good-bye — good-6ye, — GOOD-bye,  my  DEAR  nephew  ! " 
. 

CHAPTER  XX. 

• 

HARLEY  L'ESTRANGE  was  seated  alone  in  his  apartments.  He 
had  just  put  down  a  volume  of  some  favorite  classic  author,  and 
was  resting  his  hand  firmly  clenched  upon  the  book.  Ever  since 
Harley's  return  to  England,  there  had  been  a* perceptible  change 
in  the  expression  of  his  countenance,  even  in  the  very  bearing 
and  attitudes  of  his  elastic  youthful  figure.  But  this  change  had 
been  more  marked  since  that  last  interview  with  Helen  which 
has  been  recorded.  There  was  a  compressed,  resolute  firmness 
in  the  lips — a  decided  character  in  the  brow.  To  the  indolent, 
careless  grace  of  his  movements  had  succeeded  a  certain  inde- 
scribable energy,  as  quiet  and  self-collected  as  that  which  dis- 
tinguished the  determined  air  of  Audley  Egerton  himself.  In 
fact,  if  you  could  have  looked  into  his  heart,  you  would  have 
seen  that  Harley  was,  for  the  first  time,  making  a  strong  effort 
over  his  passions  and  his  humors;  that  the  whole  man  was  nerv* 
ing  himself  to  a  sense  of  duty.  "  No,"  he  muttered — "no — I  will 
think  only  of  Helen;  I. will  think  only  of  real  life!  And  what 
(were  I  not  engaged  to  another)  would  that  dark-eyed  Italian 
girl  be  to  me? — What  a  mere  fool's  fancy  is  this!  I  love  again! — 
I,  who  through  all  the  fair  spring  of  my  life,  have  clung  with 
such  faith  to  amemoryand  a  grave!  Come, come, come,  Harley 
L'Estrange,  act  thy  part  as  man  amongst  men  at  last!  Accept 
regard;  dream  no  more  of  passion.  Abandon  false  ideal.  Thou 
art  no  poet — why  deem  that  life  itself  can  be  a  poem  ?  " 

The.  door  opened,  and  the  Austrian  Prince,  whom  Harley  had 
interested  in  the  cause  of  Violante's  father,  entered  with  the 
familiar  step  of  a  friend. 

"  Have  you  discovered  those  documents  yet  ? "  said  the  Prince. 
"I  must  now  return  to  Vienna  within  a  few  days.  And  unless 
you  can  arm  me  with  some  tangible  proof  of  Peschiera's  ancient 


256  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

treachery,  or  some  more  unanswerable  excuse  for  his  noble  kins- 
man, I  fear  that  there  is  no  other  hope  for  the  exile's  recall  to 
his  country  than  what  lies  in  the  hateful  option  of  giving  his 
daughter  to  his  perfidious- foe." 

"  Alas ! "  said  Harley,  "  as  yet  all  researches  have  been  in  vain; 
and  I  know  not  what  other  steps  to  take,  without  arousing  Peschi- 
era's vigilance,  and  setting  his  crafty  brains  at  work  to  counter- 
act us.  My  poor  friend,  then,  must  rest  contented  with  exile. 
To  give  Violante  to  the  Count  were  dishonor.  But  I  shall  soon 
be  married;  soon  have  a  home,  not  quite  unworthy  of  their  due 
rank,  to  offer  both  to  father  and  to  child." 

"Would  the  future  Lady  L'Estrange  feel  no  jealousy  of  a 
guest  so  fair  as  you  tell  me  this  young  gignorina  is  ?  And  would 
you  be  in  no  danger  yourself,  my  friend?" 

"Pooh!?"  said  Harley,coloring.  "My  fair  guest  would  haye/ttw 
fathers;  that  is  all.  Pray  do  aot  jest  on  a  thing  so  grave  as  honor." 

Again  the  door  opened,  and  Leonard  appeared. 

"  Welcome,"  cried  Harley,  pleased  to  be  no  longer  alone  under 
the  Prince's  penetrating  eye — "Welcome,  This  is  the  noble 
friend  who  shares  our  interest  for  Riccabocca,  and  who  could 
serve  him  so  well,  if  we  could  but  discover  the  document  of 
which  I  have  spoken  to  you." 

"  It ris  here,"  said  Leonard,  simply;  "may  it  be  all  ithat  you 
require  !  " 

Harley  eagerly  grasped  at  the  packet,  which  had  been  sent 
from  Italy  to  the  supposed  Mrs.  Bertram,  and,  leaning  his  face 
on  his  hand,  rapidly  hurried  through  the  contents. 

"Hurrah  !"  he  cried  at  last,  with  his  face  lighted  up,  and  a 
boyish  toss  of  his  right  hand.  "Look,  look,  Prince, .here  are 
Peschiera's  own  letters  to  his  kinsman's  wife;  'his  avowal  of  what 
he  calls  his  'patriotic  designs';  his  entreaties  to  her  to  induce 
her  husband  to  share  them.  Look,  look,  how  he  wields  his  in- 
fluence over  the  woman  he  had  once  wooed;  look  how  artfully 
he  combats  her  objections;  see  how  reluctant  .our  friend  was.  to 
stir,  till  wife  and  kinsman  both  united  to  urge  him." 
•.  "It -is  enough — quite  enough,"  exclaimed  the  Prince,  looking 
at  the  passages  in  Peschiera's  letters  which  Harley  pointed  out 
to  him. 

"  No,  it  is  not  enough,"  shouted  Harley,  as  he  continued  to 
read  the1  letters  with  his  rapid  sparkling  eyes.  "More  still !  O 
villain,  doubly  damned  !  Here,  after  our  friend's  flight,  here  is 
Peschiera's  avowal  of  guilty  passion;  here  he  swears  that  he  had 
intrigued  to  ruin  his  benefactor,  in  order  to  pollute  the  home 
that  had  sheltered  him.  Ah!  see  how  she  answers;  thank  Heaven, 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  257 

her  own  eyes  were  opened  at  last,  and  she  scorned  him  before  she 
died.  She  was  innocent!  I  said  so !  Violante's  mother  was  pure. 
Poor  lady!  this  moves  me.  Has  yourEmperor  the  heart  of  a  man?" 

"  I  know  enough  of  our  Emperor,"  answered  the  Prince,  warm- 
ly, "to  know  that  the  moment  these  papers  reach  him,  Peschiera 
is  ruined,  and  your  friend  is  restored  to  his  honors.  You  will 
live  to  see  the  daughter,  to  whom  you  would  have  given  a  child's 
place  at  your  hearth,  the  wealthiest  heiress  of  Italy— the  bride  of 
some  noble  lover,  with  rank  only  below  the  supremacy  of  kings!  " 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Harley,  in  a  sharp  accent,  and  turning  very  pale— 
"ah,  I  shall  not  see  her  that!  I  shall  never  visit  Italy  again  ! 
never  see  her  more — never,  after  she  has  once  quitted  this  cli- 
mate of  cold  iron  cares  and  formal  duties — never,  never !"'  He 
turned  his  head  for  a  moment,  and  then  came  with  quick  step 
to  Leonard.  "  But  you,  O  happy  poet !  No  Ideal  can  ever  be 
lost  to  you.  You  are  independent  of  real  life.  Would  that  I 
were  a  poet !."  He  smiled  sadly. 

"You  would  not  say  so,  perhaps,  my  dear  lord,"  answered 
Leonard,  with  equal  sadness,  "if  you  knew  how  little  what  you 
call  '  the  Ideal,'  replaces  to  a  poet  th£  loss  of  one  affection  in  the 
genial  human  world.  Independent  of  real  life  !  Alas  !  no.  And 
I  have  here  the  confessions  of  a  true  poet-soul,  which  I  will  en- 
treat you  to  read  at  leisure;  and  when,  you  have  read,  say  if  you 
would  still  be  a  poet ! " 

He  took  forth  Nora's  manuscripts  as  he  spoke., 

"Place  them  yonder,  in  my  escritoire,  Leonard;  I  will  read 
them  later." 

"Do  so,  and  with  heed  ;  for  to  me  there  is  much  here  that 
involves  my  own  life— much  that  is  still  a  mystery,  and  which  I 
think  you  can  unravel ! " 

"  I ! "  exclaimed  Harley  ;  and  he  was  moving  toward  the  escri- 
toire,  in  a  drawer  of  which  Leonard  had"  carefully  deposited  the 
papers,  when,  once  more,  but  this  time  violently,  the  door  was 
thrown  open,  and  Giacomo  rushed  into  the  room,  accompanied 
by  Lady  Lansmere. 

"Oh,  my  lord !"  cried  Giacomo,  in  Italian,  "the  signdrina ! 
the  sighorina  !— Violante  ! " 

"Whatofher?  Moth er,  mother !  what  of  her  ?  Speak,  speak  !" 

"  She  has  gone — left  our  house  ! " 

"Left!  No,  no!"  cried  Giacomo.  "She  must  have  been 
deceived  or  forced  away.  The  Count !  the  Count !  Oh,  my  good 
lord,  save  her,  as  you  once  saved  her  father!" 

"Hold!"  cried  Harley.  "Give  me  your  arm,  mother.  A 
second  such  blow  in  life  is  beyond  the  strength  of  man — at  least 


258  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

it  is  beyond  mine.  Stand  back,  all  of  you — give  me  air.  So 
the  Count  has  triumphed,  and  Violante  has  fled  with  him !  Ex- 
plain all,  I  can  bear  it  !" 

BOOK  TWELFTH.— INITIAL   CHAPTER 

< 

WHEREIN  THE    CAXTON  FAMILY  REAPPEAR. 

"AGAIN,"  quoth  my  father — "again  behold  us !  We  who 
greeted  the  commencement  of  your  narrative,  who  absented  our- 
selves in  the  mid-course  when 'we  could  but  obstruct  the  cur- 
rent of  e,vents,  and  jostle  personages  more  important — we  now 
gather  round  the  close.  Still  as  the  chorus  to  the  drama,  we 
circle  round  thealtar.with  the  solemn  but  dubious  chant  which 
prepares  the  audience  for  the  completion  of  the  appointed  des- 
tinies; though  still,  ourselves,  unaware  how  the  skein  is  to  be 
unravelled,  and  where  the  shears  are  to  descend." 

So  there  they  stood,  the  Family  of  Caxton— all  grouping 
round  me — all  eager  officiously  to  question — some  over- anxious 
prematurely  to  criticise. 

:  "  Violante  can't  have  voluntarily  gone  off  with  that  horrid 
Count,"  said  my  mother;  "but,  perhaps  she  was 'deceived,  like 
Eugenia  by  Mr.  Bellamy,  in  the  novel  of  '  CAMILLA.'  " 

"  Ha  !"  said  my  father,  "and  in  that  case  it  is  time  yet,  to,  steal 
a -hint  from  Clarissa  Harlowe,  and  make  Violante  die  less  of  a 
broken  heart  than  a  sullied  honor.  She  is  one  of  those  girls  who 
ought  to  be  killed!  All  things  about  her  forebode  an  early  tomb  !" 

"  Dear,  dear  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Caxton,  "  I  hope  not ! " 

"  Pooh,  brother,"  said  the  Captain,  "we  have  had  enough  of 
the  tomb  in  the  history  of  poor  Nora.  The  whole  story  grows 
out  pf  a  grave,  and  if  to  a  grave  it  must  return — if,  Pisistratus, 
you  must  kill  somebody,  kill  Levy." 

"Or  the  Count,"  said  my  mother,  with  unusual  truculence. 

"  Or  Randal  Leslie,"  said  Squills.  "I  should  like  to  have  a  post' 
mortem  cast  of  his  head — it  would  be  an  instructive  study." 

Here  there  was  a  general  confusion  of  tongues,  all  present 
conspiring  to  bewilder  the  unfortunate  author  with  their  various 
and  discordant  counsels  how  to  wind  up  his  story  and  dispose 
of  his  characters. 

"  Silence  !  "  cried  Pisistratus,  clapping  his  hands  to  both  ears. 
"  I  can  no  more  alter  the  fate  allotted  to  each  of  the  personages 
whom  you  honor  with  your  interest  than  I  can  change  your  own; 
like  you,  they  must  go  where  events  lead  them,  urged  on  by 
their  own  characters  and  the  agencies  of  others.  Providence  s<? 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  259 

pervadingly  governs  the  universe,  that  you  cannot  strike  it  even 
out  of  a  book.  The  author  may  beget  a  character,  but  the 
moment  the  character  comes  into  action,  it  escapes  from  his 
hands — plays  its  own  part,  and  fulfils  its  own  inevitable  doom." 

"  Besides,"  said  Mr.  Squills,  "it  is  easy  to  see,  from  the  phren- 
ological development  of  the  organs  in  those  several  heads  which 
Pisistratus  has  allowed  us  to  examine,  that  we  have  seen  no 
creations  of  mere  fiction,  but  living  persons,  whose  true  history 
has  set  in  movement  their  various  bumps  of  Amativeness,  Con- 
structiveness,,  Acquisitiveness,  Ideality,  Wonder,  Comparison, 
etc.  They  must  act,  and  they  must  end,  according  to  the  influ- 
ences of  their  crania.  Thus  we  find  in  Randal  Leslie  the  pre- 
dominant organ  of  Constructiveness,  Secretiveness,  Comparison, 
and  Eventuality — -while  Benevolence,  Conscientiousness,  Ad- 
hesiveness, are  utterly////.  Now,,  to. divine  hpw  such  "a  man  must 
end,  we  must  first  see  what  is  the  general  composition  of  the 
society  in  which  he  moves, — in  short,  what  other  gases -are 
brought  into  contact  with  his  phlogiston.  As  to  Leonard,  and 
Harley,  arid  Audley  Egerton,  surveying  them  phrenologically, 
I  should  say  that — " 

"  Hush  !"  said  my  fa.ther,  "Pisistratus  has  dipped  his  pen  in 
the  ink,  and  it  seems  to  me  easier  for  the  wisest  man  that  ever 
lived  to  account  for  what  others  have  done,  than  to  predict  what 
they  should  do.  Phrenologists  discovered  that  Mr.  Thurtell  had 
a  very  fine  organ  of  Conscientiousness,  yet,  somehow  or  other, 
that  erring  personage  contrived  to  knock  the  brains  out  of  his 
friend's  organ  of  Individuality.  Therefore  I  .rise  to  propose  a 
Resolution— that  this  meeting  be  adjourned,  till  Pisistratus  has 
completed  his  narrative, 'and  we  shall  then  have  the. satisfaction 
of  knowing  that  it  ought,  according  to  every  principle  of  nature, 
science,  and  art,  to  have  been  completed  differently.  Why 
should  we  deprive  ourselves  of  that  pleasure  ?  " 

"I second  the  motion,"  said  the  Captain;  "but  if  Levybenot 
hanged,  I  shall  say  that  there  is  an  end  of  all  poetical  justice." 

"Take  care  of  poor  Helen,"  said  Blanche,  tenderly;  "not 
that  I  would  have  you  forget  Violante." 

"  Pish  !  and  sit  down,  or  they  shall  both  die  old  maids." 

Frightened  at  that  threat,  Blanche,  with  a  deprecating  look, 
drew  her  stool  quietly  near  me,  as  if  to  place  her  two  protegees 
in  an  atmosphere  mesmerized,  to  matrimonial  attractions;  and 
my  mother  set  hard  to  work — at  a  new  frock  for  the  baby.  Un- 
softened  by  these  undue  female  influences,. Pisistratus  wrote  on 
at  the  dictation  .of  the  relentless  Fates.  His  pen  was  of  iron, 
and  his  heart  was  of  granite.  He  was  as  insensible  to  the  exist- 


260  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

ence  of  wife  and  baby,  as  if  he  had  never  paid  a  house-bill,  nor 
rushed  from  a  .nursery  at  th<2  sound  of  an  infant  squall.     O 
blessed  privilege  of  Authorship  ! 
"  O  testudinis  aureae 

Dulcem  quae  strepitum,  Fieri,  temperas  ! 
O  mutis  quoque  piscibus 
Donatura  cycni,  si  libeat,  sonum  ! "  * 

CHAPTER  II. 

IT  is  necessary  to  go  somewhat  back  in  the  course  of  this  nar- 
rative, and  account  to  the  reader  for  the  disappearance  of  Violante. 

It  may  be  remembered  that  Peschiera,  scared  by  the  sudden 
approach  of  Lord  L'Estrange,  had  little  time  for  farther  words 
to  the  young  Italian  than  those  which  expressed  his  intention 
to  renew  the  conference,  and  press  for  her  decision.  But  the 
next  day,  when  he  re-entered  the  garden  secretly  and  stealthily, 
as  before,  Violante  did  not  appear.  And  after  watching  round 
the  precincts  till  dusk,  the  Count  retreated,  with  an  indignant 
conviction  that  his  arts  had  failed  to  enlist  on  his  side  either 
the  heart  or  the  imagination  of  his  intended  victim.  He  began 
now  to  revolve,  and  to  discuss  with  Levy,  the  possibility  of  one 
of  those  bold  and  violent  measures,  which  were  favored  by  his 
reckless  daring  and  desperate  condition.  But  Levy  treated 
with  such  just  ridicule  any  suggestion  to  abstract  Violante  by 
force  from  Lord  Lansmere's  house — so  scouted  the  notions  of 
nocturnal  assault,  with  the  devices  of  scaling  windows  and  rope 
ladders,  that  the  Count  reluctantly  abandoned  that  romance  of 
villany  so  unsuited  to  our  sober  capital,  and  which  would  no 
doubt  have  terminated  in  his  capture  by  the  police,  with  the 
prospect  of  committal  to  the  House  of  Correction. 

Levy  himself  found  his  invention  at  fault,  and  Randal  Leslie 
was  called  into  consultation.  The  usurer  had  contrived  that 
Randal's  schemes  of  fortune  and  advancement  were  so  based 
upon  Levy's  aid  and  connivance,  that  the  young  man,  with  all 
his  desire  rather  to  make  instruments  of  other  men,  than  to  be 
himself  their  instrument,  found  his  superior  intellect  as  com- 
pletely a  slave  to  Levy's  more  experienced  craft,  as  ever  subtle 
Genius  of  air  was  subject  to  the  vulgar  Sorcerer  of  earth. 

His  acquisition  of  the  ancestral  acres, — his  anticipated  seat 
in  parliament, — his  chance  of  ousting  Frank  from  the  heritage 
of  Hazeldean,  were  all  as  strings  that  pulled  him  to  and  fro, 
like  the  puppet  in  ,the  sleek  filbert-nailed  fingers  of  the  show- 

*  O  Muse,  who  dost  temper  the  sweet  sound  of.  the  golden  shell  of  the  tortoise,  and 
coutdst  give,  were  it  needed,  to  silent  fishes  the  song  of  the  swan  ! 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  261 

man,  who  could  exhibit  him  to  the  admiration  of  a  crowd,  or 
cast  him  away  into  dust  and  lumber. 

Randal  gnawed  his  lip  in  the  sullen  wrath  of  a  man  who  bides  his 
hour  of  future  emancipation,  and  lent  his  brairi  to  the  hire  of  the 
presentservitude,  in  mechanical  acquiescence.  The  inherent  supe- 
riority of  the  profound  young  schemer  became  instantly  apparent 
over  the  courage  of  Peschiera,  and  the  practised  wit  of  the  Baron. 

"  Your  sister,"  said  Randal  to  the  former,  "must  be  the  active 
agent  in  the  first  and  most  difficult  part  of  your  enterprise.  Vio- 
lante  cannot  be  taken  by  force  from  Lord  Lansmere's— she 
must  be  induced  to  leave  it  with  -her  own  consent.  A  female 
is  needed  here.  Woman  can  best  decoy  woman." 

"Admirably  said,"  quoth  the  Count;  "but  Beatrice  has  grown 
restive,  and  though  her  dowry,  and  therefore  her  very  marriage 
with  that  excellent  young  Hazeldean,  depend  on  my  own  alli- 
ance with  my  fair  kinswoman,  she  has  grown  so  indifferent  to 
my  success,  that  I  dare  not  reckon  on  her  aid.  Between  you  and 
me,  though  she  was  once  very  eager  to  be  married,  she  now  seems 
to  shrink  from  the  notion;  and  I  have  no  other  hold  over  her." 

"  Has  she  not  seen  some  one,  and  lately,  whom  she  prefers 
to  poor  Frank  ?  " 

"  I  suspect  that  she  has;  but  I  know  not,  unless  it  be  that 
detested  L'Estrange." 

"  Ah — well,  well.  Interfere  with  her  no- farther  yourself,  but 
have  all  in  readiness  to  quit  England,  as  you  had  before  pro- 
posed, as  soon  as  Violante  be  in  your  power." 

"  All  is  in  readiness,"  said  the  'Count.  "  Levy  has  agreed  to 
purchase  a  famous  sailing-vessel  of  one  of  his  clients.  -I  have 
engaged  a  score  or  so  of  determined  outcasts,  accustomed  to  the 
sea — Genoese,  Corsicans,  Sardinians— ex-Carbonari  of  the  best 
sort, — no  silly  patriots,  but  liberal  cosmopolitans,  who  have  iron 
at  the  disposal  of  any  man's  gold.  I  have  a  priest  to  perform 
the  nuptial  service,  and  deaf  to  any  fair  lady's  'No.'  Once  at 
sea,  and  wherever  I  land,  Violante  will  lean  on  my  arm  as 
Countess  di  Peschiera." 

"  But  Violante,"  said  Randal,  doggedly,'  determined  not  to 
yield  to  the  disgust  with  which  the  Count's  audacious  cynicism 
filled  even  him— "but  Violante  cannot  be  removed  in  broad 
daylight  at  once  to  such  a  vessel,  nor  from  a  quarter  so  populous 
as  that  in  which  your  sister  resides." 

"I  have  thought  of  that,  too,"  said  the  Count;  "my  emissaries 
have  found  me  a  house  close  by  the  river,  and  safe  for  our 
purpose  as  the  dungeons  of  Venice." 

"I  wish  not  to  know  all  this,"  answered  Randal,  quickly; 


262  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  you  will  instruct  Madame  di  Negra  where  to  take  Violante — 
my  task  limits  itself  to  the  fair  inventions  that  belong  to  intel- 
lect; what  belongs  to  force  is  not  in  my  province.  I  will  go  at 
once  to  your  sister,  whom  I  think  I  can  influence  more  effectually 
than  you  can;  though  later  I  may  give  you  a  hint  to  guard 
against  the  chance  of  her  remorse.  Meanwhile  as,  the  moment 
Violante  disappears,  suspicion  would  fall  upon  you,  show  your- 
self constantly  in  public  surrounded  by  your  friends.  Be  able 
to  account  for  every  hour  of  your  time — " 

"Anatil>i?"  interrupted  the   ci-devant  solicitor. 

"  Exactly  so,  Baron.  Complete  the  purchase  of  the  vessel, 
and  let  the  Count  man  it  as  he  proposes.  I  will  communicate 
with  you  both  as  soon  as  I  can  put  yon  into  action.  To-day  I 
shall  have  much  to  do;  it  will  be  done." 

As  Randal  left  the  room,  Levy  followed  him. 

"What  you  propose  to  do  will  be  well  done,  no  doubt,"  quoth 
the  usurer,  linking  his  arm  in  Randal's;  "but  take  care  that  you 
don't  get  yourself  into  a  scrape,  so  as  to  damage  your  character. 
I  have  great  hopes  of  you  in  public  life;  and  in  public  life  char- 
acter is  necessary— that  is,  so  far  as  honor  is  concerned." 

"  I  damage  my  character  ! — and  for  a  Count  Peschiera  !  " 
said  Randal,  opening  his  eyes.  "I!  What  do  you  take  me  for?" 

The  Baron  let  go  his  hold. 

"This  boy  ought  to  rise  very  high,"  said  he  to  himself,  as  he 
turned  back  to  the  Count. 

CHAPTER  III. 

RANDAL'S  acute  faculty  of  comprehension  had  long  since 
surmised  the  truth  that  Beatrice's  views  and  temper.of  mind  had 
been  strangely  and  suddenly  altered  by  some  such  revolution  as 
passion  only  can  affect;  that  pique  or  disappointment  had 
mingled  with  the  motive  which  had  induced  her  to  accept  the 
hand  of  his  rash  young  Icinsman  ;  and  that,  instead  of  the  re- 
signed indifference  with  which  she  might  at  one  time  have  con- 
templated any  marriage  that  could  free  her  from  a  position  that 
perpetually  galled  her  pride,  it  was  now  with  a  repugnance,  visi- 
ble to  Randal's  keen  eye,  that  he  shrank  from  the  performance 
of  that  pledge  which  Frank  had  so  dearly  bought.  The  tempta- 
tions which  the  Count  could  hold  out  to  her  to 'become  his  ac- 
complice in  designs  of  which  the  fraud  and  perfidy  would  revolt 
her  better  nature,  had  ceased  to  be  of  avail.  A  dowry  had 
grown  valueless  since  it  would  but  hasten  the  nuptials  from 
which  she  recoiled.  Randal  felt  that  he  could  not  secure  her  aid, 
except  by  working  on  a  passion  so  turbulent  as  to  confound  her 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  263 

judgment.  Such  a  passion  he  recognized  in  jealousy.  He  had 
once  doubted  if  Harley  were  the  object  of  her  love ;  yet,  after 
all,  was  it  not  probable?  He  knew,  at  least,  of.no  one  else  to 
suspect.  If  so,  he  had  but  to  whisper,  "Violante  is  your  rival. 
Violante  removed,  your  beauty  may  find  its  natural  effect  ;  if 
not,  you  are  an  Italian,  and  you  will  be  at  least  avenged."  He 
saw  still  more  reason  to  suppose  that  Lord  L'Estrange  was  indeed 
the  one  by  whom  he  could  rule  Beatrice,  since,  the  last  time  he 
had  seen  her,  she  had  questioned  him  with  much  earnestness  as 
to  the  family  of  Lord  Lansmere,  especially  as  to  the  female  part 
of  it.  Randal  had  then  judged  it  prudent  to  avoid  speaking  of 
Violante,  and  feigned  ignorance;  but  promised  to  ascertain  all 
particulars  by  the  time  he  next  saw  the  Marchesa.  It  was  the 
warmth  with  which  she  had  thanked  him,  that  had  set  his  busy 
mind  at  work  to  conjecture  the  cause  of  her  curiosity  so  earnestly 
aroused,  and  to  ascribe  that  cause  to  jealousy.  If  Harley  loved 
Violante  (as  Randal  himself  had  before  supposed),  the  little  of 
passion  that  the  young  man  admitted  to  himself  was  enlisted  in 
aid  of  Peschiera's  schemes.  For  though  Randal  did  not  love 
Violante,  he  cordially  disliked  L'Estrange,  and  would  have  gone 
as  far  to  render  that  dislike  vindictive  asa  cold  reasoner,  intent 
upon  worldly  fortunes,  will  ever  suffer  mere  hate  to  influence  him. 

"  At  the  worst,"  thought  Randal,  "if  it  be  not  Harley,  touch 
the  chord  of  jealousy,  and  its  vibration  will  direct  me  right.'* 

Thus  soliloquizing,  he  arrived  at  Madame  di  Negra's. 

Now,  in  reality,- the  Marchesa's  inquiries  as  to  Lord  Lans- 
mere's  family  had  their  source  in  the  misguided,  restless,  des- 
pairing interest  with  which  she  still  clung  to  the  image  of  the 
young  poet,  whom  Randal  had  no  reason  to  suspect.  That  in- 
terest had  become  yet  more  keen  from  the  impatient  misery  she 
had  felt  ever  since  she  had  plighted  herself  to  another.  A  wild 
hope  that  she  might  yet  escape — a  vague  regretful  thought  that 
she  had  been  too  hasty  in. dismissing  Leonard  from.her  presence — 
that  she  ought  rather,  to  have  courted 'his  friendship,  and  con- 
tended against  her  unknown  rival,  at  times  drew  her  wayward 
mind  wholly  from  the  future  to  which  she  had  consigned  her- 
self. And,  to  do  her  justice,  though  her  sense  of  duty  was  so 
defective,  and  the  principles  which  should  have  guided  her  con- 
duct were  so. lost  to  her  sight,  still  her  feelings  toward  the  gen* 
efous.  Hazeldean  were  not  sohardand'blunted  but  what  her  own: 
ingratitude  added  to  her  torment;  and  it  seemed  as ! if  the  sole 
atonement  she  could  make  to  him  was  to  find  an  excuse  to  with- 
draw her  promise,  and  save  him  from  herself.  She  had  caused 
Leonard's  steps  to  be  watched;  she  had  found  that  he  visited  at 


264  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

Lord  Lansniere's;  that  he  had  gone  thereoften,  and  stayed  there 
long.  She  had  learned  in  the  neighborhood  that  LadyLansmere 
had  one  or  two  young  female  guests  staying  with  her.  Surely 
this  was  the  attraction— here  was  the  rival! 

Randal  found  Beatrice  in  a  state  of  mind  that  favored  his 
purpose.  And  first  turning  his  -conversation  on  Harley,  and 
noting  that  her  countenance  did  not  change,  by  little  and  little 
he  drew  forth  her  secret. 

Then  said  Randal,  gravely,  "  If  one  whom  you  honor  with  a 
tender  thought  visits  at  Lord  Lansmere's  house,  you  have  indeed, 
cause  to  fear  for  yourself,  to  hope  for  your  brother's  success  in 
the  object  which  has  brought  him  to  England — for  a  girl  of  sur- 
passing beauty  is  a  guest  in  Lord  Lansmere's  house;  and  I  will 
now  tell  you  that  that  girl  is  she  whom  Count  Peschiera  would 
make  his  bride." 

As  Randal  thus  spoke,  and  saw  how.  his  listener's  brow  dark* 
ehed  and  her  eye  flashed,  he  felt  that  his  accomplice  was  secured. 
Violante!  Had  not  Leonard  spoke  of  Yiolante,  and  with  such 
praise?  Had  not  his  boyhood  been  passed  under  her  eyes?  Who 
but  Violante  could  be  the  rival?  Beatrice's  abrupt  exclamations, 
after  a  moment's  pause,  revealed  to  Randal  the  advantage  he 
had  gained. ;  And  partly  by  rousing  her  jealousy  :into  revenge- 
partly -by  .flattering  h^rlove  with  assurance  that,  if  Violante  were 
fairly  iremov.ed  from  -England,  were  the  wife  of  Count  Pes- 
chiera—It  would  be  impossible  that  Leonard,  could  remain  in- 
sensible : to  he c  own  attractions— that  ;he>  Randal,  would  under- 
take >ta  free  her  (honorably  from  her  engagement  ;to  Frank 
Hazeldean,  and  obtain  from  her  brother  ,the  acquittal  of  the 
debt  which  had  first  fettered  her  hand  to  that  confiding  suitor — 
he  did  not  quit  the  Marchesa,  until  she  had  not  only  promised 
to  do  all  that  Randal  might  suggest,  but  impetuously  urged  him 
to  mature  his  plans,  and  hasten  the  hour  to  accomplish  them. 
Randa-l  then  walked  some  minutes  musing  and  slow  along  the 
streets,  revolving  the  next  meshes  in  his  elaborate  and  most  sub- 
tle web*  And  here  his  craft  luminously  devised  its  masterpiece. 

It  was  necessary,  -during  any.  interval  that  might  elapse 
between  Violante's  disappearance  and  her. departure  from  Eng- 
land, in  order  to  divert  suspicion  from  Peschiera  (who  might 
otherwise  be  detained),  that  some  cause  for  her  voluntary 
absence  from  Lord  Lansmere's  should  be  at  least  assignable;  it 
was  still  more  necessary  that  Randal  himself  should  stand  wholly 
clear  from  any  surmise  that  he  could  have  connived  at  the 
Count's  designs,-  even  should  their  actual  perpetrator  be  dis- 
covered or  conjectured.  To  effect  these  objects,  Randal  hastened 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  265 

to  Norwood,  and  obtained  an  interview  with  Riccabocca.  In 
seeming  agitation  and  alarm,  he  informed  the  exile  that  he  had 
reason  to  know  that  Peschiera  had  succeeded  in  obtaining  a 
secret  interview  with  Violante,  and  he  feared  had  made  a  cer- 
tain favorable  impression  on  her  mind;  and  speaking  as  if  with 
the  jealousy  of  a  lover,  he  entreated  Riccabocca  to  authorize 
Randal's  direct  proposals  to  "Violante,  and  to  require  her  consent 
to  their  immediate  nuptials. 

The  poor  Italian  was  confounded  with  the  intelligence  con- 
veyed to  him  ;  and  his  almost  superstitious  fears  of  his  brilliant 
enemy,  conjoined  with  his  opinion  of  the  susceptibility  to  out- 
ward attractions  common  to  all  the  female  sex,  made  him  not 
only  implicitly  credit,  but  even  exaggerate,  the  dangers  that  Ran- 
dal intimated.  The  idea  of  his  daughter's  marriage  with  Randal, 
toward  which  he  had  lately  cooled,  he  now  gratefully  welcomed. 

But  his  first  natural  suggestion  was  to  go,  or  send,  for  Vio- 
lante, and  bring  her  to  his  own  house.  This,  however,  Randal 
artfully  opposed. 

"Alas!  I  know,"  said  he,  "that  Peschiera  has  discovered 
your  retreat ;  and  surely  she  would  be  far  less  safe  here  than 
where  she  is  now!" 

"  ~But-diavolo!  you  say  the  mail  lias  seer*  her  where  she  is' 
now,  in  spite  of  all  Lady  Lansmere's  promises  and  Harley's 
precautions." 

"  True,  Of  this  Peschiera  boasted  to  me.  He  effected  it  not, 
of  course,  openly,  but  in  some  disguise.  I 'am  sufficiently,  how- 
ever, in  his  confidence— (any  man  may  be  that  with  so  auda*- 
cious  a  braggart)— to  deter  him  from  renewing  his  attempt  for 
some  days.  Meanwhile,  I  or  yourself  will  have  discovered  some 
surer  home  than  this,  to  which  you  can  remove,  and  then  will 
be 'the  proper  time  to  take  back  your  daughter.  And  for  the 
present,  if  you  will  send  by  me  a  letter  to  enjoin  her  to  receive 
me  as  her  future  bridegroom,  it  will  necessarily  divert  all  thought 
at  once  from  the  Count;  I  shall  be'able  to  detect,  by*he  manner' 
in  which  she  receives  me,  how  far  the;  Count  has  over-stated  the 
effect  he  pretends  to  have  produced.  You  can  give  me  also  a 
letter  to  Lady  Lansmere,  to  prevent  your  daughter  coming 
hither.  O,  sir,  do  not  reason  with  me.  Have  indulgence  for  my 
lover's  fears.  Believe  that  I  advise  for  the  best.  Have  I  not  the 
keenest  interest  to  do  so?" 

Like  many  a  man  who  is  wise  enough  with  pen  and  paper  be- 
fore him,  and  plenty  of  time  wherewith  to  get  up  his  wisdom, 
Riccabocca  was  flurried,  nervous,  and  confused,  when  that  wis- 
dom was  called  upon  for  any  ready  exertion.  From  the  tree  ef 


266  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

knowledge  he  had  taken  grafts  enough  to  serve  for  a  forest  ;  but 
the  whole  forest  could  not  spare  him  a  handy  walking-stick. 
The  great  folio  of  the  dead  Machiavelli  lay  useless  before  him — 
the  living  Machiavelli  of  daily  life  stood  all  puissant  by  his  side. 
The  Sage  was  as  supple  to. the  Schemer  as  the  Clairvoyant  is  to 
the  Mesmerist.  And  the  lean,  slight  fingers  of  Randal  actually 
dictated  almost  the  very  words  that  Riccabocca  wrote  to  his 
child  and  her  hostess. 

The  philosopher  would  have  liked  to  consult  his  wife  ;  but  he 
was  ashamed  to  confess  that  weakness.  Suddenly,  he  remem- 
bered Harley,  and  said,  as  Randal  took  up  the  letters  which 
Riccabocca  had  indited — 

"  There — that  will  give  us  time  ;  and  I  will  send  to  Lord 
L'Estrange  and  talk  to  him." 

"My  noble  friend,"  replied  Randal,  mournfully,  "may  I  en- 
treat you  not  to  see  Lord  L'Estrange  until  at  least  I  have  pleaded 
my  cau^se  to  youj;  daughter: — until,  indeed,  she  is  no  longer  un- 
der his  father's  roof  ? " 
;"  And  why?"  E  tarfj '-  -rf  U*, 

"Because  I  presume  that  you  are  sincere  when  you. deign  to 
receive  me  as  a  son-in-law,  and  because  I  am  sure  that  Lord 
L'Estrange  would  biear  wit,h  distaste  of,  your  disposition  in  my 
favor.  Am  I  not  right  ?  "  •  ,-n,^tt^i  ^R, 

Riccabocca  was  silent. 

"  And  though  his  arguments  would  fail  w.ith  a  man  of  your 
honor  and  discernment,  they  might  have  more  effect  on. the  young 
mind  of , your  child.  Think,  I  bese.ech.  you,  the  more  she  is  set 
against  me,  the  morCiaccessibje  she  may  be  to  the  arts  of  Peschiera. 
Spe,ak  not,  therefore,  I : implore., you,  to  Lord  L'Estrange  till  Vio- 
lante  hasaqcepted  my  hand, or  at  least  until  sheisagain  under  your 
charge;  otherwise  take  back  your  letter — it  would  be  of  no  avail." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,  Certainly  Lord  L'Estrange  is  preju- 
diced against  you  ;  or  rather,  he  thinks  too  much  of  what  I  have 
been — too  little  of  what  I  am."  i 

"Who  can  see  you,  and  not  do  so  ?  I  pardon  him."  After 
kissing  the  hand  which  the  exile  modestly  sought  to  withdraw 
from  that  act  of  homage,  Randal  pocketed  the  letters ;  and,  as 
if  struggling  with  emotion,  rushed  from  the  house. 

Now,  O  cun'ous  reader,  if  thou  wilt  heedfully  observe  towha.t 
uses  Randal  Leslie  put  those  letters— rwhat  speedy  and  direct 
results. he  drew  forth  from  devices  which  would  seem  to  an  hon- 
est, simple  understanding  the  most  roundabout  wire-drawn 
wastes  of  invention — I  almost  fear  that, in  thine  admiration  for  his: 
cleverness,  thou  mayest  half  forget  thy  contempt  for  his  knavery. 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  267 

But  when  the  head  is  very  full,  it  does  not  do  to  have  the 
heart  very  empty ;  there  is  such  a  thing  as  being  top-heavy  ! 

CHAPTER  IV. 

i ... 

HELEN  and  Violante  had  been  conversing  together,  and  Helen 
had  obeyed  her  ;  guardian's  injunction,  and  spoken,  though 
briefly,  of  her  positive  engagement  to  Harley.  However  much 
Violante  had  been  prepared  for  the  confidence,  however  clearly 
she  had  divined  that  engagement,  however  before  persuaded 
that  the  dream  of  her  childhood  was  fled  forever,  still  the  posi- 
tive truth,  coming  from  Helen's  own  lips,  was  attended  with 
that  anguish  which  proves  hov;  impossible  it  is  to  prepare  the 
human  heart  for  the  final  verdict  v/hich  slays  its  future.  She 
did  not,  however,  betray  her  emotion  to  Helen's  artless  eyes  ; 
sorrow,  deep-seated,  is  seldom  self-betrayed.  But,  after  a  little 
while,  she  crept  away  ;  and,  forgetful  of  Peschiera,  of  all  things 
that  could  threaten  danger  (what  danger  could  harm  her  more!), 
she  glided  from  the  house,  and  went  her  desolate  way  under  the 
leafless  wintry  trees.  Ever  and  anon  she  paused — ever  and 
anon  she  murmured  the  same  words  :  "  If  she  loved  him,  I  could 
be  consoled  ;  but  she  does  not  !  or  .how  could  she  have  spoken 
to  me  so  calmly  !  how  could  her  very  looks  have  been  so  sad  ! 
Heartless  ! — heartless  !  " 

Then  there  came  on  her  a  vehement  resentment  against  poor 
Helen,  that  almost  took  the  character  of -scorn  or  hate — its  ex- 
cess startled  herself.  u  Am  I  grown  so  mean  ?  "  she  said  ;  and 
tears  that  humbled  her,  rushed  to  her  eyes.  "Can  so  short  a 
time  alter  one  thus  ?  Impossible  !  " 

Randal  Leslie  rang  at  the  front  gate,  inquired  for  Violante, 
and,  catching  sight  of  her  form  as  he  walked  toward  the  house, 
advanced  boldly  and  openly.  His  voice  startled  her  as  she  leant 
against  one  of  the  dreary  trees,  still  muttering  to  herself— for- 
lorn. "  I  have  a  letter  to  you  from  your  father,  sigriorina,"  said 
Randal.  "  But,  before  I  give  it  to  your  hands,  some  explanation 
is  necessary.  Condescend,  then,  to  hear  me."  Violante  shook 
her  head  impatiently,  and  stretched  forth  her  hand  for  the  letter. 
Randal  observed  her  countenance  with  his  keen,cold,,searching 
eye;  but  he  still- withheld  the  letter,  and  contiinuedaftera  patise — 

"  I  know  that  you  were  born  to  princely  fortunes  ;  and  the 
excuse  for  my  addressing  you  now  is,  that  your  birthright  is  lost 
to  you,  at  least  unless  you  can  consent  to  a  union  with  the  man 
who  has  despoiled  you  of  your  heritage — a  union  which,your 
father  would  deem  dishonor  to  yourself  and  him.  Signorina,  I 


268  MY   NOVEL;    OR, 

might  have  presumed  tolove  you;  but  I  should  not  have  named.that 
love,  had- your  father  not  encouraged  me  by  his  assent  to  my/suit." 

Violante  turned  to  the  speaker,  her  face  eloquent  with 
haughty  surprise.  Randal  met  the  gaze  unmoved.  He  con- 
tinued, without  warmth,  and  in  the  tone  of  one  who  reasons 
calmly,  rather  than  of. one  who  feels  acutely —  . 

".The  man  of  whom  I  spoke  is  in  pursuit  of  you.  I  have 
cause  to  believe  that  this  person  has  already  intruded  himself 
upon  you.  Ah!  your:  countenance  owns  it  ;  you  have  seen 
Peschiera  ?  This  house  is,  then^  less  safe  than  your  father 
deemed  it.  No  house  is  safe  for  you  but  a  husband's.  I  offer  to  you 
my  name— r-it  is  a  gentleman's;  my  fortune,  which  is  small;  the  par- 
ticipation inmy  hopeSiOfthe  future,,  which  are  large.  I  place  now 
your  father's  letter. in  your  hand,  and  await  your  answer,"  Randal 
bowed  slightly,  gare  the  letter  to  Violante,  and  retired  a  few  paces. 

'It  was  not  his  object  to  conciliate  Violante's  affection,  >b'ut 
rather  to  excite  her  repugnance,  or  at  least  her  terror — we  must 
wait  to  discover  why ;  so  he  stood  apart,seemingly  in  a  kind  of  self- 
confident  indifference,  while  the  girl  read  the  following  letter: — 

-"My  child,  receive  with  favor  Mr. ; Leslie.  He  has  my  con- 
sent to  address  you  as  a  suitor^  Circumstances,  of  which  it  is 
needless  now  to  inform  you,  render  it  essentjaltp  my  very  peace 
and  happiness  that  your  marriage  should  be  immediate.  In  a 
word,  I  have  given  my  promise  to  Mr.  Leslie,  and  I  confidently 
leave  it  tajhe  daughter  of  rny  house  to  redeem  the  pledge  of 
her  anxious  and  tender,. father*:" ^fi-j  ;»f{j  >{OG.}  j  : 

The  letter  dropped  from  Violante's  hand.  Randal  approached 
and  restored  it  to  her.  Their  eyes  me;t. _-,  Violante  recoiled. 

"  I  cannot  marry  you,"  said  she,  passionately. 

"Indeed!-'  answered  Randal,  dryly.  "Is  it  because  you 
can.  not  love  me  ?  "  -jrtV 

-"Yes."  ,3:>K-vMH     .^fa^o  !>r . 

"  I  did  not  expect  that  you  would,  as  yet,  and  I  still  persist  in 
my  suit.  I  have  promised  to:  your,  father  that  I  would  not  re- 
cede before  your  first -unconsidered  refusal" 

"  I  will  go  ta  my  father  at  once.*Y  .h, 

"  Does  he  request  you  to  do  so  in  his  letter  ?  Look  again. 
Pardon  me,  but  he  foresaw  your  impetuosity  ;  and  I  have  an- 
other nqte  for  Lady  Lansmere,  in  which  he  begs;  her  ladyship 
not  to  sanction  your  return  to  him  (should  you  so  wish)  until 
he  come  or  send  for  you  himself.  He  will  do  so  whenever  your 
word  has  redeemed  his  own." 

"  And  do  you  dare  to  talk  to  me  thus^  and  yet  pretend  to 
love  me?" 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  269 

Randal  smiled  ironically. 

"  I  pretend  but  to  wed  you.  Love  is  a  subject  on  which  I 
might  have  spoken  formerly,  or  may  speak  hereafter.  I  give 
you  some  little  time  to  consider.  When  I  next  call,  let  me  hope 
that  we  may  fix  the  day  for  our  wedding." 

"  Never ! " 

"You  will  be,  then,  the  first  daughter  of  your  house  who  dis- 
obeyed a  father  ;  and  you  will  have  this  additional  crime,  that 
you  disobeyed  him  in  his  sorrow,  his  exile,  and  his  fall." 

Violanle  wrung  her  hands. 

"Is  there  no  choice — no  escape?  " 

"  I  see  none  for  either.  Listen  to  me.  I  love  you,  it  is  true  ; 
but  it  is  not  for  my  happiness  to  marry  one  who  dislikes  me,  nor 
for  my  ambition  to  connect  myself  with  one  whose  property  is 
greater  than  my  own.  I  marry  but  to  keep  my  plighted  faith 
with  your  father,  and  to  save  you  from  a  villain  you  would  hate 
more  than  myself,  and  from  whom  no  walls  are  a  barrier,  no 
laws  a  defence.  One  person,  indeed,  might  perhaps  have  pre- 
served you  from  the  misery  you  seem  to  anticipate  with  me  ; 
that  person  might  defeat  the  plans  of  your  father's  foe — ^effect, 
it  might  be,  terms  which  could  revoke  his  banishment,  and  re- 
store his  honors  ;  that  person  is—" 

"Lord  L'Estrange  ?"- 

"  Lord  L'Estrange  !  "  repeated  Randal,  sharply,  and  watching 
her  pale  parted  lips  and  her  changing  cotor  ;  "  Lord  L'Estrange! 
What  could  he  do?  Why  did  you  name  him?" 

Violante  turned  aside.  "  He  saved  my  father  once,"  said  she, 
feelingly. 

"And  has  interfered,  and  trifled,  and  promised,  HeaVen  knows 
what,  ever  since — yet  to  what  end?  Pooh  !  The  person  I  speak 
of  your  father  would  not  consent  to  see — would  not  believeif  he 
saw  her;  yet  she  is  generous,  noble — could  sympathize  with  you 
both.  She  is  the  sister  of  your  father's  enemy — the  Marchesadi 
Negra.  I  am  convinced  that  she  has  great  influence  with  her  broth- 
er— that  she  has  known  enough  of  his  secrets  to  awe  him  in  to  re- 
nouncing all  designs  on  yourself;  but  it  is  idle  now  to  speak  of  her." 

"No,  no,"  exclaimed  Violante.  "Tell  me  where  she  lives — 
I  will  see  her." 

"  Pardon  me,  I  cannot  obey  you  ;  and,  indeed,  her  own  pride 
is  now  aroused  by  your  father's  unfortunate  prejudices  against 
her.  It  is  too  late  to  count  upon  her  aid.  You  turn  from  me* — 
my  presence  is  unwelcome.  I  rid  you  of  it  now.  But  welcome 
or  unwelcome,  later,  you  must  endure  it- — and  for  life." 

Randal  again  bowed  with  formal  ceremony,  walked  toward 


270  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

the  house,  and  asked  for  Lady  Lansmere.  The  Countess  was  at 
home.  Randal  delivered  Riccabocca's  note,  which  was  very 
short,  implying  that  he  feared  Peschiera  had  discovered  his 
retreat — and  requesting  Lady  Lansmere  to  retain  Violante, 
whatever  her  own  desire,  till  her  ladyship  heard  from  him 
again. 

The  Countess  read,  and  her  lip  curled  in  disdain.  "Strange! " 
said  she,  half  to  herself. 

"Strange!"  said  Randal,  "that  a  man  like  your  correspond- 
ent should  fear  one  like  the  Count  di  Peschiera.  Is  that  it?" 

"  Sir,"  said  the  Countess,  a  little  surprised — "  strange  that  any 
man  should  fear  another  in  a  country  like  ours  ! " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Randal,  with  his  low  soft  laugh  ;  "  I  fear 
many  men,  and  I  know  many  who  ought  to  fear  me  ;  yet  at  every 
turn  of  the  street  one  meets  a  policeman  ! " 

"  Yes,"  said  Lady  Lansmere.  "  But  to  suppose  that  this  prof- 
ligate foreigner  could  carry  away  a  girl  like  Violante  against  her 
will — a  man  she  has  never  seen,  and  whom  she  must  have  been 
taught  to  hate  !  " 

"  Be  on  your  guard,  nevertheless,  I  pray  you,  madam ;  '  where 
there's  a  will  there's  a  way.'" 

Randal  took  his  leave,  and  returned  to  Madame  di  Negra's. 
He  stayed  with  her  an  hour,  revisited  the  Count,  and  then 
strolled  to  Limner's. 

"  Randal,"  said  the  Squire,  who  looked  pale  and  worn,  but 
who  scorned  to  confess  the  weakness  with  Which  he  still  grieved 
and  yearned  for  his  rebellious  son—"  Randal,  you  have  nothing 
now  to  do  in  London  ;  can  you  come  and  stay  with  me,  and  take 
to  farming?  I  remember  that  you  showed  a  great  deal  of  sound 
knowledge  about  thin  sowing." 

"My  dear  sir,  I  will  come  to  you  as  soon  as  the  general  elec- 
tion is  over." 

"  What  the  deuce  have  you  got  to  do  with  the  general  election  ? " 

"Mr.  Egerton  has  some  wish  that  I  should  enter  Parliament; 
indeed,  negotiations  for.  that  purpose  are  now  on  foot."  ' 

The  Squire  shook  his  head.,  "I  don't  like  my  half-brother's 
politics,"  .oj^fu  > 

"  I  shall  be  quite  independent  of  them,"  cried  Randal,  loftily  ; 
"that  independence  is  the  condition  for  which  I  stipulate." 

"  Glad  to  hear  k  ;  and  if  you  do  corne  into  Parliament,  I  hope 
you'll  not  turn  your  back  oa  the  land  ?" 

"  Turn  my  back  on  the  land  ! "  cried  Randal,  ;with  devout  hor- 
ror. "  Oh,  sir !  I  am  not  so  unnatural !  "  . 

"  That's  the  right  way  to  put  it,"  quoth  the  credulous  Squire; 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  271 

"  it  is  unnatural !  It  is  turning  one's  back  on  one's  own  mother. 
The  land  is  a  mother — " 

"To  those  who  live  by  her,  certainly — a  mother,"  said  Ran- 
dal, gravely.  "And  though,  indeed,  my  father  starves  by  her  rather 
than  lives,  and  Rood  Hall  is  not  like  Hazeldean,  still — I — " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,"  interrupted  the  Squire  ;  "  I  want  to  talk 
to  you.  Your  grandmother  was  a  Hazeldean." 

"  Her  picture  is  in  the  drawing-room  at  Rood.  People  think 
me  very  like  her." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  the  Squire.  "  The  Hazeldeans  are  generally 
inclined  to  be  stout  and  rosy,  which  you  are  certainly  not.  But 
no  fault  of  yours.  We  are  all  as  Heaven  made  us  !  However,  to 
the  point.  I  am  going  to  alter  my  will— (said  with  .a  choking 
gulp).  This  is  the  rough  draft  for  the:  lawyers  to  work  upon." 

"Pray — pray,  sir,  do  not  speak  to  me  on  such  a  subject.  I 
cannot  bear  to  contemplate  even  the  possibility  of — of — " 

"My  death  ?  Ha  !  ha  !  Nonsense.  My  own  son  calculated  on 
the  date  of  it  by  the  insurance  tables.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  A  very  fash- 
ionable son — eh  !  Ha,  ha !  " 

"  Poor  Frank !  do  not  let  him  suffer  for  a  momentary  forget- 
fulness  of  right  feeling.  When  he  comes  to  be  married  to  that 
foreign  lady,  and  be  a  father  himself,  he — " 

"  Father  himself !  "  burst  forth  the  Squire.  "  Father  to  a  swarm 
of  sallow-faced  Popish  tadpoles!  No  foreign  frogs  shall  hop 
about  my  grave  in  Hazeldean  churchyard.  No,  no.  But  you  need 
not  look  so  reproachful— I'm  not  going  to,  disinherit  Frank." 

"Of  course  not,  "said  Randal,  with -a  bitter  curve  in  the  lip  that 
rebelled  against  the  joyous  smile  which  he  sought  to  impose  on  it. 

"No — I  shall  leave  him  the  life-interest  in  the  greater  part  of 
the  property ;  but  if  he  marry  a  foreigner,  her  children  will  not 
succeed — you  will  stand  after  him  in  that  case.  But — (now 
don't  interrupt  me) — but  Frank  looks  as  if  he  would  live  longer 
than  you — so  small  thanks  to  me  for  my  good  intentions,  you 
may  say.  I  mean  to  do  more  for  you  than  a  mere  barren  place 
in  the  entail.  What  do  you  say  to  marrying?" 

"  Just  as  you  please,"  said  Randal,  meekly. 

"  Good.  There's  Miss  Sticktorights  disengaged — great  heiress. 
Her  lands  run  on  to  Rood.  At  one  time  I  thought  of  her  for 
that  graceless  puppy  of  mine.  But  I  can  manage  more  easily  to 
make  up  the  match  for  you.  There's  a  mortgage  on  the  prop- 
erty ;  old  Sticktorights  would  be  very  glad  to  pay  it  off.  I'll  pay 
it  out  of  the  Hazeldean  estate,  and  give  up  the  right  of  way  into 
the  bargain.  You  understand  ?  So  come  down  as  soon  as  you 
can,  and  court  the  young  lady  yourself." 


272  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

Randal  expressed  his  thanks  with  much  grateful  eloquence  ; 
and  he  then  delicately  insinuated,  that  if  the  Squire  ever  did  mean 
to  bestow  upon  him'any  pecuniary  favors  (always  without  injury  to 
Frank), it  would  gratify  him  more  to  win  back  some  portions  of  the 
old  estate  of  Rood,  than  to  have  all  the  acres  of  the  Sticktorights, 
however  freefrom  any  other  incumbrance  than  the  amiableheiress. 

The  Squire  listened  to  Randal  with  benignant  attention.  This 
wish  the  country  gentleman  could  weU  understand  and  sympa- 
thize with.  He  promised  to  inquire  into  the  matter,  and  to 
see  what  could  be  done  with  old  Thornhill. 

Randal  here  let  out  that  Mr.  Thornhill  was  about  to  dispose 
of  a  large  slice  of  the  ancient  Leslie  estate  through  Levy,  and 
that  he,  Randal,  could  thus  get  it  at  a  more  moderate  price  than 
would  be  natural  if  Mr.  Thornhill  knew  that  his  neighbor  the 
Squire  would  bid  for  the  purchase. 

"Better  say  nothing  about  it  either  to  Levy  or  Thornhill." 

"Right,"  said  the  Squire.  "No proprietor  likes  to  sell  to  another 
proprietor^  in  the  same  shire,  as  largely  acred  as  himself;  it 
spoils  the  balance  of  power.  See  to  the  business  yourself ;  and 
if  I  can  help  you  with  the  purchase  (after  that  boy  is  married — 
I  can  attend  to  nothing  before),  why,  I  will." 

Randal  now  went  to  Egerton's.  The  statesman  was  in  his  li- 
brary, settling  the  accounts  of  his  house-steward^  and  giving  brief 
orders  for  the  reduction  of  his  establishment  to  that  of  an  ordi- 
nary private  gentleman. 

"  I  may  go  abroad  if  I  lose  my  election,"  said  Egerton,  con- 
descending to  assign  to  his  servant  a  reason  for  his  economy ; 
and  if  I  do  not  lose  it,  still  now  I  am  out  of  office,  I  shall  live 
much  in  private." 

"Do  I  disturb  you,  sir?"  said  Randal,  entering. 

"No — I  have  just  done." 

The  house-steward  withdrew,  muchsurprised  and  disgusted,  and 
meditating  the  resignation  of  his  own  office — in  order,  not  like 
Egerton,  to  save,  but  tospend.  Thehouse-stewardhadprivatedeal- 
ings  with  Baron  Levy,  and  was  in  fact  the  veritable  X.  Y.  of  the 
Times,  for  whom  Dick  Avenel  had  been  mistaken.  He  invested  his 
wages  and  perquisites  in  the  discount  of  bills;  and  it  was  part  of 
his  own  money  that  had  (though  unknown  to  himself)  swelled  the 
last  five  thousand  poundswhichlEgerton  had  borrowed  from  Levy. 

"I  have  settled  with  our  committee  ;  and,  with  Lord  Lans- 
mere's  consent,"  said  Egerton,  briefly,  "you  will  stand  for  the 
borough,  as  we  proposed,  in  conjunction  with  myself.  And  should 
any  accident  happen  to  me — that  is,  should  I  vacate  this  seat 
from  any  cause,  you  may  succeed  to  it — very  shortly,  perhaps. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  .273 

Ingratiate  yourself  with  the  electors,  and  speak  at  the  public- 
houses  for  both  of  us.  I  shall  stand  on  my  dignity,  and  leave 
the  work  of  the  election  to  you.  No  thanks — you  know  how  I 
hate  thanks.  Good-night." 

"I  never  stood  so  near  to  fortune  and  to  power,"  said  Randal, 
as  he  slowly  undressed.  "  And  I  owe  it  but  to  knowledge^- 
knowledge  of  men — life — of  all  that  books  can  teach  us." 

So  his  slight  thin  fingers  dropped  the  extinguisher  on  the 
candle,  and  the  prosperous  schemer  laid  himself  down  to  rest  in 
the  dark.  Shutters  closed,  curtains  down — never  was  rest  more 
quiet;  never  was  room  more  dark! 

That  evening,  Harley  had  dined  at  his  father's.  He  spoke  much 
to  Helen — scarcely  at  all  to  Violante.  But  it  so  happened  that 
when  later,  and  a  little  while  before  he  took  his  leave,  Helen, 
at  his  request,  was  playing  a  favorite  air  of  his,  Lady  Lansmere, 
who  had  been  seated  between  him  and  Violante,  left  the  room, 
and  Violante  turned  quickly  toward  Harley. 

"  Do  you  know  the  Marchesa  di  Negra  ? "  she  asked,  in  a 
hurried  voice. 

"A  little.     Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  That  is  my  secret,"  answered  Violante,  trying  to  smile  with 
her  old  frank,  child-like  archness.  "  But,  tell  me,  do  you  think 
better  of  her  than  of  her  brother?" 

"Certainly.  I  believe  her  heart  to  be  good,  and  that  she  is 
not  without  generous  qualities." 

"  Can  you  not  induce  my  father  to  see  her  ?  Would  you  not 
counsel  him  to  do  so?" 

"Any  wish  of  yours  is  a  law  to  me,"  answered  Harley,  gal- 
lantly. "  You  wish  your  father  to  see  her  ?  I  will  try  and  per- 
suade him  to  do  so.  Now,  in  return,  confide  to  me  your  secret. 
What  is  your  object?" 

"  Leave  to  return  to  my  Italy.  I  care  not  for  honors — for  rank; 
and  even  my  father  has  ceased  to  regret  their  loss.  But  the  land, 
the  native  land— Oh,  to  see  it  once  more  !  Oh,  to  die  there  !  " 

"  Die  !  You  children  have  so  lately  left  heaven,  that  ye  talk 
as  if  ye  could  return  there,  without  passing  through  the  gates  of 
sorrow,  infirmity,  and  age  !  But  I  thought  you  were  content  with 
England.  Why  so  eager  to  leave  it?  Violante,  you  are  unkind  to 
us — to  Helen,  who  already  loves  you  so  well." 

As  .Harley  spoke,  Helen  rose  from  the  piano,  and  approach- 
ing Violante,  placed  her  hand  caressingly  on  the  Italian's 
shoulder.  Violante  shivered,  and  shrunk  away.  The  eyes  both  of 
•Harley  and  Helen  followed  her.  Harley's  eyes  were  very  grave 
and  thoughtful. 


274  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

"Is  she  not  changed — your  friend?"  said  he,  looking  down. 

"Yes.  lately — much  changed.  I  fear  there  is  something  on 
her  mind— I  know  not  what." 

"  Ah  ! "  muttered  Harley,  "  it  may  be  so;  but  at  your  age  and 
hers,  nothing  rests  on  the  mind  long.  Observe,  I  say  the  mind — 
the  heart  is  more  tenacious." 

Helen  sighed  softly,  but  deeply. 

"And  therefore,"  continued  Harley,  half  to  himself,  "we  can 
detect  when  something  is  on  the  mind — some  care,  some  fear, 
some  trouble.  But  when  the  heart  closes  over  its'own  more  pas- 
sionate sorrow,  who  can  discover?  who  conjecture  ?  Yet  you  at 
least,  my  pure,  candid  Helen — you  might  subject  mind  and 
heart  alike  to  the  fabled  window  of  glass/' 

"  Oh,  no  i  "  cried  Helen,  involuntarily. 

"  Oh,  yes!  Do  not  let  me  think  that  you  have  one  secret  I 
may  not  know,  or  one  sorrow  I  may:  not  share.  For,  in  dur 
relationship,  that  would  be  deceit." 

He  pressed  her  hand  with  more  tlvan  usual  tenderness  as  he 
spoke,  and  shortly  afterward  left  the  house. 

And   all   that   night   Helen  felt  like  a  guilty   thing— more 

wretched  even  than  Violante. 
, 
CHAPTER  V. 

EARLY  the  next  morning,  while  Violante  was  still  in  her  room, 
a  letter  addressed  to  her  came  by  the  post.  The  direction  was 
in  a  strange  hand.  She  opened  it,  and  read,  in  Italian,  what  is 
thus  translated: — 

"  I  would  gladly  see  yo\v,  but  I  cannot  call  openly  at  the  house 
in  which  you  live.  Perhaps  I  may  have  it  in  my  power  to  ar- 
range family  dissensions — to  repair  any  wrongs  your  father  may 
have  sustained.  Perhaps  I  may  be  enabled  to  render  yourself  an 
essential  service.  But  for  all  this,  it  is  necessary  that  we  should 
meet  and  confer  frankly.  Meanwhile  time  presses — delay  is  for- 
bidden. Will  you  meet'ihe,  an  hour  after  noon,  in  the  lane,  just 
outside  the  private  gate  of  your  gardens?  I  sh5.ll  be  alone,  and 
you  cannot  fear  to  meet  oneof  your  own  sex  and  a  kinswoman. 
Ah,  I  so  desire  to  see  you  !  Come,  I  beseech  you. 

"BEATRICE." 

Violante  read,  and  her  decision  was  taken.  She  was  naturally 
fearless,  and  there  was  little  that  she  would  not  have  braved  for 
the  chance  of  serving  her  father.  And  now  all  peril  seemed 
slight  in  comparison  with  that  which  awaited  her  in  Randal's 
suit,  backed  by  her  father's  approval.  Randal  had  said  that 
Madame  di  Negra  alone  could  aid  her  in  escape  from  himself. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  275 

Harley  had  said  that  Madame  di  Negra  had  generous  qualities; 
and  who  but  Madame  di  Negra  would  write  herself  a  -kins- 
woman, and  sign  herself  Beatrice? 

A  little  before  the  appointed  hour,  she  stole  unobserved 
through  the  trees,  opened  the  little  gate,  and  found  herself  in  the 
quiet  solitary  lane.  In  a  few  minutes,  a  female  figure  came  up, 
with  a  quick,  light  step;  and  throwing  aside  her  veil,  said,  with 
a  sort  of  wild,  suppressed  energy,  "It  is  you!  I  was  truly  told. 
Beautiful! — beautiful!  And,  oh  !  what  youth  and  what  bloom!" 

The  voice  dropped  mournfully;  and  Violante,  surprised  by 
the  tone,  and  blushing  under  the  praise,  remained  a  moment 
silent;  then  she  said,  with  some  hesitation — 

"You  are,  I  presume,  the  Marchesa  di  Negra?  And  I  have 
heard  of  you  enough  to  induce. me  to  trust  you." 

•Qf  me  !  From  whom?"  asked  Beatrice,  almost  fiercely. 

'  From  Mr.  Leslie,  and — and — " 

'  Go  on— why  falter  ?  " 

'  From  Lord  L'Estrange." 

'  From  no  one  else  ? " 

'Not  that  I  remember." 

Beatrice  sighed  heavily,  and  let  fall  her  veil.  Some  foot- 
passengers  now  came  up  the  lane;  and  seeing  two  ladies  of  mien 
so  remarkable,  turned  round,  and  gazed  curiously. 

"  We  cannot  talk  here,"  said  Beatrice,  impatiently,  "  and  I  have 
so  much  to  say- — so  much  to  know.  Trust  me  yet  more;  it  is 
for  yourself  I  speak.  My  carriage  waits  yonder.  Come  home 
with  me — I  will  not  detain  you  an  hour:  and  I  willbringyou  back." 

This  proposition  startled  Violante.  She  retreated  toward  the 
gate  with  a  gesture  of  dissent.  Beatrice  laid  her  hand  on  the 
girl's  arm,  and  again  lifting  her  veil,  gazed  at  her  with  a  look, 
half  of  scorn,  half  of  admiration. 

"  I,  too,  would  once  have  recoiled  from  one  step  beyond  the 
formal  line  by  which  the  world  divides  liberty  from  woman. 
Now  see  how  bold  I  am.  Child,  child,  do  not  trifle  with  your 
destiny.  You  may  never  again  have  the  same  occasion  offered  to 
you.  It.  is  not  only  to  meet  you  that  I  am  here;  I  must  know 
something  of  you— something  of  your  heart.  Why  shrink  ? — 
is  not  the  heart  pure?" 

Violante  made  no  answer;  but  her  smile,  so  sweet  and  so  lofty, 
humbled  the  questioner  it  rebuked. 

"  I  may  restore  to  Italy  your  father,"  said  Beatrice,  with  an 
altered  voice.  "  Come  !  " 

Violante  approached,  but  still  hesitatingly. 

"Not  by  union  with  your  brother  ?  " 


2j6  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"'You  dread  that  so  much  then  ?" 

"  Dread  it  ?  No  !  Why  should  I  dread  what  is  in  my  power 
to  reject.  But  if  you  can  really  restore  my  father,  and  by  nobler 
means,  you  may  save  me  for — " 

Violante  stopped  abruptly;  the  Marchesa's  eyes  sparkled. 

"  Save  you  for — ah!  I  can  guess  what  you:  leave  unsaid. 
But  come,  come; — more  strangers — see;  you  shall  tell  me  all  at 
my  own  house.  And  if  you  can  make  one  sacrifice,  why,  I  will 
save  you  all  else.  Come,  or  farewell  for  ever  !  " 

Violante  placed  -her  hand  in  Beatrice's,  with  a  frank  confi- 
dence that  brought  the  accusing  blood  into  the  Marchesa's  cheek. 

"  We  are  women  both,"  said  Violante,  "  we  descend  from  the 
same  noble  house;  we  'have  knelt  alike  to  the  same  Virgin 
Mother;  why  should  I  not  believe  and  trust  you  ?" 

"Why  not?"  muttered  Beatrice,  feebly;  and  she  moved  on,  with 
herheadbowedonher  breast,and  all  theprideof  her  step  was  gone. 

They  reached  a  carriage  that  stood  by  the  angle  of  the  road. 
Beatrice  spoke  a  word  apart  to  the  driver,  who  was  an  Italian, 
in  the  pay  of  the  Count;  the  man  nodded,  and  opened  the  car- 
riage door.  The  ladies  entered.  Beatrice  pulled  down  the 
blinds;  the  man  remounted  his  box,  and  drove  on  rapidly. 

Beatrice,  leaning  back,  groaned  aloud.  Violante  drew  nearer 
to  her  side.  "  Are  you  in  pain  ? "  said  she,  with  her  tender,  me- 
lodious voice;"  or  can  I  serve  you  as  you  would  serve  me  ?" 

"Child,  give  me  your  hand  and  be  silent  while  I  look  atybu. 
Was  I  ever  so  fair  as  this?  Nevfer  !  And  whatdeeps: — what  deeps 
roll  between  her  and  me  !  " 

She  said  this  as  of  some  one  absent,  and  again  sank  into  silence  ; 
but  continued  still  to  gaze:  ori ;  Violante,  .whose  eyes,  veiled  by 
tlreir  long  fringes,  drooped  beneath  the  gaze. 

Suddenly  Beatrice  started,  exclaiming,  "  No,  it  shall  not  be  ! " 
and  placed  her  hand  on  the  check-string.  '-'V'1.1 

•••"  What  shall  not  be?"  asked  Violante,  surprised  by  the  cry 
and  the  action.  Beatrice  paused-^-her  breast  heaved  visibly 
under  her  dress. 

" Stay,"  she  said,  slowly.  "As  you  say,  we  are  both  women  of 
the  same  noble  house  ;  you  would  reject  the  suit  of  my  brother, 
yet  you  have  seen  him ;  his  the  form  to  please  the  eye — his  the 
arts  that  allure  the  fancy.  He  offers  to  you  rank,  wealth,  your 
father's  pardon  and  recall.  If  I  could  remove  the  objections 
which  your  father  entertains — prove  that  the  Count  has  less 
wronged  him  than  he  deems,  would  you  still  reject  the  rank,  and 
the  wealth,  and  the  hand  of  Giulio  Franzini?" 

"  Oh  yes,  yes,  were  his  hand  a  king's ! " 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  277 

"Still,  then,  as  woman  to  woman — both  as  you  say,  akin,  and 
sprung  from  the  same  lineage — still,  then,  answer  me — answer 
me,  for  you  speak  to  one  who  has  loved — Is  it  not  that  you  love 
another  ?^-Speak." 

"  I  do  not  know.  Nay,  not  love — it  was  a  romance  ;  it  is  a 
thing -impossible.  Do  not  question — I  cannot  answer."  And 
the  broken  words  were  choked  by  sudden  tears. 

Beatrice's  face  grew  hard  and  pitiless.  Again  she  lowered  her 
veil,  and  withdrew  her  hand  from  the  check-string- ;  but  the 
coachman  had  felt  the  touch,  and  halted.  "Drive  on,"  said 
Beatrice,  "as  you  were  directed." 

Both  were  now  long  silent — Violante  with  great  difficulty 
recovering  from  her  emotion,  Beatrice  breathing  hard,  and  her 
arms  folded  firmly  across  her  breast. 

Meanwhile  the  carriage  had  entered  London-^-it  passed  the 
quarter  in  which  Madame  di  Negra's  house  was  situated — it 
rolled  fast  over  a  bridge — it  whirled  through  a  broad  thorough- 
fare, then  through  denies  of  lanes,  with  tall  blank  dreary  houses 
on  either  side^  On  it  went,  and  on,  till  Violante  suddenly  took 
alarm.  "Do  you  live  so  far?"  she  said,  drawing  up  the  blind, 
and  gazing  in  dismay  on  the  strange,  ignoble  suburb.  -  "  I  shall 
be  missed  already.  Oh,  let  us  turn  back,  I  beseech  you  ! " 

"We  are  pearly  there  now.  The  driver  has  taken  this  road  in 
order  to  avoid  those  streets  in  which  we  might  have  been  seen 
together — perhaps  by  my  brother  himself.  Listen.' to  me,  and 
talk  of — of  the  lov.er  whom  you  rightly  associate  with  a  vain 
romance.  'Impossible/ — yes,  it  is  impossible  !  " 

Violante  clasped  her  hands  before  her  eyes,  and  bowed  down 
her  head.  "Why  are  you  so  cruel?"  said  she.  "This  is  not  what 
you  promised.  How  are  you  to  serve  my  father-*— how  restore 
him  to  his  country?  This  is  what  you  promised  !" 

"  If  you  consent  to  one  sacrifice,  I  will  fulfil  that  promise. 
We  are  arrived." 

The  carriage  stopped  before  a  tall  dull  house,  divided  from 
other  houses  by  a  high  wall  that  appeared  to  en  close  a  yard,  and 
standing  at  the  end  of  a  narrow  lane,  which  was  bounded  on  the 
one  side  by  the  Thames.  In  that  quarter  the  river  was  crowded 
with  gloomy,  dark-looking  vessels  and  craft,  all  lying  lifeless 
under  the  wintry  sky. 

The  driver  dismounted  and  rang  the  bell.  Two  swarthy 
Italian  faces  presented  themselves  at  the  threshold. 

Beatrice  descended  lightly,  and  gave  her  hand  to  Violante. 
"Now,  here  we  shall  be  secure,"  said  she;  and  here  a  few  minutes 
may  suffice  to  decide  your  fate." 


278  MY   NOVEL  ;    OR, 

As  the  door  closed  on  Violante — who,  now  waking  to  suspicion, 
to  alarm,  looked  .fearfully  round  the  dark  and  dismal  hall — 
Beatrice  turned  :  "Let  the  carriage  wait." 

The  Italian  who  received  the  order  bowed  and  smiled ;  but 
when  the  two  ladies  had  ascended  the  stairs,  he  reopened  the 
street-door  and  said  to  the  driver,  "Back  to  the  Count,  and  say 
'all  is  safe.' " 

The  carriage  drove  off.  The  man  who  had  given  this  order 
barred  and  locked  the  door,  and,  taking  with  him  the  huge  key, 
plunged  into  the  mystic  recesses  of  the  basement  and  disappeared. 
The  hall,  thus  left  solitary,  had  the  grim  aspect  of  a  prison ;  the 
strong  door  sheeted  with  iron — the  rugged  stone  stairs,  lighted 
by  9.  high  window  grimed  with  the  dust  of  years,  and  jealously 
barred — and  the  walls  themselves  abutting  out  rudely  here  and 
there,  as  if  against  violence  even  from  within. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

.  ;  •  >hi-ji 

IT  was,  as  we  have  seen,  without  taking  counsel  of  the  faith- 
ful Jemima,  that  the  sage  recluse  of  Norwood  had  yielded  to 
his  own  fears,  and  Randal's  subtle  suggestions, .in  the  concise 
and  arbitrary,  letter  which  he  had  written  to  Violante;  but  at 
night,  when  churchyards  give  up  the  dead,  and  conjugal  hearts 
the  secrets  hid  by  day  from  each  other,  the  wise  man  informed 
his  wife  of  the  step  he  had  taken.  And  Jemima  then,  who  held 
English  notions,  very  different  from  those  which  prevail  in  Italy, 
as  to  the  right  of  fathers  to  dispose  of  their  daughters  without 
reference  to  inclination  or  repugnance — so  sensibly  yet  so 
mildly  represented  to  the  pupil  of  Machiavelli  that  he  had  not 
gone  exactly  the  right  way  to  work,  if  he  feared  that  the  hand- 
some Count  had  made  some  impression  on  Violante,  and  if  he 
wished  her  to  turn  with  favor  to  the  suitor  he  recommended — 
that  so  abrupt  a  command  could  only  chill  the  heart,  revolt  the 
will,  and  even  give  to  the  audacious  Peschiera  some  romantic 
attraction  which  he  had  not  before  possessed — as  effectually  to 
destroy  Riccabocca's  sleep  that  night.  And  the  next  day  he 
sent  Giacomo  to  Lady  Lansmere's  with  a  very  kind  letter  to 
Violante  and  a  note  to  the  hostess,  praying  the  latter  to  bring 
his  daughter  to  Norwood  for  a  few  hours, .as  he  much  wished 
to  converse  with  both.  It  was  on  Giacomo's  arrival  at  Knights- 
bridge  that  Violante's  absence  was  discovered.  Lady  Lans- 
mere,  ever  proudly  careful  of  the  world  and  its  gossip,  kept 
Giacomo  from  betraying  his  excitement  to  her  servants,  and 
stated  throughout  the  decorous  household  that  the  young  lady 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  279 

had  informed  her  she  was  going  to  visit  some  friends  that  morn- 
ing, and  had  no  doubt  gone  through  the  garden  gate,  since  it 
was  found  open;  the  way  was  more  quiet  there  than  by  the 
high-road,  and  her  friends  might  have  therefore  walked  to  meet 
her  by  the  lane.  Lady  :Lansmere  observed  that  her  only  sur- 
prise was  that  Violante  had  gone  earlier  than  she  had  expected. 
Having  said  this  with  a  composure  that  compelled  belief,  Lady 
Lansmere  ordered  the  carriage,  and,  taking  Giacomo  with  her, 
drove  at  once  to  consult  her  son. 

Harley's  quick  intellect  had  scarcely  recovered  from  the 
shock  upon  his  emotions,  before  Randal  Leslie  was  announced. 

"Ah,"  said  Lady  Lansmere,  "Mr.  Leslie  may  know  some- 
thing. H«  came  to  her  yesterday  with  a  note  from  her  father. 
Pray  let  him  enter." 

The  Austrian  Prince  approached  Harley.  "  I  will  wait  in  the 
next  room,"  he  whispered,  "  You  may  want  me,  if  you.  have 
cause  to  suspect  Peschiera  in  all  this." 

Lady  Lansmere  was  pleased  with  the  Prince's  delicacy,  and, 
glancing  at  Leonard,  said,  "  Perhaps  you  too,  sir,  may  kindly 
aid  us,  if  you  would  retire  with  the  Prince.  Mr.  Leslie  may  be 
disinclined  to  speak  of  affairs  like  these  except  to  Harley  and 
myself." 

"  True,  madam;  but  beware  of  Mr.  Leslie." 

As  the  door  at  one  end  of  the  room  closed  on  the  Prince  and 
Leonard,  Randal  entered  at  the  other,  seemingly  much  agitated. 

"I  have  just  been  to  your  house,  Lady  Lansmere.  I  heard 
you  were  here;  pardon  me  if  I  have  followed  you.  I  had  called 
at  Knightsbridge  to  see  Violante— learned  that  she  had  left  you. 
I  implore  you  to  tell  me  how  or  wherefore.  I  have  the  right 
to  ask;  her  father  has  promised  me  her  hand." 

Harley's  falcon  eye  had  brightened  up  at  Randal's  entrance. 
It  watched  steadily  the  young  man's  face.  It  was  clouded  for 
a  moment  by  his  knitted  brows  at  Randal's  closing  words.  But 
he  left  it  to  Lady  Lansmere  to  reply  and  explain.  This  the 
Countess  did  briefly. 

Randal  clasped  his  hands.  "  And  she  not  gone  to  her  father's? 
Are  you  sure  of  that  ? " 

"  Her  father's  servant  has  just  come  from  Norwood."  . 

"Oh,  I  am  to  blame  for  this  !  It  is  my  rash  suit— her  fear  of 
it — her  aversion.  I  see  it  all  I  "  Randal's  voice  was  hollow 
with  remorse  and  despair.  "  To  save  her  from  Peschiera,  her 
father  insisted  on  her  immediate  marriage  with  myself.  His 
orders  were  too  abrupt,  my  own  wooing  too  unwelcome.  I 
know  her  high  spirit;  she  has  fled  to  escape  from  me.  But 


280  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

whither,  if  not  to  Norwood  ? — oh,  whither  ?  What  other  friends 
has  she — what  relations  ?" 

"  You  throw  a  new  light  on  this  mystery,"  said  Lady  Lans- 
mere;  "  perhaps  she  may  have  gone  to  her  father's  after  all,  and 
the  servant  may  have  crossed,  but  missed  her  on  the  way.  I 
will  drive  to  Norwood  at  once." 

"Do  so — do;  but -if  she  be  not  there,  be  careful  not  to  alarm 
Riccabocea  with  the  riews  of  her  disappearance.  Caulion  Gia- 
como  not  to  do  so.  He  would  only  suspect  Peschiera,  and  be 
hurried  to  some  act  of  violence." 

"  Do  •  not  •  you,  then,  suspect  Peschiera,  Mr.  Leslie?"  asked 
Harley,  suddenly. 

"  Ha  !  is  it  possible  ?  Yet,  no.  I  called  on  him  this  morn- 
ing with  Frank  Hazeldean,  who  is  to  marry  his  sister;  I  was 
with  him  till  I  went  on  to  Knightsbridge,'  at  the  very  time  of 
Violante's  disappearance.  He  could  hot  then  have  been  a 
party  to  it." 

"  You  saw  Violante  yesterday.  Did  you  speak  to  her  of  Mad- 
ame di  Negra  ?  "  asked  Harley,  suddenly,  recalling  the  questions 
respecting  the  Marchesa  which  Violante  had  addressed  to  him. 

In  spite  of  himself,  Randal  felt  that  he  changed  countenance. 
"  Of  Madame  di  Negra  ?  I  do  not  think  so.  Yet  I  might 
Oh,  yes,  I  remember  now.'  She  asked  me  the  Marchesa's  ad- 
dress; I  would  not  give  it."  ' 

"  The  address  is  easily  found.  Can  she  have  gone  to  the 
Marchesa's  house  ? " 

"  I  will  run  there,  and  see,"  cried  Randal,  starting  up. 

"  And  I  with-you.  Stay,  my  dear  mother.  Proceed,  as  you 
propose,  to  Norwood,  and  take  Mr.  Leslie's  advice.  Spare  our 
friend  the  news  of  his  daughter's  loss — -if  lost  she  be — -till  she  is 
restored  to  him.  He  can  be  of  no  use  meanwhile.  Let  Gia- 
como  rest  here;  I  may  Want  him." 

Harley  then  passed  into  the  next  room,  and  entreated  the 
Prince  and  Leonard  to  await  his  return,  and  allow  Giacomo  to 
stay  in  the  same  room. 

He  then  went  quickly  back  to  Randal.  Whatever  might  be 
his  fears  or  emotions,  Harley  felt  that  he  bad-need  of  all  his 
coolness  of  judgment  and  presence  of  mind.  The  occasion 
made  abrupt  demand  upon  powers  which  had  slept  since  boy- 
hood, but  which  now  woke  with  a  vigor  that  would  have  made 
even  Randal  tremble,  could  he  have  detected  the  wit,  the  cour- 
age, the  electric  energies,  masked  under  tranquil  self-possession. 
Lord  L' Estrange  arid  Randal  soon  reached  the  Marchesa's 
house,  and  learned  that  she  had  been  out  since  morning  in  one 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  281 

of  Courit  Peschiera's  carriages.    Randal  stole  an  alarmed  glance 
at  Harley's  face.     Harley  did  not  seem  to  notice  it. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Leslie,  what  do  you  advise  next  ?" 

"  I  am  at  a  loss.  Ah,  perhaps,  afraid  of  her  father — knowing 
how  despotic  is  his  belief  in  paternal  rights,  and  how  tenacious 
he  is  of  his  word  once  passed,  as  it  has  been  to  me,  she  may 
have  resolved  to  take  refuge  in  the  country — perhaps  at  the 
Casino,  or  at  Mrs.  Dale's,  or  Mrs.  Hazeldean's.  I  will  hasten 
to  inquire  at  the  coach-office.  Meanwhile,  you — " 

"  Nevermind  me,  Mr.  Leslie-  Do  what  you  think  best.  But, 
if  your  surmises  be  just,  you  must  have  been  a  very  rude  wooer 
to  the  high-born  lady  you  aspired  to  win." 

"  Not  so;  but  perhaps  an  unwelcome  one.  II  she  has  indeed 
fled  from  me,  need  I  say  that  my  suit  will  be  withdrawn  at  once  ? 
I  am  net  a  selfish  lover,  Lord  L'Estrange." 

"  Nor  I  a  vindictive  man.  Yet,  could  I  discover  .who  has 
conspired  against  this  lady,  a  guest,  under  my  father's  roof,  I 
would  crush  him  into  the  mire  as  easily  as  I  sef;  my-  fopt  upon 
this  glove.  Good-day  to  you,  Mr.  Leslie." 

Randal  stood. still  for  a  few  moments  as  Harley  strided  on; 
then  his  lip  sneered  as  it  muttered — "Insolent!     But  does  he 
love  her  ?    If  so,  I  am  avenged  already." 
• 

CHAPTER  VII. 

• 

HARLEY  went  straight  to  Peschiera's  hotel.  He  was  told 
that  the  Count  had  walked  out  with  Mr.  Frank  Hazeldeaft  and 
some  other  gentlemen  who  had  breakfasted  with  him.  He  had 
left  word,  in  case  any  one  called,  that  he  had  gone  to  Tatter- 
sail's  to  look  at  some  horses  that  were  for  sale.  To  TattejtsaH's 
went  Harley.  The  Count  was  in  the  yard  leaning  against  a 
pillar,  and  surrounded  by  fashionable  friends.  Lord  L'Estrange 
paused,  and,  with  an  heroic  effort  at  self-mastery,  repressed  his 
rage.  "  I  may  lose  all  if  I  show  that  I  suspect  him;  and  yet  I 
must  insult  and  fight  him  rather  than  leave  his  movements  free. 
Ah,  is  that  young  Hazeldean  ?  A  thought  strikes  me  !  "  'Frank 
was  standing  apart  from  the  group  round  the  Count,  and  look- 
ing very  absent  and  very  sad/  Harley  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder,  and  drew  him  aside  unobserved  by  the  Count 

"  Mr.  Hazeldean,  your  uncle  Egerton  is  my  dearest  friend. 
Will  you  be  a  friend  to  me  ?  I  want  you." 

"  My  lord—" 

"  Follow  me.  Don't  let  Count  Peschiera  see  us  talking  to- 
gether." 


282  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Harley  quitted  the  yard,  and  entered  St.  James's  Park  by  the 
little  gate  close  by.  In  a  very  few  words  he  informed  Frank  of 
Violante's  disappearance,  and  of  his  reasons  for  suspecting  the 
Count.  Frank's  first  sentiment  was  that  of  indignant  disbelief 
that  the  brother  of  Beatrice  could  be  so  vile;  but  as  he  gradu- 
ally called  to  mind  the  cynical  and  corrupt  vein  of  the  Count's 
familiar  conversation — the  hints  to  Pe"schiera's  prejudice  that  had 
been  dropped  by  Beatrice  herself — and  the  general  character  for 
brilliant  and  daring  profligacy  which  even  the  admirers  of  the 
Count  ascribed  to  him — Frank  was  compelled  to  reluctant  acqui- 
escence in  Harley's  suspicions ;  and  he  said,  with' an  earnest 
gravity  very  rare  to  him — "Believe  me,  Lord  L'Estrange,  if  I 
can  assist  you  in  defeating  a  base  and  mercenary  design  against 
this  poor  young  lady,  you  have  but  to  show  me  how.  One  thing 
is  clear — Peschiera  was  not  personally  engaged  in  this  abduc- 
tion, since  I  have  been  with  him  all  day ;  and — now  I  think  of 
it — I  begin  tohopethat  you  wrong  him;  for  he  has  invited  a  large 
party  of  us  to  make  an  excursion  with  him  to  Boulogne  next  week, 
in  order  to  try  his  yacht,  which  he  could  scarcely  do  if—" 

"  Yacht,  at  this  time  of  the  year!  a  man  who  habitually  resides 
at  Vienna — a  yacht!" 

"Spendquick  sells  it  a  bargain,  on  account  of  the  time  of  year 
and  other  reasons;  and  the  Count  proposes  to  spend  next  sum- 
mer in  cruising  about  the  Ionian  Isles,.  He  has  some  property 
on  those  isles,  which  he  has  never  yet  visited." 

"  How  long  is  it  since  he  bought  this  yacht  ? " 

"  Why,  I  am  not  sure  that  it  is  already  bought— that  is,  paid  for. 
Levy  was  to  meet  Spendquick  this  very  morning  to  arrange  the 
matter.  Spendquick  complains  that  Levy  screws  him." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Hazeldean,  you  are  guiding  me  through  the 
maze.  Where  shall  I  find  Lord  Spendquick  ?•" 

"At  this  hour,  probably  in  bed.     Here  is  his  card." 

"Thanks.     And  where  lies  the  vessel?" 

"  It  was  off  Blackwall  the  other  day.  I  went  fo  see  it — '  The 
Flying  Dutchman' — a  fine  vessel,  and. carries  guns." 

"  Enough.  Now  heed  me.  There  can  be  no  immediate  dan- 
ger to  Violante,  so  long  as  Peschiera  does  not  meet  her — so  long 
as  we  know  his  movements.  You  are  about  to  marry  his  sister. 
Avail  yourself  of  that  privilege  to  keep  close  by  his  side.  Refuse 
to  be  shakenoff.  Make  what  excuses  for  the  present  your  inven- 
tion suggests.  I  will  give  you  an  excuse.  Be  anxious  and  un- 
easy to  know  where  you  can  find  Madame  di  Negfa." 

"  Madame  di  Negral "  cried  Frank.  "  What  of  her  ?  Is  she 
not  in  Curzon  Street  ?" 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  283 

"No;  she  has  gone  out  in  one  of  the  Count's  carriages.  In 
all  probability  the  driver  of  that  carriage,  or  some  servant  in 
attendance  on  it,  will  come  to  the  Count  in  the  course  of  the  day; 
and,  in  order  to  get  rid  of  you,  the  Count  will  tell  you  to  see  this 
servant,  and  ascertain  yourself  that  his  sister  is  safe.  Pretend 
to  believe  what  the  man  says,  but  make  him  come  to  your  lodg- 
ings on  pretence  of  writing  there  a  letter  for  the  Marchesa.  Once 
at  your  lodgings  and  he  will  be  safe  ;  for  I  shall  see  that  the 
officers  of  justice  secure  him.  The  moment  he  is  there,  send  an 
express  for  me  to  my  hotel." 

"But,"  said  Frank,  a  little  bewildered,  "if  I  go  to  my  lodg- 
ings, how  can  I  watch  the  Count?" 

"  It  will  not  then  be  necessary.  Only  get  him  to  accompany 
you  to  your  lodgings,  and  part  with  him  at  the  door," 

"Stop,  stop — you  cannot  suspect  Madame  di  Negra  of  con- 
nivance in  a  scheme  so  infamous.  Pardon  me,  Lord  L'Estrange; 
I  cannot  act  in  this  matter— cannot  even  hear  you  except  as  your 
foe,  if  you  insinuate  a  word  against  the  honor  of  the  woman  I  love." 

"Brave  gentleman,  your  hand.  It  is  Madame  di  Negra  I  would 
save,  as  well  as  my  friend's  young  child.  Think  but  of  her, 
while  you  act  as  I  entreat,  and  all  will  go  well.*  I  confide  in  you. 
Now  return  to  the  Count." 

Frank  walked  back  to  join  Peschiera,  and  hisbrow  was  thought- 
ful, and  his  lips  closed  firmly.  TIarley  had  that  gift  which  belongs 
to  the  genius  of  Action.  He  inspired  others  with  the  light  of  his 
own  spirit  and  the  force  of  his  own  will.  Harley  next  hastened 
to  Lord  Spendquick,  remained  with  that  young  gentleman  some 
minutes,  then  repaired  to  his  hotel,  where  Leonard,  the  Prince, 
and  Giacomo  still  awaited  him. 

"  Come  with  me,  both  .of  you.  You  too,  Giacomo.  I  must 
now  seek  the  police.  We  may  then  divide  upon  separate  missions." 
•  "Oh,  my  dear  lord,"  cried  Leonard,  "you  must  have  had 
good  news.  You  seem  cheerful  and  sanguine." 

"Seem!  Nay,  I  am  so!  If  I  once  paused  to  despond — even 
to  doubt — I  should  go  mad.  A  foe  to  baffle,  and  an  angel  to 
save!  Whose  spirits  would  not  rise  high — whose  wits  would  not 
move  quick  to  the  warm  pulse  of  his  heart  ?" 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

• 

TWILIGHT  was  dark  in  the  room  to  which  Beatrice  had  con- 
ducted Violante.  A  great  change  had  come  over  Beatrice.  Hum- 
ble and  weeping,  she  knelt  beside  Viotente,  hiding  her  face,  and 
imploring  pardon.  And  Violante,  striving  to  resist  the  terror  for 


284  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

which  she  now  saw  such  cause  as  no  woman-heart  can  defy,  still 
sought  to  soothe,  and  still  sweetly  assured  forgiveness. 

Beatrice  had  learned — after  quick  and  fierce  questions — which 
at  last  compelled  the  answers  that  cleared  away  every  doubt — 
that  her  jealousy  had  been  groundless — that  she  had.no  rival  in 
Violante.  From  that  moment  the  passions  that  had  made  her 
the  tool  of  guilt  abruptly  vanished,  and  her  conscience  startled 
her  with  the  magnitude  of  her  treachery.  Perhaps  had  Violante's 
heart  been  wholly  free,  or  she  had  been  of  that  mere  common- 
place, girlish  character,  which  women  like  Beatrice  are  apt  to 
despise,  the  Marchesa's  affection  for  Peschiera,and  her  dread  of 
him,  might  have  made  her  try  to  persuade  her  young  kinswoman 
at  least  to  receive  the  Count's  visit — at  least  to  suffer  him  to  make 
his  own  excuses,  and  plead  his  own  cause.  But  there  had  been 
a  loftiness  of  spirit  in  which  Violante  had  first-  defied  the  Mar- 
chesa's questions,  followed  by  such  generous,  exquisite  sweet- 
ness, when  the  girl  perceived  how  that  wild  heart  was  stung  and 
maddened,  and  such  purity  of  mournful  candor  when  she  had 
overcome  her  own  virgin  bashfulness  sufficiently  to  undeceive 
the  error  she  detected,  and  confess  where  herown  affections  were 
placed,  that  Beatrice  bowed  before  her  as  mariner  of  old  to  some 
fair  saint  that  had  allayed  the  storm. 

"I  have  deceived  you !  "  she  cried,  through  her  sobs;  "but  I 
will  now  save  you  at  any. cost.  Had  you.been  as  I  deemed — the 
rival- who  had  despoiled  all  the  hopes  of  my  future  life— I  could, 
without  remorse,  have  been  the  accomplice  J  art)  pledged  to  be. 
Butfltfw  you!— oh,  you — so  good  and  so  noble; — you  can  never 
be  the  bride  of  Peschrera.  Nay,  start  not;  he  shall  renounce  Jiis 
designs  for  ever,  or  I  will  go  myself  to  our  Emperor,  and  expose 
the  dark  secrets  of  his  life.  Return  with  me  quick  to  the  ;home 
from  which  I  ensnared  you." 

bi  tiB-eatricfc's  hand  was  on  the  door  while. -she  spoker  Suddenly 
her  face  fell — her  lips-grew  white;  the  door  was  locked  from  with- 
out. She  called — ^no  one  answered;  the  bell-pull  in  the  room 
gave  no  sound;  the  windows  were  high  and  barred — they  did  not 
look  on  the  river,  nor  the  street,  but  on  a  close,  gloomy,  silent 
yard — -high  blank  walls  all  around  it — no  one  to  hear  the  cry.of 
distress,  rang  it  ever  so  loud  and  sharp. 

Beatrice  divined  that  she  herself  had  been  no  less  ensnared 
than  her  companion;  that  Peschiera,  distrustful  of  her  firmness 
in  evil,  had  precluded  her  from  the;  pewter  ,of  reparation.  She 
was  in  a  house  only  tenanted  by  his  hirelings.  Not  a  hope  to 
save  Violante  from  a  fate  that  now  appalled  her,  seemed  to  re- 
main. Thus,  in  incoherent  self-reproaches  and  frenzied  tears, 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  285 

Beatrice  knelt  beside  her  victim,  communicating  more  and  more 
the  terrors  that  she  felt,  as  the  hours  rolled  on,  and  the  room 
darkened,  till  it  was  only  by  the  dull  lamp  which  gleamed  through 
the  grimy  windows  from  the  yard  without,  that  each  saw  the  face 
of  the  other. 

Night  came  on;  they  heard  a  clock  from  some  distant  church 
strike  the  hours.  The  dim  fire  hadlo^g  since  burnt  out,  and  the 
air  became  intensely  cold.  No  one  broke  upon  their  solitude — 
not  a  voice  was  heard  in  the  house.  They  felt  neither  cold  nor 
hunger — they  felt  but  the  solitude,  and  the  silence,  and  the  dread 
of  something  that  was  to  come. 

At  length,  about  midnight,  a  bell  rang  at  the  street  door;  then 
there  was  the  quick  sound  of  steps — of  sullen  bolts  withdrawn — 
of  low,  murmured  voices.  Lights  streamed  through  the  chinks  of 
the  door  to  the  apartment — the  door  itself  opened.  Two  Ital- 
ians bearing  tapers  entered,  and  the  Count  di  Peschiera  followed. 

Beatrice  sprang  up,  and  rushed  toward  her  brother.  He  laid 
his  hand  gently  on  her  lips,  and  motioned  to  the  Italians  to  with- 
draw. They  placed  the  lights  on  the  table,  and  vanished  with- 
out a  word. 

Peschiera  then,  putting  aside  his  sister,  approached  Violante. 

"Fair  kinswoman,"  said  he,  with  an  air  of  easy  but  resolute 
assurance,  "  there  are  things  which  no  man  can  excuse,  and  no 
woman  can  pardon,  unless  that  love,  which  is  beyond  all  laws, 
suggests  excuse  for  the  one,  and  obtains  pardon  for  the  other. 
In  a  word,  I  have  sworn  to  win  you,  and  I  have  had  no  oppor- 
tunities to  woo.1  Fear  not;  the  worst  that  can  befall  you  is  to 
be  my  bride.  Stand  aside,  my  sister,  stand  aside." 

"  Giulio,  no  !  Giulio  Franzini,  I  stand  between  you  and  her  ; 
you  shall  strike  me  to  the  earth  before  you  can  touch  even  the 
hem  of  her  robe." 

"What,  my  sister  ! — you  turn  against  me  ?" 

"And  unless  you  instantly  retire,  and  leave  her  free,  I  will 
unmask  you  to  the  Emperor." 

"  Too  late  !  man.  enfbnt!  You  will  sail  with  us.  The -effects 
you  may  need  for  the  voyage  are  already  on  board.  You  will 
be  witness  to  our  marriage,  and  by  a  holy  son  of  the  Church. 
Then  tell  the  Emperor  what  you  will/' 

With  at  light  and  sudden  exertion  of  his  strength,  the  Count 
put. away  Beatrice,  and  fell  on  his  knees  before  Violante,  who, 
drawn  to  her  full  height,  death-like  pale^  but  untremblin-g,  re- 
garded him  with  unutterable  disdain. 

"  You  scorn  me  now,  "said  he,  throwing  into  his  features  an  ex- 
pression of  humility  and  admiration ;  "and  I  cannot  wonder  at  it. 


286  MY    NOVEL  )    OR, 

But,  believe  me,that  until  .the  scorn  yield  to  a  kinder  sentiment,! 
will. take  no  advantage  of  the  power  1  have  gained  over  your  fate." 

"  Power  !"  said  Violante,  haughtily.  "You  have  ensnared 
me  into  this  house — you  have  gained  the  power  of  a  day  ;  but 
the  power  over  my  fate — no  !  " 

"  You  mean  that  your  friends  have  discovered  your  disappear- 
ance, and  are  on  the  track.  Fair  one,  I  provide  against  your 
friends,  and  I  defy  all  the  law  and  police  of  England.  ,  The 
vessel  that  will  bear  you  from  these  shores  waits  in  the  river  hard 
by.  Beatrice,  I  warn  you— be  still — unhand  me.  In  that  vessel 
will  beapriest  who  shall  join  our  hands,  but  not  before  you  will 
recognize  the  truth,  that  she  who  flies  with  Giulio  Peschiera  must 
become  his  wife,  or  quit  him  as  the  disgrace  of  her  house,  and 
the  scorn  of  your  sex." 

"Oh,  villain  !  villain  !  "  cried  Beatrice. 

" Peste,  my  sister,  gentler  words.  You,  too,  would  marry.  I 
tell  no  tales  of  you.  Signorina,  I  grieve  to  threaten  force.  Give 
me  your  hand  ;  w.e  must  be  gone." 

Violante  eluded  the  clasp  that  would  have  profaned  her,  and 
darting  across  the  room,  opened  the  door,  and  closed  it  hastily 
behind  her.  Beatrice  clung  firmly  to  the  Count  to  detain  him 
from  pursuit.  But  just  without  the  door,  close,  as  if  listening  to 
what  passed  within,  stood  a  man  wrapped  from  head  to  foot  in 
a  large  boat-cloak.  The  rays  of  the  lamp  that  beamed  on  the  man 
glittered  on  the  barrel  of  a  pistol  which  he  held  in  his  right  hand. 

"  Hist !  "  whispered  the  man,  in  English,  and  passing  his  aim 
around  her—"  in  this  house  you  are  in  that  ruffian's  power  ;  out 
of  it,  safe.  Ah  !  I  am  by : your  side — I,  Violante  !  " 

The  voice  thrilled  to  Violante's  heart.  She  started — looked 
up,  but  nothing  was  seen  of  the  man's  face,  what  with  the  hat 
and  cloak,  save  a  mass  of  raven  curls,  and  a  beard  of  the  same  hue. 

The  Count  now  threw  open  the  door,  dragging  after  him  his 
sister,  who  still  clung  round  him. 

"  Ha — that  is  well ! "  he  cried  to.  the  man,  in  Italian.  "  Bear 
the  lady  after  me,  gently  ;  but  if,  she  attempt  to  cry  out— why, 
\  force  enough  tq  silence  her,  not  more.  As  for  you,  Beatrice, 
traitress  that  you  are,  I  coivld  strike  you-to^the  earth — but— no, 
this  suffices."  He  caught  lijs  sister  in  his  arms  as  he  spoke,  and, 
regardless  of  her  •cries  and  struggles,  sprang  down  the  stairs. 

The  hall  was  crowded  with  fierce  swarthy  men.  The  Count 
turned  to  one  of  them,  and  whispered;  in  an  instant  the  Mar- 
chesa  was  seized  and  gagged:  The  ..Count  cast  a  look  over  his 
shoulder;  Violante. was  close  behind,  supported  by  the  man  to 
.irhom  Peschiera  had  consigned  her,  and  who  was  pointing  to 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  287 

Beatrice,  and  appeared  warning  Violante  against  resistance. 
Violante  was  silent,  and  seemed  resigned.  Peschiera  smiled 
cynically,  and,  preceded  by  some  of  his  hirelings,  who  held 
torches,  descended  a  few  steps  that  led  to  an  abrupt  landing-place 
between  the  hall  and  the  basement  story.  There  asmall  door  stood 
open,  and  the  river  flowed  close  by.  A  boat  was  moored  on  the 
bank,  round  which  grouped  four  men,  who  had  the  air  of  foreign 
sailors.  At  the  appearance  of  Peschiera,  three  of  these  men 
sprang  into  the  boat/and  got  ready  their  oars.  The  fourth  care- 
fully readjusted  a  plank  thrown  from  the  boat  to  the  wharf,  and 
offered  his  arm  obsequiously  to  Peschiera.  The  Count  was  the 
first  to  enter,  and,  humming  a  gay  opera  air,  took  his  place  by 
the  helrn.  The  two  females  were  next  lifted  in,  and  Violante 
felt  her  hand  pressed  almost  convulsively  by  the  man  who  stood 
by  the  plank.  The  rest  followed,  and  in  another  minute  the  boat 
bounded  swiftly  over  the  waves  toward  a  vessel  that  lay  several 
furlongs  adown  the  river,  and  apart  from  all  the  meaner  craft 
that  crowded  the  stream.  The  stars  struggled  pale  through  the 
foggy  atmosphere  ;  not  a  word  was  heard  within  the  boat — no 
sound,  save  the  regxilar  splash  of  the  oars.  The  Count  paused 
from  his  lively  tune,  and  gathering  round  him  the  ample  fold  of 
his  fur  pelisse,  seemed  absorbed  in  thought.  Even  by  the  im- 
perfect light  of  the  stats,  Peschiera's  face  wore  an  air  of  sove- 
reign triumph.  The  result  had  justified  that  careless  and  inso- 
lent confidence  in  himself  and  In  fortune,  which  was  the  most 
prominent  feature  in  the  pharacterof  the  man  who,  both  bravo 
and  gamester,  had  played  against  the  world,  with  his  rapier  in 
one  hand,  and  cogged  dice  in  the  other.  Violante,  once  in  a 
vessel  filled  by  his  own  men,  was  irretrievably  in  his  power.  Even 
her  father  must  feel  grateful  to  learn  that  the  captive  of  Peschiera 
had  saved  name  and  repute  in  becoming  Peschiera's  wife.  Even 
the  pride  of  sex  in  Violante  herself  must  induce  her  to  confirm 
what  Peschiera,  of  course,  intended  to  state,  viz.,  that  shq  was 
a  willing  partner  in  a  bridegroom's  schemes  of  flight  toward  the 
altar,  rather  than  the  poor  victim  of  a  betrayer,  and  receiving  his 
hand  but  from  his  mercy.  He  saw  his  fortune  secured,  his  suc- 
cess envied,  his  very  character  rehabilitated  by  his  splendid  nup- 
tials. Ambition  began  to  mingle  with  his  dreams  of  pleasure  and 
pomp.  What  post  in  the  court  or  the  state  too  high  for  the  aspira- 
tions of  one  who  had  evinced  the  most  incontestable  talent  for 
active  life — the  talent  to  succeed  in  all  that  the  wUl  has  under- 
taken ?  Thus  mused  the  Count,  half  forgetful  of  the  present, 
and  absorbed  in  the  golden  future,  till  he  was  aroused  by  a  loud 
hail:  from  the  vessel,  and  the  bustle  on  board  the  boat,  as  th* 


288  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

sailors  caught  at  the  rope  flung  to  them.  He  then  rose  and  moved 
toward  Violante.  But  the  man  who  was  still  in  charge  of  her 
passed  the  Count  lightly,  half-leading,  half-carrying  his  passive 
prisoner.  "  Pardon,  Excellency,"  said  the  man,  in  Italian, "  but 
the  boat  is  crowded,  and  rocks  so  much,  that  your  aid  would 
but  disturb  our  footing."  Before  Peschiera  could  reply,  Violante 
was  already  on  the  steps  of  the  vessel,  and  the  Count  paused  till, 
with  elated  smile,  he  saw  her  safely  standing  on  the  deck.  Beatrice 
followed,  and  then  Peschiera  himself ;  but  when  the  Italians  in 
his  train  also  thronged  toward  the  sides  of  the  boat,  two  of  the 
sailors  got  before  them,  and  let  go  the  rope,  while  the  other  two 
plied  their  oars  vigorously,  and  pulled  back  toward  shore.  The 
Italians  burst  into  an  amazed  and  indignant  volley  of  execrations, 
"Silence,"  said  the  sailor  who  had  stood,  by  the  plank,  "  we  obey 
orders.  If  youarenotquiet,weshallupsetthe  boat.  Wr  can  swim; 
Heaven  and  Monsignore  San  Giacomo  pity  you  if  you  cannot!" 

.Meanwhile,  as  Peschiera  leaped  upon  deck,  a  flood  of  light 
poured  upon  him  from  lifted  torches.  That  light  streamed  full 
on  the  face  and  form  of  a  man  of  commanding  stature,  whose 
arm  was  around  Violante,  and  whose  dark  eyes  flashed  upon  the 
Count  more  luminously  than  the  torches.  On  one  side  this  man 
stood  the  Austrian  Prince;  on  the  other  side  (a  cloak,  and  a  pro- 
fusion of  false  dark  locks,  at  his  feet)  stood  Lord  L'Estrange,  his 
arms  folded,  and  his  lips  curved  by  a  smile  in  which  the  ironical 
humor  native  to  the  man  was  tempered  with  a  calm  and  supreme 
disdain.  The  Count  strove  to  speak,  but  his  voice  faltered. 

All  around  him  looked  ominous  and  hostile.  He  saw  many 
Italian  faces,  but  they  scowled  at  him  with  vindictive  hate;  in 
the  rear  we're  English  mariners,  peeping  curiously  over  the 
shoulders  of  the  foreigners,  and  with  a  broad  grin  on  their  open 
countenances..  Suddenly,  as  the  Count  thus  stood  perplexed, 
cowering,  stupefied,  there  burst  from  all  the  Italians  present  a 
hoot  of  unutterable  scorn—",//  traditore !  il  traditore  /  " — (the 
traitor  !  the  traitor  !) 

The  Count  was  brave,  and  at  the  cry  he  lifted  his. head  with 
a  certain  majesty. 

At  that  moment  Harley,  raising  his  hand  as  if  to  silence  the 
hoot,  came  forth  from  the  group  by  which  he  had  been  hitherto 
standing,  and  toward  him  the  Count  advanced,  with  a  bold  stride. 

"What  trick  is  this?"  he  said,  in  French, fiercely.  "  I  divine 
thatitisyou  whom  lean  single  out  for  explanation  and  atonement." 

t  Pqrdieu^  Monsieur  '»  Comte"  answered  Harley,  in  the  same 
language,  which  lends  ijself  so  well  to  polished  sarcasm  and  high- 
bred enmity— "  let  us  distinguish.  Explanation  should  come 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  289 

from  me,  I  allow ;  but  atonement  I  have  the  honor  to  resign  to 
yourself.  This  vessel — " 

"  Is  mine ! "  cried  the  Count.  '^Those  men,  who  insult  me, 
should  be  in  my  pay." 

"  The  men  in  your  pay,  Monsieur  le  Cornte,  are  on  shore,  drink- 
ing success  to  your  voyage.  But,  anxious  still  to  procure  you 
the  gratification  of  being  amongst  your  own  countrymen,  those 
whom  I  have  taken  into  my  pay  are  still  better  Italians  than  the 
pirates  whose  place  they  supply ;  perhaps  not  such  good  sailors  ; 
but  then  I  have  taken  the  liberty  to  add  to  the  equipment  of  a 
vessel,  which  has  cost  me  too  much  to  risk  lightly,  some  stout 
English  seamen,  who  are  mariners  more  practised  than  even  your 
pirates.  Yourgrand  mistake,  Monsietir  le  Comte,  is  in  thinking 
that  the '  Flying  Dutchman '  is  yours.  With  many  apologies  for 
interfering  with  your  intention  to  purchase  it,  I  beg  to  inform 
you  that  Lord  Spendquick  has  kindly  sold  it  to  me.  Neverthe- 
less, Monsieur  le  Comte,  for  the  next  few  weeks  I  place  it — men 
and  all — at  your  service." 

Peschiera  smiled  scornfully. 

"I  thank  your  lordship ;  but  since  I  presume  that  I  shall  no 
longer  have  the  travelling  companion  who  alone  could  make  the 
voyage  attractive,  I  shall  return  to  shore,  and  will  simply  re- 
quest you  to  inform  me  at  what  hour  you  can  receive  the  friend 
whom  I  shall  depute  to  discuss  that  part  of  the  question  yet  un- 
touched, and  to  arrange  that  the  atonement,  whether  it  be  due 
from  me  or  yourself,  may  be  rendered  as  satisfactory  as  you 
have  condescended  to  make  the  explanation." 

"  Let  not  that  vex  you,  Monsieur  le  Coritte — the  atonement 
is,  in  much,  made  already  ;  so  anxious  have  I  been  to  forestall 
all  that  your  nice  sense  of  honor  would  induce  so  complete  a 
gentleman  to  desire.  You  have  ensnared  a  young  heiress,  it  is 
true;  but  you  see  that  it  was  only  to  restore  her  to  the  arms 
of  her  father.  You  have  juggled  art  illustrious  kinsman  out  of  his 
heritage;  but  you  have  voluntarily  come  on  board  this  vessel, 

first,  to  enable  his; highness  the  Prince  Von ,  of  whose  rank  at 

the  Austrian  court  you  are  fully  aware,  to  state  to  your  Emperor 
that  he  himself  has  been  witness  of  the  manner  in  which  you  inter- 
preted his  Imperial  Majesty's  assent  to  your  nuptials  with  a  child 
ofoneofthe  first  subjects  in  his  Italian  realm;  and  next,  to  com- 
mence, by  an  excursion  to  the  seas  of  the  Baltic,  the  sentence  of 
banishment  which  I  have  no  doubt  will  accompany  the  same  act 
that  restores  to  the  chief  of  your  house  his  lands  and  his  honors." 

The  Count  started.  ' 

"That,  restoration,"  said  the  Austrian  Prince,  who  had  ad- 


290  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

vanced  to  Harley's  side,  "I  already  guarantee.  Disgrace  that 
you  are,  Giulio  Franzini,  to  the  nobles  of  the  empire,  I  will  not 
leave  my  royal  master  till  his  hand  strike  your  name  from  the 
roll.  I  have  here  your  own  letters,  to  prove  that  your  kinsman 
was  duped  by  yourself  into  the  revolt  which  you  would  have 
headed  as  a  Catiline,  if  it  had  not  better  suited  your  nature  to 
betray  it  as  a  Judas.  In  ten  days  from  this  time,  these  letters 
will  be  laid  before  the  Emperor  and  his  Council." 

"Are  you  satisfied,  Monsieur  le  Comte"  said  Harley,  "with 
your  atonement  so  far  ?  if  not,  I  have  procured  you  the  occasion  to 
render  it  more  complete.  Before  you  stands  the  kinsman  you  have 
wronged.  He  knows  now,  that  though,  for  a  while,  you  ruined  his 
fortunes,  you  failed  to  sully  his  hearth.  His  heart  can  'grant  you 
pardon,  and  hereafter  his  hand  may  give  you  alms.  Kneel,  then, 
Giulio  Franzinj — kneel  at  the  feet  of  Alphonso,  Dulce  of  Serrano." 

The  above  dialogue  had  been  in  French,  which  only  a  few 
of  the  Italians  present  understood,  and  that  imperfectly  ;  but  at 
the  name  with  which  Harley  concluded  his  address  to  the  Count, 
a  simultaneous  cry  from  those  Italians  broke  forth. 

"Alphonso  the  Good  !— Alphonso  the  Good! — Viva- — viva — 
the  good  Duke  of.  Serrano  !  " 

And  forgetful  even  of  the  Count  they  crowded  round  the  tall 
form  of  Riccabocca,  striving  who  should  first  kiss  his  hand — 
the  very  hem  of  his  garments. 

Riccabocca's  eyes  overflowed.  The  gaunt  exile  seemed  trans- 
figured into  another  and  more  kingly  man.  An  inexpressible 
dignity  invested  him.  He  stretched  forth  his  arms,  as  if  to  bless 
his  countrymen.  Even  that  rude  cry,  from  humble  men,  exiles 
like  himself,  consoled  him  for  years  of  banishment  and  penury. 

"Thanks,  thanks,"  ; he  continued  ;  "thanks.  Some  day  or 
other,  you  will  all  perhaps  return  with  me  to  the  beloved  land  ! " 

The  Austrian  Prince  bowed  his  head, as  if  in  assent  to  the  prayer. 

"  Giulio  Franzini,-"  ,said  the  Duke  of  Serrano— for  so  we  may 
now  call  the  threadbare  ^ecluse  of  the  Casino-r-"  had  this  last 
villanous  design  of  yours  been  allowed  by  Providence,  think  you 
that  there  is. one  spot  on  earth  on  which  the  ravisher  could  have 
been  saved  from  a  father's  arm  ?  But  now,  Heaven  has  been 
more  kind.  In  this  hour  let  .me  imitate  his  mercy";  and  with 
relaxing  brow  the  Duke  mildly  drew  near  to  his  guilty  kinsman. 

From  the  moment  the  Austrian  Prince  had  addressed  him, 
the  Count  had  preserved  a  profound  silence,  showing  neither 
repentance  nor  shame.  Gathering  himself  up,  he  hadstood  firm, 
glaring  around  him  like  one  at  bay.  But  as  the  Duke,  now  ap- 
prpached,  he  waved  his  hand,  and  exclaimed, ."  Back,  pedant 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  291 

back  ;  you  have  not  triumphed  yet.  And  you,  prating  German, 
tell  your  tales  to  your  Emperor.  I  shall  be  by  his  throne  to  an- 
swer— if,  indeed,  you  escape  from  the  meeting  to  which  I  will 
force  you  by  the  way."  He  spoke,  and  made  a  rush  toward  the 
side  of  the  vessel.  But  Harley's  quick  wit  had  foreseen  the 
Count's  intention,  and  Harley's  quick  eye  had  given  the  signal 
by  which.it  was  frustrated.  Seized  in  the  gripe  of  his  own  watch- 
ful and  indignant  countrymen,  just  as  he  was  abqut  to  plunge 
into  the  stream,  Peschiera  was  dragged  back-T-pinioned:  down. 
Then  the  expression  of  his  whole  countenance  changed — the 
desperate  violence  of  the  inborn  gladiator  broke  forth.  His  great 
strength  enabled  him  to  break  loose  more  than  once,  to  dash  more 
than  one  man  to  the  floor  of  the  deck;  but  at  length,  overpow- 
ered by  numbers,  though  still  struggling— all  dignity,  all  attempt 
at  presence  of  mind  gone,  utteiing  curses  the  most  plebeian,  gnash- 
ing his  teeth,  and  foaming  at  the  mouth,  nothing  seemed  left  of 
the  brilliant  Lothario  but  the  coarse  fury  of  the  fierce  natural 
man. 

Then  still  preserving  that  air  and  tone  of  exquisite  imperturb- 
able irony  which  the  highest  comedian  might  have  sought  to 
imitate. in  vain,  Harley  bowed  !low  to  the  storming  Count. 

"Adieu,  Monsieur  le  Cowte,  adieu  !  The  vessel  which  you  have 
honored  me  by  entering  is  bound  to  Norway.  The  Italians  who 
accompany  you  were  sent  by  yourself  into  exile,  and,  in  return, 
they  now  kindly  promise  to  enliven  you  with  their  society,  when- 
ever you  feel  somewhat  tired  of  your  own.  Conduct  the  Count 
to  his  cabin.  Gently  there,  gently.  Adieu,  Monsieur  le  Comic, 
adieu  !  et  ban  voyage" 

Harley  turned  lightly  on  his  heel,  as  Peschiera,  in  spite  of  his 
struggles,  was  now  fairly  carried  down  to  the  cabin. 

"A  trick  for  the  trickster,"  said  L'Estrange  to  the  Austrian 
Prince.  "The  revenge  of  a  farce  on  the  would-be  tragedian." 

"More  than  that — he  is  ruined." 

"And  ridiculous,"  quoth  Harley.  "I  should  like  to  see  his 
look  when  they  land  him  in  Norway."  Harley  then  passed  to- 
ward the  center  of  the  vessel,  by  .which, •  hitherto  partially  .con- 
cealed by  the  sailors,  who  were  now  bu>ily  occupied,  stood  Bea- 
trice ;  Frank  Hazeldeah,  who  had  first  received  her  on  enter- 
ing the  vessel,  standing  by  her  side  ;  and  Leonard,  a  littleapart 
from  the  two,  in  quiet  observation  of  all  that  had  passed  around 
him.  Beatrice  appeared  but  little  to  heed  Frank  ;  her  dark  eyes 
were  lifted  to  the  dim  starry  skies,  and  ber  lips  were. moving  as 
in  prayer  ;  yet  her  young  lover  was  speaking  to  her  in  great 
emotion,  low  <and  rapidly. 


292  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"No,  no — do  not  think  for  a  moment  that  we  suspect  you, 
Beatrice  ;  -I  will  answer  for  your  honor  with  my;  life.  Oh,  why 
will  you  turn  from  me — why  will  you  not  speak?" 

"  A  moment  later,"  said  Beatrice,  softly.  "Give  me  one  mo- 
ment yet."  She  passed  slowly  and  falteringly  toward  Leonard — 
placed  her  hand,  that  trembled,  on  his  arm — and  led. him  aside 
to  the  verge  of  the  vessel.  Frank,  startled  by  her  movement, 
made  a  step,  as  if  to  follow,  and  then  stopped  shorthand  looked 
on,  but  with  a  clouded  and  doubtful  countenance.  Harley's 
smile  had  gone,  and  his  eye  also  was  watchful,  i 

It  was  but  a  few  words  that  Beatrice  spoke — it  was  but  a  sen- 
tence or  so  that  Leonard  answered  ;  and  then  Beatrice  extended 
her  hand,  which  the  young  poet  bent  over,  and  kissed  in  silence. 
She  lingered  an  instant ;  and  even  by  the  starlight,  Harley  noted 
the  blush  that  Overspread  her  face.  The  blush  faded  as  Bea- 
trice returned  to  Frank.  :Lord  L'Estrange  would  have  retired — 
she  signed  to  him  to  stay. 

"My  lord,"  she  said,  very  firmly,  " I  cannot  accuse  you  of 
harshness  tomy  sinful  and  unhappy  brother.  His  offence  might 
perhaps  deserve  a  heavier  punishment  than  that  which  you  in- 
flict with  such  playful  scorn.  But,  whatever  his  penance,  con- 
tempt now,  or  poverty  later,  I  .feel  that  his  sister  should  be  by 
his  side  to  share  it.  I  am  not  innocent,  if  he  be  guilty ;  and 
wreck  though  he  be,  nothing  else  on  this  dark  sea  of  life,  is  now 
left  to  me  to  cling  to.  Hush,  my  lord  !  I  shall  not  leave  this 
vessel.  All  that  I  entreat  of  yon  is,  to  order  your  men  to  respect 
my  brother,  since  a  woman  will  be  by  his  side." 

"  But,  Marchesa,  this  cannot  be ;  and—1" 

"Beatrice,  Beatrice — and  me  ! — our  betrothal  ?  Do  you  for- 
get me  ? "  cried  Frank,  in  reproachful  agony. 

"  No,  young  and  too  noble  lover  ;  I. shall  remember  you  ever 
in  my  prayers.  But  listen.  I  have  been  deceived — hurried  on, 
I  might  say,  by  others,  but  also,  and  far  more,  by  my  own  mad 
and  blinded  heart— deceived,  hurried  on,  to  wrong  you  and  to 
belie  myself.  My  shame  burns  into  me  when  I  think  that  I 
could  have  inflicted  on  you  the  just  anger  of  your  family — 
linked  you  to  my  own  ruined  fortunes — my  own— *•" 

"Your  own  generous,  loving  heart! — that  is  all  I  asked!" 
cried  Frank.  "  Cease,  cease — that  heart  is  mine  still  !  " 

Tears  gushed  from  the  Italian's  eyes. 

"Englishman,  I  never  loved  you  ;  this  heart  was  dead  to  you, 
and  it  will  be  dead  to  all  else  for  ever.  FariewelL  You  will 
forget  me  sooner  than  you  think  for — sooner  than  I  shall  forget 
you — as  a  friend,  as  a  brother — if  brothers  had  .natures  as  ten 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  293 

der  and  as  kind  as  yours  !  Now,  my  lord,  will  you  give  me  your 
arm  ?  I  would  join  the  Count." 

"  Stay— one  word,  madam,"  said  Frank,  very  pale,  -and 
through  his  set  teeth,  but  calmly  and  with  a  pride  on  his  brow 
which  had  never  before  dignified  its'habituah  careless  expres- 
sion— *'  one  word.  1  may  not  be  worthy  of  you  in  anything  else1 — 
but  an  honest  love,  that  never  doubted,  never  suspected — that 
would  have  clung  to  you  though  all  the  world  were  against.; 
such  a  love  makes  the  meanest  man  of  worth.  One  word,  frank 
and  open.  By  all  that  you  hold  most  sacred  in  your  creed,  did 
you  speak  the  truth  when  you  said  that  yon  never  loved  me  ?" 

Beatrice  bent  down  her  head  ;  she  was  abashed  before  this 
manly  nature  that  she  had  so  deceived,  and  perhaps  till  then 
undervalued. 

"  Pardon,,  pardon,"  she  said,  in  reluctant  accents,  half-choked 
by  trie  rising  of  a  sob. 

At  her  hesitation,  Frank's  face  lighted  as  if  with  sudden  hope. 
She  raised  her  eyes,  and  saw  the  change  in  him,  then  glanced 
where  Leonard  stood,  mournful  and  motionless.  She  shivered, 
and  added,  firmly —  .. 

"  Yes; — pardon  ;  for  I  spoke  the  truth  ;  and  I  had  no  heart  to 
give.  It  might  have  been  as  wax  to  another — it  was  of  granite  to 
you."  She  paused, and  muttered  inly— "Granite,  and — broken!" 

Frank  said  not  a  word  more.  He  stood  rooted  to  the  spot, 
not  even  gazing  after  Beatrice  as  she  t/assed  on,  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  Lord  L'Estrange.  He  then  walked  resolutely  away,  and 
watched  the  boat  that  the  men  were  now  lowering  from  theside 
of  the  vessel.  Beatrice  stopped  when  she  came  near  the  place 
where  Violante  stood,  answering  in  agitated  whispers  her  father's 
anxious  questions.  As  she  stopped',  she  leaned  more  heavily 
upon  Harley.  "  It  is  your  arm  that  trembles  now,  Lord  L'Es- 
trange,"  said  she,  with  a  mournful  smile,  and,  quitting  him  ere 
he  could  answer,  she  bowed  down  her  head  meekly  before  Vio- 
lante. "You  have  pardoned  me  already,"  she  said,  in  a  tone 
that  reached  only  the  girl's  ear,  "and  my  last  words  shall  not  be 
of  the  past.  I  see  your  future  spread  bright  before  me  under 
those  steadfast  stars.  Love  still  ;'  hope  and  trust.  These  are 
the  last  words  of  her  who  will  soon  die  to  the  world.  Fair  maid, 
they  are  prophetic  !" 

Violante  shrank  back  to  her  father's  breast,  and  there  hid  her 
glowing  face,  resigning  her  hand  to  Beatrice,  who  pressed  it  to 
her  bosom.  The  Marchesa  then  came  back  to  Harley,  and  dis- 
appeared with  him  in  the  interior  of  the  vessel. 

When  Harley  again  came  on  deck,  he  seemed  much  flurried  and 


294  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

disturbed.     He  kept  aloof  from  the  Duke  and  Violante,  and  was 
the  last  to  enter  the  boat  that  was  now  lowered  into  the  water. 

As  he  and  his  companions  reached  the  land,  they  saw  the 
vessel  in  movement,  gliding  slowly  down  the  river. 

"  Courage,  Leonard,  courage  !  "  murmured  Harley.  "  You 
grieve,  and  nobly.  But  you  have  shunned  the  worst  and  most 
vulgar  deceit  in  civilized  life ;  you  have  not  simulated  love. 
Better  that  yon  poor  lady  should  be,  awhile,  thesufferer  from  a 
liarsh  truth,  than  the  eternal  martyr  of  a  flattering  lie  !  Alas,  my 
J^eonard  !  with  the  love  of  the  poet's  dream  are  linked  only  the 
Graces  ;  with  the  love  of  the  human  heart  come  the  awful  Fates  !  " 

"  My  lord,  poets  do  not  dream  when  they  love.  You  will 
learn  how  the  feelings  are  deep  in  proportion  as  the  fancies  are 
vivid,  when  you  read  that  confession  of  genius  and  woe  which 
I  have  left  in  your  hands."  , 

Leonard  turned  away.  Harley's  gaze  followed  him  with  in- 
quiring interest  and  suddenly  encountered  the  soft,  dark,  grate- 
ful eyes  of  Violante. "  The  Fates, -the  Fates  !  "  murmur,ed  Harley. 

. 
CHAPTER  IX. 

WE  are  at  Norwood,  in  the  sage's  drawing-room.  Violante  has 
long  since  retired  to'rest.  Harley,  whohad  accompanied  the  father 
and  daughter  to  their  home,  is  still  conversing  with  the  former. 

"  Indeed,  my  dear  duke— "  said  Harley. 

"  Hush,  hush  !  Diavolo,  don't  call  me  Duke  yet  ;  I  am  at 
home  here  once  more  as -Dr.  Riccabocca." 

"  My  dear  doctor,  then,  allow  me  to  assure  you  that  you  over- 
rate my  claims  ta  your  thanks.  Your  old  friends,  Leonard  and 
Frank  Hazeldean,  must  come  in  for  their  share.  Nor  is  the 
faithful  Giacomo  tp.be  forgotten." 

"  Continue  your  explanation."  . 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  learned,  through  Frank,  that  one  Baron 
Levy,  a  certain  fashionable  money-lender,  and  general  minis- 
trant  to  the  affairs  of  fine  gentlemen,  was  just  about  to  purchase 
a  yacht  from  Lord  Spendquick  on  behalf  of  the  Count.  A,  short 
interview  with  Spendquick  enabled  me  to  outbid  the  usurer,  and 
conclude  a  bargain  by  which  the  yacht  became  mine  ; — a  prom- 
ise to  assist  Spendquick  in  extricating  himself  from  the  claws  of 
the  money-tlender  (which  I  trust  to  do  by  reconciling  him  with 
his  father,  who  is  a  man  of  liberality  and  sense),  made  Spend- 
quick  readily  connive  at  my  scheme  for  outwitting  the.  enemy. 
He  allowed  Levy  to  suppose  that  the  Count  might  take  posses- 
sion of  the  vessel ;  but  affecting  an  engagement,  and  standing 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  295' 

I 

out  for  terms,  postponed'  the  final  settlement  of  the  purchase- 
money  till  the  next  day.  I  was  thus  master  of  the  vessel,  which 
I  felt  sure  was  destined  to  serve  Peschiera's  infamous  design. 
But  it  was  my  business  not  to'alarm  the  Count's  suspicions  ;  I 
therefore  permitted  the  pirate  crew  he  had  got  together  to  come 
on  board.  I  knew  I  could  get  rid  of  them  when  necessary. 
Meanwhile,  Frank  undertook  to  keep  close  to  the  Count  until  he 
could  see  and  cage  within  his  lodgings  the  servant  whom  Pes- 
chiera-had  commissioned  to  attend  his  sister.  If  I  could  but 
apprehend  this  servant,  I  had  a  sanguine  hope  that  I  could  dis- 
cover and  free  your  daughter  before  Peschiera  could  even  pro- 
fane her  with  his  presence.  But  Frank,  alas  !  was  no  pupil  of 
Machiavelli.  Perhaps  the  Count  detected  his  secret  thoughts 
under  his  open  countenance  ;  perhaps  merely  wished  to  get  rid 
of  a  companion  very  much  in  his  way  ;  but,  at  all  events,  he  con- 
trived to  elude  our  young  friend  as  cleverly  as  you-  or  I  could 
have  done — told  him  that  Beatrice  herself  was  at  Roehampton 
— had  borrowed  the  Count's  carriage  to  go  there — volunteered 
to  take  Frank  to  the  house— took  him.  Frank  found  himself  in 
a  drawing-room  ;  and  after  waiting  a  few  minutes,  while  the 
Count  went  out  on  pretence  of  seeing  his  sister — in  pirouetted  a 
certain  distinguished  cpera-dancer  !  Meanwhile  the  Count  was 
fast  back  on  the  road  to  London,  and  Frank  had1  to  return  as  he 
could.  He  then  hunted  "for  the  Count  everywhere,  and  saw  him 
no  more.  It  was  late  in  the  day  when  Frank  found  me  out  with 
this  news.  1  became  seriously  alarmed.  Peschiera  might  per- 
haps learn  my  counter-scheme  with  the  yacht — or  he  might 
postpone  sailing  until  he  had  terrified  or  entangled  Violante  into 
some — in  short,  everything  was  to  be  dreaded  from  a  "man  of  the 
Count's  temper.  I  had  no  clue  to  the  place  to  which'  your 
daughter  was  taken — no  excuse  to  arrest  Peschiera — no  means 
even  of  learning  where  he ''was.  He  had  not  returned  to  Mi- 
vart's.  The  police  were  at  fault,  and  useless,  except  in  one  valu- 
able piece  of  information.  They  told  me  where  some  of  your 
countrymen,  whom  Peschiera's  perfidy-had  sent  into  exile,  were 
to  be  fpund.  I  commissioned  Giacomo  to  seek  these  men-out, 
and  induce  them  to  man  the  vessel.  It  might  be  necessary, 
should  Peschiera  or  his  confidential  servants  Come  aboard,  after 
we  had  expelled  or  drawn  off  the  pirate  crew,  that  they  should 
find  Italians  whom  they  might  well  mistake  for  their  own  hire- 
lings. To  these  foreigners  I  added  some  English -sailors,  who 
had  before  served  in  the  same  vessel,  and  on  whom  Spendquick 
assured  me  I  could  rely.  Still  these  precautions  only  availed  in 
Peschiera  should  resolve  to  sail,  artd  defer  till  then  all 


296  MY  NOVEL;  OR,, 

machinations  against  his  captives.  While,  amidst  my  fears  and 
uncertainties,  I,  was  struggling  still  to  preserve  presence  of  mind, 
and  rapidly  discussing  with  the  .Austrian  Prince  if  any  other 
steps  could- be  taken,  or  if  our  sole,  resource  was  to  repair  to  the 
vessel  and  take  the  chance  of  what  might  ensue,  Leonard  sud- 
denly and  quietly  entered  my  room.  You  know  his  counte- 
nance, in  which  joy  .or  sadness  is  not  betrayed  so  much  by  the 
evidence  of  the  passions  as  by  variations  in  the  intellectual  ex- 
pression. It  was  but  by  the  clearer  brow  and  the  steadier  eye 
that  I  saw  he  had  good  tidings  to  impart." 

"Ah,"  said  Riccabocca — for  so, -obeying  his  own  request,  we 
will  yet  call  the  sage — "ah,  I  early  taught  that  young  man  the 
great  lesson  inculcated  by  He,lvetius:  'All  our  errors  arise  from 
our  ignorance  or  our  passions.'  Without  ignorance,  and  without 
passions,  we  should  be  serene,  all-penetrating  intelligences." 

"  Mopsticks,"  quoth  Harley,  "have  neither  ignorance  nor 
passions;  but  as  for  their  intelligence — " 

"Pshaw!"  interrupted  Riccabocca — "Proceed." 

"Leonard  had  parted  from, us  some^ours  before.  I  had  com- 
missioned him  to  call  at  Madame  di  Negra's,  and,  as  he  was 
familiarly  known  to  her  servants,  seek  to  obtain  quietly  all.  the 
information  he  could  collect,  and,  a-tall  events,  procure  (what  in 
my  hasje  I  had  failed  to  do)  the  name. and  the  description  of 
the  man. who  had  driven  ruer  out  in  the  morning,  and  make  what 
use  he  judged  best  of  every  hint  he  could  gather  or  glean  that 
might  aid  our  researches.  Leonard  only  succeeded  in  learning 
the  name  and  description  of  the  coachman,  whom  he  recog- 
nized as  one  Beppo,  to  whom  she  had  often  given  orders  in  his 
presence-  ,tyone  could  say  where  she  then  could  be  found,  if  not 
at  the  Count's  hotel.  Leonard  went  next  to  that  hotel.  The  man 
had  noA  been  there  all  die  day.  While  revolving  what  next  he 
should  do,  his  eye  caught  sight  of  your  intended  son-in-law, 
gliding  across  the  opposite  side  of  th^  street.  One  of  those  lum- 
inous, inspiring  conjectures,  which  never  occur  to  you  philoso- 
phers, had  from  the  first  guided  Leonard  to  believe, that  Randal 
Leslie  was  mixed  up  in  this,  villainous  affair." ' 

"Ha!  He!"  cried  Riccabocca.  "Impossible!  For  what  in- 
terest?—what  object?'' 

"Icannottell;  neithercouldLeonard;butwehadbothformedthe 
same  conjecture.  Brief: — Leonard  resolved  to  followRandalLes- 
lie,  and  track  all  his  movements.  He. did  then  follow  him,  unob- 
served; and  at  a  distance — first  to  Audley  Egerton's  house — then 
to  Eaton  Square — thence  to  a  house  in  Bruton  Street,  which  Leon- 
ard ascertained  to  be  Baron  Levy's.  Suspicious  that,mydearsage!" 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  297 

"Diavolo— yes  !•'•'  said  Riccabocca,  thoughtfully. 

"At  Levy's,  Randal  stayed  till  dusk.  He  then  came  out,  with 
his  cat-like,  stealthy  step,  and  walked  quickly  in  to  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Leicester  Square.  Leonard  saw  him  enter  one  of  those 
small  hotels  which  are  appropriated  toforeigners.  Wild-outlandish 
fellows  were  loitering  about  the  door  and  in  the  street.  Leonard 
divined  that  the  Count  or  the  Count's  confidants  were  there." 

"If  that  can  be  proved,"  cried  Riccabocca — "if  Randal  could 
have  been  thus  in  communication  with  Peschiera — could 
have  connived  at  such. perfidy — I  am  released  from  my  promise. 
Oh,  to  prove  it!" 

"Proof  will  come  later,  if  we  are  on  the  right  track.  Let  me 
go  on.  While  waiting  near  the  door  of  this  hotel,  Beppo  him- 
self, the  very  man  Leonard  was  in  search  of,  came  forth,  and, 
after  sp.eaking  a  few  words  to  some  of  the  loitering  foreigners, 
walked  briskly  toward  Piccadilly.  Leonard  here  resigned  all 
further  heed  of  Leslie,  and  gave  chase  to  Beppo,  whom  he 
recognized  at  a  glance.  Coming  up  to  him,  he  said  quietly,  '  I 
have  a  letter  for  the  Marchesa  di  Negra.  She  told  me  I  was  to 
send  it  to  her  by  you.  I  have  been  searching  for  you  the  whole 
day.'  The  man  fell  into  the  trap,  and  the  more  easily,  because — 
as  he  since  owned  in  excuse  for  a  simplicityj  which,  I  dare  say, 
weighed  on  his  conscience  more  than  any  of  the  thousand-and- 
one  crimes  he  may  have  committed  in  the  course  of  his  illustri- 
ous life — he  had  been  employed  by  the  Marchesa  as  a  spy  upon 
Leonard,  and,  with  an  Italian's  acumen  in  affairs  of  the  heart, 
detected  her  secret.". 

"What  secret?"  asked  the  innocent  sage. 

"Her  love  for  the  handsome  young  poet.  I  betray  that  secret 
in  order  to  give  some  slight  excuse  for  becoming.  Peschiera's 
tool.  She  believed  Leonard  to  be  in  love  with  your  daughter, 
and  jealousy  urged  her  to  treason.  Violante,  no  doubt,  will  ex- 
plain this  to  you.  Well,  the  man  fell  into  the  trap:  'Give  me  the 
letter,  Signore,  and  quick.' 

" '  It  is  at  an  hotel  close  by  ;  come  there,  and  you  .will  have  a 
guinea  for  your  trouble.' 

"So  Leonard  walked  our  gentleman  into  my  hotel;  and  having 
taken  him  into  my  dressing-room,  turned  the  key  and  there  left 
him.  On  learning  his  capture,  the  Prince  and  myself  hastened 
tasee  our  prisoner.  He  was  at  first  sullen  and  silent  ;  but  when 
the  Prince  disclosed  his  rank  and  name  (you  know  the  mysteri- 
ous terror  the  meaner  Italians  feel  for  an  Austrian  magnate),  his 
countenance  changed,  and  his  courage  fell.  What  with  threats, 
and  what  with  promises,  we  soon  obtained  all  that  we  sought  to 


2Q$r  MY   NOVEL  ;    OR, 

know;  and  an  offered  bribe,  which  I  calculated  at  ten  times  the 
amount, the  rogue  could  ever  expect  to  receive  from  his  spend- 
thrift master,  finally  bound  him  cheerfully  to  our  service,  soul 
and  body.  Thus  we  learned  the  dismal  place  to  which  your 
noble  daughter  had  been  so  perfidiously  ensnared.  We  learned 
also  that  the  Count  had  not  yet  visited  her,  hoping  much  from 
the  effect  that  prolonged  incarceration  might  have  in  weakening 
her  spirits  and  inducing  her  submission.  Peschiera  was  logo  to 
the  house  at  midnight,  thence  to  transport  her  to  the  vessel. 
Beppo  had  received  orders  to  bring  the  carriage  to  Leicester 
Square,  where  Peschiera  would  join  them.  The  Count  (as 
Leonard  surmised)  had  taken  skulking  refuge  at  the  hotel  in 
which  Randal  Leslie  had  disappeared.  The  Prince,  Leonard, 
Frank  (who  was  then  in  the  hotel),  and  myself,  held  a  short 
council.  Should  we  go  at  once  to  the  house,  and,  by  the  help  of 
the  police,  force  an  entrance,  and  rescue  your  daughter?  This 
was  a  very  hazardous  resource.  The  abode,  which,  at  various 
times,  had  served  for  the  hiding-place  of  men  hunted  by  the  law, 
abounded,  according  to  our  informant,  in  subterranean  vaults 
and  secret  passages,  and  had  more  than  one  outlet  on  the  river. 
At  our  first  summons  at  the  door,  therefore,  the  ruffians  within 
might  not  only  escape  themselves,  but  carry  off  their  prisoner. 
The  door  was  strong,  and  before  our  entrance  could  be  forced, 
all  trace  of  her  we  sought  might  be  lost.  Again,  too,  the  Prince 
was  desirous  of  bringing  Peschiera's  guilty  design  home  to  him — 
anxious  to  be  able  to  state  to  the  Emperor,  and  to  the  great 
minister,  his  kinsman,  that  he  himself  had  witnessed  the  Count's 
vile  abuse  of  the  Emperor's  permission  to  wed  your  daughter. 
Irt  short,  while  I  only  thought  of  Violante,  the  Prince  thought 
also  of  her  father's  recall  to  his  dukedom; <  Yet  still  to  leave 
Violante  in  that  terrible  house,  even  for  an  hour,  a  few  minutes, 
subjected  to  the  actual  presence  of  Peschiera,  unguarded  save 
by  the  feeble  and  false  woman  who  had  betrayed,  and  might  still 
desert  her — how  contemplate  that  fearful  risk?  What  might  not 
happen  in  the  interval  between  Peschiera's  visit  to  the  house 
and  his  appearance  with  his  victim  on  the  vessel?  An  idea 
flashed  on  me — Beppo  was  to  conduct  the  Count  to  the  house  ; 
if  I  could  accompany  Beppo  in  disguise— enter  the  house — 
myself  be  present?— I  rushed  back  to  our  informant,  now 
become  our  agent ;  I  found  the  plan  still  more  feasible  than  I 
had  at  first  supposed.  Beppo  had  asked  the  Count's  permission 
to  bring  with  him  a  brother  accustomed  to  the  sea,  and  who 
wished  to  quit  England.  I  might  personate  that  brother.  You 
know  that  the  Italian  language,  in  most  of  its  dialects  and  va- 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  299 

rieties  of  patois — Genoese,  Piedmontese,  Venetian — is  as  familiar 
to  me  as  Addison's  English!  Alas!  rather  more  so.  Presto!  the 
thing  was  settled.  I  felt  my  heart,  from  that  moment,  as  light 
as  a  feather,  and  my  sense  as  keen  as  the  dart  which  a  feather 
wings.  My  plans  now  were  formed  in  a  breath,  and  explained  in 
a  sentence.  It  was  right  that  you  should  be  present  on  board  the 
vessel  not  only  to  witness  your  foe's  downfall,  but  to  receive 
your  child  in  a  father's  arms.  Leonard  set  out  to  Norwood  for 
you,  cautioned  not  to  define  too  precisely  for  what  object  you 
were  wanted,  till  on  board. 

"Frank,  accompanied  by  Beppo  (for  there  was  yet  time  for 
these  preparations  before  midnight),  repaired  to  the  yacht,  taking 
Giacomo  by  the  way.  There  our  new  ally,  familiar  to  most  of 
that  piratical  crew,  and  sanctioned  by  the  presence  of  Frank;  as 
the  Count's  friend  and  prospective  brether-in-hnv,  told  Pes- 
chiera's  hirelings  that  they  were  to  quit  the  vessel,  and  wait  on 
shore  under  Giacomo's  auspices  till  further  orders;  and  as  soon 
as  the  decks  were  cleared  of  these  ruffians  (save  a  few  left  to 
avoid  suspicion,  and  who  were  afterward  safely  stowed  down  in 
the  hold),  and  as  soon  as  Giacomo  had  lodged  his  convoy  in  a 
public  house,  where  he  quitted  them,  drinking  his  health  over 
unlimited  rations  of  grog,  your  inestimable  servant  qiiietly 
shipped  on  board  the  Italians  pressed  into  the  service,  and  Frank- 
took  charge  of  the  English  sailors. 

"The  Prince,  promising  to  be  aboard  in  due  time,  then  left 
me  to  make  arrangements  for  his  journey  to  Vienna  with  die 
dawn.  I  hastened  to  a  masquerade  warehouse,  where  with  the 
help  of  an  ingenious  stagewright  artificer,  I  disguised  myself  into 
a  most  thorough-paced-looking  cut-throat,  and  then  waited  the 
return  of  my  friend  Beppo  with  the  most  perfect  confidence." 

"Yet,  if  that  rascal  had  played  false,  all  these  precautions  were 
lost.  Cospetto!  you  were  not  wise,"  said  the  prudent  philosopher. 

"Very  likely  not.  You  would  have  been  so  wise,  that  by  this 
time  your  daughter  would  have  been  lost  to  you  for  ever." 

"But  why  not  employ  the  police?" 

"First — because  I  had  already  employed  them  to  little  pur- 
pose. Secondly — Because  I  no  longer  wanted  them.  Thirdly — 
Because  to  use  them  for  my  final  catastrophe,  would  be  to  drag 
your  name,  and  your  daughter's,  perhaps,  before  a  police  court; 
at  all  events  before  the  tribunal  of  public  gossip.  And  lastly — 
because  having  decided  upon  the  proper  punishment,  it  had  too 
much  of  equity  to  be  quite  consistent  with  law;  and  in  forcibly 
seizing  a  man's  person,  and  shipping  him  off  to  Norway,  my 
police  would  have  been  sadly  in  the  way.  Certainly  my  plan 


30O  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

rather  savors  of  Lope  de  Vega  than  of  Blackstone.  However,  you 
see  success  atones  for  all  irregularities.  I  resume: — Beppo  came 
back  in  time  to  narrate  all  the  arrangements  that  had  been  made, 
and  to  inform  me  that  a  servant  from  the  Count  had  come  on 
board  just  as  our  new  crew  were  assembled  there,  to  order  the  boat 
to  be  at  the  place  where  we  found  it.  The  servant  it  was.deemed 
prudent  to  detain 'and  secure.  Giacomo  undertook  to  manage 
the  boat.  lam  nearly  at  the  close  of  my  story.  Sure  of  my  disguise, 
I  got  on  the  coach-box  with  Beppo.  The  Count  arrived  at  the 
spot  appointed,  and  did  not  even  honor  myself.with  a  question  or 
glance.  'Your  brother?'  he  said  to  Beppo;  'one  might  guess  that;  he 
has  the  family  likeness.  Not  a  handsome  race  yours!  Drive  on.' 

"  We  arrived  at  the  house.  I  dismounted  to  open  the  car- 
riage door.  The  Count  gave  me  one  look. 

' '  Beppo  sajs  you  have  known  the  sea.' " 

" '  Excellency,  yes.     I  am  a  Genoese.'  " 

;"'Ha!  how  is  that?  Beppo  is  a  Lombard.' — Admire  the 
readiness  with  which  I  redeemed  my  blunder: 

."  'Excellency,  it  pleased  Heaven  that  Beppo  should  be  born 
in  Lombardy,  and  then  to  remove  my  respected  parents  to  Genoa, 
at  which  city  they  were  so  kindly  treated,  that  my  mother,  in 
common  gratitude,  was  bpund  to  increase  its  population.  It  was 
all  she  could  do,  poor  woman.  You  see  she  did  her  best.' 

"The  Count  smiled,  and  said  no  more. ,  The  door  opened — • 
I  followed  him;  your  daughter  can  tell  you  the  rest" 

"And  you  risked  your  life  in  that  den  of  miscreants!  Noble 
friend  . 

"  Risked  my  life — 110;  but  I  risked  the  Count's.  There  was 
one .  moment  when  my  hand  was  on  my  trigger,  and  my  soul 
very  near  the  sin  of  justifiable  homicide.  But  my  tale  is  done. 
The  Count  is  now  on  the  river,  and  will  soon  be  on  the  salt  seas, — 
though  not  bound  to  Norway  as  I  had  first  intended.  .  I  could 
not  inflict  that  frigid  voyage  on  his  sister.  So  the  men  have 
orders  to  cruise  about  for  sixty  days,  keeping  aloof  from  shore, 
and  they  will  then  land  the  Count  and  the  Marchesa,  by  boat, 
on  the  French  coast.  The  delay  will  give  time  for  the  Prince  to 
arrive  at  Vienna  before  the  Count  could  follow  him." 

"  Would  he  have  that  audacity  ? " 

"  Do  him  more  justice  !  Audacity,  faith  !  he  does  not  want 
for  that.  But  I  dreaded  not  his  appearance  at  Vienna  with  such 
evidence  against  him.  I  dreaded  his  encountering  the  Prince 
on  the  road,  and  forcing  a  duel,  before  his  character  was  so 
blasted  that  the  Prince  could  refuse  it;— and  the  Count  is  a  dead, 
shot  of  course;— all  such  men  are  !  " 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  3<Dt 

"  He  will  return,  and  you — " 

"  I! — Oh,  never  fear;  he  has  had  enough  of  me.  And  now, 
my  dear  friend— now  that  Violante  is  safe  once  more  under  your 
own  roof — now  that  my  honored  mother  must  long  ere  this  have 
been  satisfied  by  Leonard,  who  left-us  to  go  to  her,  that  our  suc- 
cess has  been  achieved  without  danger,  and,  what  she  will  value 
almost  as  much,  without  scandal — now  that  your  foe  is  powerless 
as  a  reed  floating  on  the  water  toward  its  own  rot,  and  the  Prince 

Von is  perhaps  about  to  enter  his  carriage  on  the  road  to 

Dover,  charged  with  the  mission  of  restoring  to  Italy  her  worthi- 
est son — let  me  dismiss  you  to  your  own  happy  slumbers,  and 
allow  me  to  wrap  myself  in  my  cloak,  and  snatch  a  short  sleep  on 
the  sofa,  till  yonder  gray  dawn  has  mellowed  into  riper  day.  My 
eyes  are  heavy,  and  if  you  stay  here  three  minutes  longer,  I  shall  be 
out  of  reach  of  hearing — in  the  land  of  dreams.  Buona  nottt!" 

"  But  there  is  a  bed  prepared  for  you." 

Harley  shook  his  head  in  dissent,  and  composed  himself  at 
length  on  the  sofa. 

Riccabocca  bending,  wrapped  the  cloak  round  his  guest, 
kissed  him  on  the  forehead,  and  crept  out  of  the  room  to  rejoin 
Jemima,  who  still  sat  up  for  him,  nervously  anxious  to  learn 
from  him  those  explanations  which  her  considerate  affection 
would  not  allow  her  to  ask  from  the  agitated  and  exhausted 
Violante.  "Not  in  bed!"  cried  the  sage,  on  seeing  her.  "Have 
you  no  feelings  of  compassion  for  my  son  that  is  to  be?  Just,  too, 
when  there  is  a  reasonable  probability  that  we  can  affofd  a  son?" 

Riccabocca  here  laughed  merrily,  and  his  wife  threw  herself 
on  his  shoulder,  and  cried  for  joy. 

But  no  sleep  fell  on  the  lids  of  Harley  L'Estrange.  He  started 
up  when  his  host  had  left  him,  and  paced  the  apartment,  with 
noiseless  but  rapid  strides.  All  whim  and  levity  had  vanished 
from  his  face,  which,  by  the  light  of  the  dawn,  seemed  death- 
like :pale.  On  that  pale  face  there  was  all  the  struggle,  and  all 
the  anguish  of  passion..  "  These  arms  have  clasped  her,"  he 
murmured;  "  these  lips  have  inhaled  her  breath.  I  am  under 
the  same  roof,  and  she  is  saved — saved  ever  more  from  danger 
and  from  penury,  and  for  ever  divided  from  me.  Courage, 
courage!  Oh,  honor,  duty;  and  thou,  dark  memory  of  the 
past — thou  that  didst  pledge  love  at  least  to  a  grave — support — 
defend  me!  Can  I  be  so  weak  !" 

The  sun  was  in  the  wintry  skies,  when  Harley  stole  from  the 
house.  No  one  was  stirring  except  Giacomo,  who  stood  by  the 
threshold  of  the  door,  which  he  had  just  unbarred,  feeding  the 
house-dog.  .  "  Good  day,"  said  the  servant,  smiling.  "  The  dog 


302  ,  MY    NOVEL  '    OR, 

has  not  been  of  much  use,  but  I  don't  think  the  Padrone  will 
henceforth  grudge  him  a  breakfast.  I  shall  take  him  to  Italy, 
and  marry  him  there,  in  the  hope  of  improving  the  breed  of 
our  native  Lombard  dogs." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Harley,  "you  will  soon  leave  our  cold  shores. 
May  sunshine  settle  on  you  all."  Herpaused,  and  looked  up  at 
the  closed  windows  wistfully. 

"The  Signorina  sleeps  there,"  said  Giacomo,  in  a  husky  voice, 
"  just  over  the  room  in  which  you  slept." 

"I  knew  it,"  muttered  Harley.  "An  instinct  told  me  of  it. 
Open  the  gate;  I  must  go  home.  My  excusesto  your  lord,  and 
to  all." 

He  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  Giacomo's  entreaties  to  stay  till  at 
least  the  Signorina  was  up— the  Signorina  whom  he  had  saved. 
Without  trusting  himself  to  speak  further,  he  quitted  the  demesne, 
and  walked  with  swift  strides  toward  London. 

•    :  •:  •'. 

CHAPTER  X. 

. 

HARLEY  had  not  long  reached  his  hotel,  and  was  still  seated 
before  his  untasted  breakfast,  when  Mr.  Randal  Leslie  was  an- 
nounced. Randal,  who  was  in  the  firm  belief  that  Violante  was 
now  on  the  wide  seas  with  Peschiera,  entered,  looking  the  very 
personation  -of  anxiety  and  fatigue.  For,  like  the  great  Cardinal 
Richelieu,  Randal  had  learned  the  art  how  to  make  good  use  of 
his  own  delicate  and  somewhat  sickly  aspect.  The  Cardinal, 
when  intent  on  some  sanguinary  scheme  requiring  unusual  vital- 
ity and  vigor,  contrived  to  make  himself  look  a  harmless  sufferer 
at  death's  door.  And  Randal,  whose  nervous  energies  could  at 
that  moment  have  whirled  him  on  from  one  end  of  this  huge 
metropolis  to  the  other,  with  a  speed  that  would  have  out- 
stripped a  prize  pedestrian,  now  sank  into  a  chair  with  a  jaded 
weariness  that  no  mother  could  have  seen  without  compassion. 
He  seemed  since  the  last  night  to  have  galloped  toward  the  last 
stage  of  consumption. 

"  Have  you  discovered  no  trace,  my  lord  ?    Speak,  speak  !  " 

"Speak — certainly.  I  am  too  happy  to  relieve  your  mind, 
Mr.  Leslie.  What  fools  we  were!  Ha  !  ha!  " 

"  Fools— how  ?  "  faltered  Randal. 

"  Of  course;  the  young  lady  was  at  her  father's  house  all  the 
time// 

"Eh?  what?" 

"And  is  there  now." 

"  It  is  not  possible  !  "  said  Randal,  in  the  hollow  dreamy  tone 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  303 

of  a  somnambulist.  "  At  her  father's  house — at  Norwood  ! 
Are  you  sure  ?  " 

"  Sure." 

Randal  made  a  desperate  and  successful  effort  at  self-control. 
"  Heaven  be  praised  !  "  he  cried.  "  And  just  as  I  had  begun  to 
suspect  the  Count — the  Marchesa;  for  I  find  that  neither  of 
them  slept  at  home  last  night;  and  Levy  told  me  that  the  Count 
;had  written  to  him,  requesting  the  Baron  to  discharge  his  bills, 
as  he  should  be  for  some  time  absent  from  England." 

"Indeed  !  Well,  that  is  nothing,  to  us— very  much  to  Baron 
Levy,  if  he  executes  his  commission,  and  discharges  the  bills. 
What  !  are  you  going  already  ?  " 

"  Do  you  ask  such  a  question  ?  How  can  I  stay  ?  I  must  go 
to  Norwood — must  see  Violante  with  my  own  eyes !  Forgive 
my  emotion — I — I — " 

Randal  snatched  at  his  hat,  and  hurried  away.  The  low 
scornful  laugh  of  Harley  followed  him  as  he  went. 

"I  have  no  more  doubt  of  his  guilt  than  Leonard  has. 
Violante  at  least  shall  not  be  the  prize  of  that  thin^lipped  knave. 
What  strange  fascination  can  he  possess,  that  he  should  thus 
bind  to  him  the  two  men  I  value  most — Audley  Egerton  and 
Alphonsodi  Serrano?  Both  so  wise  too  !  While  I,  so  imprudent- 
ly trustful  and  frank — Ah !  that  is  the  reason ;  ourrnatures  are  anti- 
pathetic; cunning,  simulation,  falsehood,  I  have  no  mercy,  no  par- 
don for  these.  Woe  to  all  hypocrites  if  I  were  a  Grand  Inquisitor!" 

"Mr.  Richard  Avenel,"  said  the  waiter,  throwing  open  the  door. 

Harley  caught  at  the  arm  of  the  chair  on  which  he  sate,  and 
grasped  it  nervously;  while  his  eyes  became  fixed  intently  on  the 
form  of  the.  gentleman  who  now  advanced  into  the  room.  He 
rose  with  an  effort. 

"  Mr.  Avenel !  "  he  said,  falteringly.  "Did  I  hear  your  name 
aright?  Avenel?" 

"  Richard  Avenel,  at  your  service,  my  lord,"  answered  Dick. 
"My  family  is  not  unknown  to  you;  and  I  am  not  ashamed  of 
my  family,  though  my  parents  were  small  Lansmere  tradesfolks. 
And  I  am— ahem ! — a  citizen  of  the  world,  and  well-to-do!" 
added  Dick,  dropping  his  kid  gloves  into  his  hat,  and  then  placing 
the  hat  on  the  table,  with  the  air  of  an  old  acquaintance  who 
wishes  to  make  himself  rat  home. 

Lord  L'Estrange  bowed,  and  said,  as  he  reseated  himself  (Dick 
being  firmly  seated  already) — "You  are  most  welcome;  sir;  and 
if  there  be  anything  I  can  do  for  one  of  your  name — " 

"Thank  you,  my  lord,"  interrupted  Dick.  "  I  want  nothing  of 
any  man.  A  bold  word  to  say ;  but  I  say  it.  Nevertheless,  I 


304  MY   NOVEL  ;    OR, 

should  not  have  presumed  to  call  on  your  lordship,  unless,  indeed, 
you  had  done  me  the  honor  to  call  first  at  my  house,  Eaton  Square, 
No.  *  *  *. — I  should  not  have  presumed  to  call,  if  it  had  not 
been  on  business,  I  may  say — NATIONAL  business." 

Harley  bowed  again.  A  faint  smile  flitted  for  a  moment  to  his 
lip,  but,  vanishing,  gave  way  to  a  mournful,  absent  expression  of 
countenance,  as  he  scanned  the  handsome  features  before  him, and 
perhaps,  masculine  and  bold  though  they  were,  still  discovered 
something  of  a  family  likeness  to  one  whose  beauty  had  once  been 
his  ideal  of  female  loveliness;  for  suddenly  he  stretched  forth  his 
hand,  and  said,  with  more  than  his  usual  cordial  sweetness,  "Busi- 
ness, or  not  business,  let  us  speak  to  each  other  as  friends- — for 
the  sake  of  a  name  that  takes  me  back  to  Lansmere — to  my  youth. 
I  listen  to  you  with  interest." 

Richard  Arenel,  much  surprised  at  this  unexpected  kindliness, 
and  touched,  he  knew  hot  why,  by  the1  soft  and  melancholy  tone 
of  Harley's  ybice,  warmly  pressed 'the  hand  held  out  to  him;  and, 
seized  with  a  rare  fit  of  shynessj  colored^  and  coughed,  and 
hemmed,  and  looked  first  down,  then  aside,  before  he  could  find 
the  words  which  were  generally  ready  enough  at  his  command. 

"You  are  very  good,  Lord  L'Estrange  ;  nothing  can  be  hand- 
somer. I  feel  it  here,  my  lord,"  striking  his  buff  waistcoat — "  I 
do,  'pon  my  honor.  But  not  to  waste  your  time  (time's  money), 
I  come  to  the  point.  It  is  about  the  borough  of  Lansmere.  Your 
family  interest  is  Very  strong  iri  that  borough.  But  excuse  me  if 
I  say  that  I  don't  think  you  are  aware  that  I  too  have  cooked  up  a 
pretty  considerable  interest  on  the  other  side.  No  offence — 
opinions  are  free.  And  the  popular  tide  runs  strong  with  us — I 
mean  with  me,  at  the  impending  Crisis — that  is,  at  the  next  election. 
Now,  I  have  a  great  respect  for  the  Earl,  your  father;  and  so  have 
those  that  brought  me  into  the  world  ; — my  father,  Johlh,  was 
always  a  regular  good  Blue  ; — and  my  respect  for  yourself  since 
I  came  into  this  room  hafs  gone  up  in  the  market — a  very  great 
rise  indeed — considerable.  So  I  should  just  like  to  see  if  we  could 
set  our  heads  together,  and  settle  the  borough  between  us  two,  in  a 
snug  private  way,  as  public  men  ought  to  do  when  they  get  to- 
gether— nobody  else  by,  and  no  necessity  for  that  sort  of  humbug 
'—which  is  so  common  in  this  rotten  old  country.  Eh,  my  lord  ?" 

"  Mr.  Avenel,"  said  HarleVj  slowly,  recovering  himself  from 
the  abstraction  with  which  he  had  listened  to  Dick's  earlier  sen- 
tences, "I  fear  I  do  not  quite  understand  you;  but  I  have  no  other 
interest  in  the  next  election  for  the  borough  of  Lansmere,  than 
as  may  serve  one  whom,  whatever  be  your  politics,  you  must  ac- 
knowledge to  be—" 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  305 

"A  humbug ! " 

"Mr.  Avenel,you  cannot  mean  the  person  I  mean.  I  speak  of  one 
of  the  first  statesmen  of  our  time — of  Mr.  Audley  Egerton— of  — " 

"A  stiff-necked,  pompous — " 

"My  earliest  and  dearest  friend." 

The  rebuke,  though  gently  said,  sufficed  to  silence  Dick  fora 
moment;  and  when  he  spoke  again,  it  was  in  an  altered  tone. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  lord,  I  am  sure.  Of  course,  I  can  say 
nothing  disrespectful  of  your  friend  ; — very  sorry  that  he  is  your 
friend.  In  that  case,  I  am  almost  afraid  that  nothing  is  to  be  done. 
But  Mr.  Audley  Egerton  has  not  a  chance.  Let  me  convince  you 
of  this."  And  Dick  pulled  out  a  little  book,  bound  neatly  in  red. 

"Canvass-book,  my  lord.  I  am  no  aristocrat;  I  don't  pretend 
to  carry  a  free  and  independent  constituency  in  my  breeches- 
pocket.  Heaven  forbid  !  But,  as  a  practical  man  of  business — 
what  I  do  is  done  properly.  Just  look  at  this  book.  Well  kept, 
eh  ?  Names,  promises,  inclinations,  public  opinions,  and  private 
interests  of  every  individual  Lansmere  elector!  Now,  as  one  man 
of  honor  to  another,  I  show  you  this  book,  and  1  think  yo*u  will 
see  that  we  have  a  clear  majority  of  at  least  eighty  votes  as  against 
Mr.  Egerton." 

"That  is  your  view  of  the  question,"  said  Harley,  taking  the 
book  and  glancing  over  the  names  catalogued  and  ticketed  there- 
in. But  his  countenance  became  serious  as  he  recognized  many 
names  familiar  to  his  boyhood  as  those  of  important  electors  on  the 
Lansmere  side,  and  which  he  now  found  transferred  to  the  hostile. 
"But  surely  there  are  persons  herein  whom  you  deceive  yourself 
— Old  friends  of  my  family-— staunch  supporters  of  our  party." 

"Exactly  so.  But  this  new  question  has  turned  all  old  things 
topsy-turvy.  No  relying  on  any  friend  of  yours.  No  reliance 
except  in  this  book  ! "  said  Dick,  slapping  the  red  cover  with 
calm  but  ominous  emphasis. 

"  Now,  what  I  want  to  propose  is  this  :  Don't  let  the  Lansmere 
interest  be  beaten  ;  it  would  vex  the  old  Ear}—  go  to  his  heart, 
I  am  sure." 

Harley  nodded. 

"And  the  Lansmere  interest  need  not  be  beaterr,  if  you'll  put 
up  another  man  instead  of  this  red-tapist.  (Beg  pardon.)  You  see 
I  only  want  to  get  in  one  man — you  want  to  get  in  another.  Why 
not  ?  Now  there's  a  smart  youth — connection  of  Mr.  Egerton's — 
Randal  Leslie.  I  have  no  objection  to  him,  though  he  is  of  your 
colors.  Withdraw  Mr.  Egerton  and  I'll  withdraw  my  second  man 
before  it  comes  to  the  poll ;  and  so  we  shall  halve  the  borough 
slick  between  us;  That's  the  way  to  do  business,  eh,  my  lord  ? " 


306  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"Randal  Leslie!  Oh,  you  wish  to  bring  in  Mr.  Leslie?  But 
he  stands  with  Egerton,  npt  against  him." 

"  Ah !  "  said  Dick,  smiling,  as  if  to  himself,  "so  I  hear;  and  we 
could  bring  him  in  over  Egerton  without  saying  a  word  to  you. 
But  all  our  family  respects  yours,  and  sol  have  wished  to  do  the 
thing  handsome  and  open.  Let  the  Earl  and  your  party  be  content 
with  young  Leslie." 

"Young  Leslie  has  spoken  to  you  ?  " 

"Not  as  to  my  coming  here.  Oh,  no — that's  a  secret— private 
and  confidential,  my  lord.  And  now,  to  make  matters  still  more 
smooth,  I  propose  that  my  man. shall  be  one  to  your  lordship's 
own  heart.  I  find  you  have  been  very  kind  to  my  nephew;  does 
you  credit,  my  lord;  a  wonderful  young  man,  though  I  say  it.  I 
never  guessed  there  was  so  much  in  him.  Yet  all  the  time  he  was 
in  my  house,  he  had  in  his  desk  the  very  sketch  of  an  invention 
that  is  now  saving  me  from  ruin — from  positive  ruin — Baron 
Levy — 'the  King's  Bench— and  almighty. smash  !  Now,  such  a 
young  man  ought  to  be  in  Parliament.  I  like  to  bring  forward 
a  region;  that  is,  when  he  does  one  credit;  'tis  human  nature 
and  sacred  ties^one's  own  flesh  and  blood;  and  besides,  one 
hand  rubs  the  other,  and  one  leg  helps  on  the  other,  and  relations 
get  on  best  in  the  world  when  they  pull  together;  that  is,  sup- 
posing that  they  are  the  proper  sort  of  relations,  and  pull  one 
on,  not  down.  I  had  once  thought  of  standing  for  Lansmere  my- 
self— thought  of  it  very  lately.  The  country  wants  men  like  me — 
I  know  that ;  but  I  have  an  idea  that  I  had  better  see  to  my  own 
business.  The  country  may,  or  may  not,  do  without  me,  stupid 
old  thing  that  she  is!  But  my  mill  and  my  new  engines,  there  is  no 
doubt  that  they  cannot  do  without  me.  In  short,  as  we  are  quite 
alone,  and,  as  I  said  before,  there's  nokind  pf  necessity  for  that 
sort  of  humbugwhich  exists  when  other  people  are  present,  pro- 
vide elsewhere  for  Mr.  Egerton,  whom  I  hate  like  poison — I  have 
a  right  to  do  that;  rsuppose,without  offence  toyour  lordship— and 
the  two  younkers,  Leonard  Fairfield  and  Randal  Leslie,  shall  be 
members  for  the  free  and  independent  borough  of  Lansmere!  " 

"  But  does  Leonard  wish  to  come  into  Parliament?" 

"No,  he  says  not;  but  that's  nonsense.  If  your  lordship  will 
just  signify  your  wish  that  he  should  not  lose  this  noble  op- 
portunity ., to  raise  himself  in  life,  and  get  something  handsome 
out  of  the  nation,  I  am  sure  he  owes  you  too  much  to  hesitate — 
'specially  when  'tis  to  his  own  advantage.  And,  besides,  one  of 
us  Avenels  ought  to  be  in  Parliament.  And  if  I  have  not  the 
time  and  learning,  and  so  forth,  and  he  has,  why,  it  stands  to 
reason  that  he  should  be  the  man.  And  if  he  can  do  something 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  307 

for  me  one  day — not  that  I  w£ant  anything — but  still  a  baronetcy 
or  so  would  be  a  compliment  to  British  industry,  and  be  appre- 
ciated as  such  by  myself  and  the  public  at  large — I  say,  if  he  could 
do  something  of  that  sort,  it  would  keep  up  the  whole  family; 
and  if  he  can't,  why,  I'll  forgive  him." 

"  Avenel,"  said  Harley,  with  that  familiar  and  gracious  charm 
of  manner  which  few  ever  could  resist — "Avenel,  if,  as  a  great 
personal  favor  to  myself — to  me,  your  fellow-townsman  (I 
was  born  at  Lansmere) — if  I  asked  you  to  forego  your  grudge 
against  Audley  Egerton,  whatever  that  grudge  be,  and  not 
oppose  his  election,  while  our  party  would  not  oppose  your 
nephew's — could  you  not  oblige  me  ?  Come,  for  the  sake  of 
dear  Lansmere,  and  all  the  old  kindly  feelings  between  your 
family  and  mine,  say  'Yes- — so  shall  it  be.'  " 

Richard  Avenel  was  almost  melted.  He  turned  away  his 
face,  but  there  suddenly  rose  to  his  recollection  the  scornful 
brow  of  Audley  Egerton,  the  lofty  contempt  with  which  Ae, 
then  the  worshipful  Mayor  of  Screwstown,  had  been  shown  out 
of  the  minister's  office-room;  and,  the  blood  rushing  over  his 
cheeks,  he  stamped  his  foot  on  the  floor,  and  exclaimed,  angrily, 
"No;  I  swore  that  Audley  Egerton  should  smart  for  his  in- 
solence to  me,  as  sure  as  my  name  be  Richard  Avenel;  and  all 
the  soft  soap  in  the  world  will  not  wash  out  that  oath.  So  there 
is  nothing  for  it  but  for  you  to  withdraw  that  man,  or  for  me  to 
defeat  him.  And  I  would  do  so,  ay — and  in  the  way  that  could 
most  gall  him,  if  it  cost  me  half  my  fortune.  But  it  will  not 
cost  that,"  said  Dick,  cooling,  "nor  anything  like  it;  for  when 
the  popular  tide  runs  in  one's  favor,  'tis  astonishing  how  cheap 
an  election  may  be.  It  will  cost  him  enough  though,  and  all 
for  nothing — worse  than  nothing.  Think  of  it,  my  lord." 

"I  will,  Mr.  Avenel.  And  I  say,  in  my  turn,  that  my  friendship  is 
as  strong  as  your  hate;  and  that  if  it  costs  me,  not  half,  but  my  whole 
fortune,  Audley  Egerton  shall  come  in  without  a  shilling  of  ex- 
pense to  himself,  should  we  once  decide  that  he  stand  the  contest." 

"  Very  well,  my  lord — very  well,"  said  Dick,  stiffly,  and  draw- 
ing on  his  kid  gloves;  we'll  see  if  the  aristocracy  is  always  to 
ride  over  the  free  choice  of  the  people  in  this  way.'  But  the  peo- 
ple are  roused,  my  lord.  The  March  of  Enlightenment  is  com- 
menced— the  Schoolmaster  is  abroad,  and  the  British  Lion — " 

"  Nobody  here  but  ourselves,  my  dear  Avenel.  Is  not  this 
rather  what  you  call — humbug  ?" 

Dick -started,  stared,  colored,  and  then  burst  out  laughing— - 
"Give  us  your  hand  again,  my  lord.  You  are  a  good  fellow, 
that  you  are.  And  for  your  sake — " 


308  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"You'll  not  oppose  Egerton  !  " 

"  Tooth  and  nail— tooth  and  nail !  "  cried  Dick/clapping  his 
hands  to  his  ears,  and  fairly  running  out  of  the  room. 

There  passed  over  Harley's  countenance  that  change  so  fre- 
quent to  it — more  frequent,  indeed,  to  the  gay  children  of  the  world 
than  those  of  consistent  tempers  and  uniform  habits  might  sup- 
pose. There  is  many  a  man  whom  we  call  friend,  and  whose  face 
seems  familiar  to  us  as  our  own;  yet  could  we  but  take  a  glimpse 
of  him  when  we  leave  his  presence,  and  he  sinks  back  into  his 
chair  alone,  we  should  sigh  to  see  how  often  the  smile  on  the 
frankest  lip  is  but  a  bravery  of  the  drill,  only  worn  on  parade. 

What  thoughts  did  the  visit  of  Richard  Avenei  bequeath  to 
Harley.  It  were  hard  to  define  them. 

In  his  place,  an  Audley  Egerton  would  have  taken  some  com- 
fort from  the  visit — would  have  murmured,  "  Thank  Heaven!  I 
have  not  to  present  to  the  world  that  terrible  man  as -my  brother- 
in-law."  But  probably,  Harley  had  escaped  in  his  reverie,  from 
Richard  Avenei  altogether.  Even  as  the  slightest  incident 
in  the  day-time  causes  our  dreams  at  night,  but  is  itself  clean 
forgotten,  so  the  name,  so  the  look  of  the  visitor,  might  have 
sufficed  but  to  influence  a  vision — as  remote  from  its  casual 
suggester,  as  what  we  call  real  life  is  from  that  life  much  more 
real,  that  we  imagine,  or  remember,  in  the  haunted  chambers  of 
the  brain.  For  what  is  real  life  ?;  How  little  the  things  actually 
doing  around  us  affect  the  springs  of  our  sorrow  or  joy;  but  the 
life  which  our  dulness  calls  romance — the  sentiment,  theremem- 
brance,  the  hope;  and  the  fear,  that  are  never  seen  in  the  toil  of 
our  hands — never  heard  in  the  jargon  on  our  lips; — from  that  life 
all  spin,  as  the  spider  from  its  entrails,  the  web  by  which  we  hang 
in  the'sunbeam,  or  glide  out  of  sight  into  the  shelter  .of  home. 

"  I  must  not  think,"  said  Harley,  rousing  himself  with  a  sigh, 
"  either  of  pastor  present.  Let  rne.hurry.on  to  some  fancied  future. 
'Happiest  are  the  marriages,'  said  the  Frencfr  philosopher,  and 
still  says  many  a  sage,  'in  which  man  asks  only  the  mild  com- 
panion, and  woman  but  the  calm,  protector1.'  I  will  goto  Helen." 

He  .rose;  and  as  he  was  about  to  lock  up  his  escritoire^  he 
r-emembered  the  papers  which  Leonard  had  requested  him  to 
read.  .He  took  them  from  their  deposit  with  a  careless  hand, 
intending  to  carry  them  with  hini:to  :his  father's  house.  But  as 
his  eyes  fell  upon  the  characters,  the  hand  suddenly  trembled, 
and  he  recoiled  some  paces,  as  if  struck- by  some  violent  blow. 
Then,  gazing  more  intently  on  the  writing,  a  low  cry  broke  from 
hisilips.  He  reseated  himself,  and  began  to  read. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE. 

CHAPTER  XI. 

RANDAL — with  many  misgivings  at  Lord  L'Estrange's  tone, 
in  which  he  was  at  no  loss  to  detect  a  latent  irony — proceeded 
to  Norwood.  He  found  Riccabocca  exceedingly  cold  and  distant. 
But  he  soon  brought  that  sage  to  communicate  the  suspicions 
which  Lord  L'Estrange  had  instilled  into  his  mind,  and  these 
Randal  was  as  speedily  enabled  to  dispel.  He  accounted  at 
once  for  his  visits  to  Levy  and  Peschiera.  Naturally  he  had 
sought  Levy,  an  acquaintance  of  his  own — nay  of  Audley  Eger- 
ton's;  but  whom  he  knew  to  be  professionally  employed  by  the 
Count.  He  had  succeeded  in.  extracting  from  the  Baron, 
Peschiera's  suspicious  change  of  lodgment  from  Mivart's  Hotel 
to  the- purlieus  of  .Leicester  Square;-^had  called  there  on  the 
Count — forced  an  entrance — openly  accused  him  of  abstract- 
ing Violante ;  high  words  had  passed  between  them — even  a 
challenge.  Randal  produced  a  note  from  a  military  friend  of 
his,  whom  he  had  sent  to  the  Count  an  hour  after  quitting  the 
hotel.  This  note  stated  that  arrangements  were  made  for  a  meet- 
ing near  Lord's  Cricket  Ground,  at  seven  o'clock  the  next  morn- 
ing. Randal  submitted  to  Riccabocca  another  formal  memor- 
andum from  the  same  warlike  friend — to  the  purport  that  Randal 
and  himself  had  repaired  to  the  ground,  and  no  Count  been 
forthcoming.  It. must  be  owned  that  Randal  had  taken  all 
suitable  precautions  to  clear  himself.  Such  a  man  is  not  to 
blame  for  want  of  invention,  if  he  be. sometimes  doomed  to  fail. 

"I  then,  much  alarmed,"  continued  Randal,  "hastened  to 
Baron  Levy,  who  informed  me  that  the  Count  had  written  him 
word  that  he  should  be  for  some  time  absent  from  England. 
Rushing  thence,  in  despair,  to  your  friend  Lord'  L'Estrange,  I 
heard  that  your  daughter  was  safe  with  you.  And  though,  as  I  '•• 
have  just  proved,  I  would  have  risked  my  life  against  so  notorious 
a  duellist  as  the  Count,  on  the  mere  chance  of  preserving  Vio- 
lante from  his  supposed  designs,  I  am  rejoiced  to  think  that  she 
has  rro,rjeed  of  my  unskilful  arm.  But  how  and  why  can  the 
Count  have  left  England  after  accepting  a  challenge  ?  A  man 
so  sure  of  his  weapon,  too — reputed  to  be.  as  fearless  of  danger 
as  he  is  blunt  in-  conscience.  Explain; — you  who  know  man- 
kind so  well — -explain.  I  cannot." 

The  philosopher  could  not- resist  the  pleasure  of  narrating 
the  detection  and  humiliation  of  his  foe— the  wit,  ingenuity,  and 
readiness  of  his  friend.  So  Randal  learned,: by  little  and  little, 
the  whole  drama  of  the  preceding  night.  He  saw,  then,  that 
the  .exile  had  all.  reasonable  hope  of  speedy  restoration  to  rank 


310  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

and  wealth.  Violante,  indeed,  would  be  a  brilliant  prize — too 
brilliant,  perhaps,  for  Randal — but  not  to  be  sacrificed  without 
an  effort.  Therefore,  wringing  convulsively  the  hand  of  his 
meditated  father-in-law,  and  turning  away  his  head  as  if  to  con- 
ceal his  emotions,  the  ingenuous  young  suitor  faltered  forth — 
"  That  now  Dr.  Riccabocca  was  so  soon  to  vanish  into  the  Duke 
di  Serrano,  he — 'Randal  Leslie  of  Rood,  born  a  gentleman,  indeed, 
but  of  fallen  fortunes— had  no  right  to  claim  the  promise  which 
had  been  given  to  him  while  a  father  had  cause  to  fear  for  a 
daughter's  future;  with  the  fear  ceased  the  promise.  Might 
Heaven  bless  father  and  daughter  both  !  " 

This  address  touched  both  the  heart  and  honor  of  the  exile. 
Randal  Leslie  .knew,  his  man.  And  though,  before  Randal's 
visit,  Riccabocca.was  not  quite  so  much  a  philosopher,  but  what 
he  would  have  been  well  pleased  to  have  found  himself  released, 
by  proof  of  the  young  man's  treachery,  fronVan  alliance  below  the 
rank  to  which  he  had  all  chance  of  early  restoration;  yet  no 
Spaniard  was  ever  more  tenacious  of  plighted  word  than  this 
inconsistent  pupil  of  the  profound  Florentine.  And  Randal's 
probity  being  now  clear  to  him,  he  repeated,  with  stately  formal- 
ities, his  previous  offer  of  Violante's  hand. 

.  "But/'  still  falteringly  sighed  the  provident  and  far-calculat- 
ing Randal — "but  your  only  child,  your  sole  heiress !  Oh,  might 
not  your  consent  to  such  a  marriage  (if  known  before  your  re- 
call) jeopardize  yourcause  ?  Your  lands,  your  principalities,  to 
devolve  on  the  child  of  an  humble  Englishman  !  I  dare  not  be- 
lieve it.  Ah,  would  Violante  were  not  your  heiress  ! " 

"Anoblewish,"said  Riccabocca, smiling  blandly, "and  one  that 
the  Fates  will  realize.  Cheer  up;  Violante  will  not  be  my  heiress." 

"Ah,"  cried  Randal,  drawing  a  long  breath — "ah,  what  do  I 
hear !  " 

"  Hist !  I  shall  soon  a  second  time  be  a  father,  And,  to  judge 
by  the  unerring  researches  of  writers  upon  that  most  interesting 
of  all  subjects,  parturitive  science,  I  shall  be  the  father  of  a  son. 
He  will,  of  course,  succeed  to  the  titles  of  Serrano.  And  Vio- 
lante— " 

"  Will  have  nothing,  I  suppose  !  "  exclaimed  Randal,  trying 
his  best  to  look  overjoyed,  till  he  had  got  his  paws  out  of  the 
trap  into  which  he  had  so  incautiously  thrust  them. 

"Nay,  her  portion  by  our  laws— to  say  nothing  of  my  affec- 
tion— would  far  exceed  the  ordinary  dower  which  the  daughters 
of  London  merchants  bring  to  the  sons  of  British  peers.  Who- 
ever marries  Violante,  provided  I  regain  my  estates,  must  sub- 
mit to  the  cares  which  the  poets  assure  us  ever  attend  on  wealth." 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  311 

"Oh  !  "  groaned  Randal,  as  if  already  bowed  beneath  the  cares 
and  sympathizing  with  the  poets. 

"And  now  let  me  present  you  to  your  betrothed  ! " 

Although  poor  Randal  had  been  remorselessly  hurried  along 
«  hat  Schiller  calls  the  "gamut  of  feeling,"  during,  the  last  three 
minutes,  down  to  the  deep  chord  of  despair  at  the  abrupt  intel- 
ligence that  his  betrothed  was  no  heiress  after  all ;  thence  as- 
cending to  vibrations  of  pleasant  doubt  as  to  the  unborn  usurper 
of  her  rights,  according  to  the  prophecies  of  parturitive  science; 
and  lastly,  swelling  into  a  concord  of  all  sweet  thoughts  at  the  as- 
surance that,  come  what  might,  she  would  be  a  wealthier  bride 
than  a  peer's  son  could  discover  in  the  matrimonial  Potosi  of  Lom- 
bard Street ;  still  the  tormented  lover  was  not  there  allowed  to  re- 
pose his  exhausted  though  ravished  soul.  For,  at  the  idea  of  per- 
sonally confronting  the  destined  bride — whose  very  existence  had 
almost  vanished  from  his  mind's  eye,  amidst  the  golden  showers 
that  it  saw  falling  divinely  round  her — Randal  was  suddenly  re- 
minded of  the  exceeding  bluntness  with  which,  at  their  last  inter- 
view, it  had  been  his  policy  to  announce  his,  suit,  and  of  the  ne- 
cessity of  an  impromptu  falsetto  suited  to  the  new  variations  that 
tossed  him  again  to  and  fro  on  the  merciless  gamut.  However, 
he  could  not  recoil  from  her  father's  proposition,  though,  in  or- 
der to  prepare  Riccabocca  for  Violanjte's  representation,  he  con- 
fessed pathetically  that  his  impatience  to  obtain  her  consent,  and 
baffle  Peschiera,  had  made  him  appear  a  rude  and  presumptuous 
wooer.  The  philosopher,  who  was  disposed  .to  believe  one  kind 
of  courtship  to  be  much  the  same  as  another,  in  cases  where  the 
result  of  all  courtships  was  once  predetermined — smiled  benignly, 
patted  Randal's  thin  cheek  with  a  "  Pooh,  pooh,  pazzie!  "  and  left 
the  room  to  summpn  Violante. 

"If  knowledge  be  power, "soliloquized  Randal,  "ability  is  cer- 
tainly good  luck,  as  Miss  Edgeworth  shows  in  that  story  of  Mu- 
rad  the  Unlucky,  which  I  read  at  Eton  ;  very  clever  story  it  is, 
too.  So  nothing  comes  amiss  to  me.  Violante's  escape,  which 
has  cost  me  the  Count's  ten  thousand  pounds,  proves  to  be  worth 
to  me,  I  dare  say,  ten  times  as  much.  No  doubt  she'll  have  a 
hundred  thousand  pounds  at  the  least.  And  then,  if  her  father 
have  no  other  child,  after  all,  or  thechild  he  expects  die  in  infancy, 
why,  once  reconciled  to  his  government  and  restored  to  his  es- 
tates, the  law.  must  take  its  usual  course,  and  Violante  will  "be  the 
greatest  heiress  in  Europe.  As  to  the  young  lady  herself.  I  con- 
fess she  rather  awes  me  ;  I  know  I  shall  be  henpecked.  Well,  all 
respectable  husbands  are.  There  is  something  scampish  and  ruf- 
fianly in  not  being  henpecked."  Here  Randal's  smile  might  have 


312  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

harmonized  well  with  Pluto's  "iron  tears";  but,  iron  as  the  Smile 
was,  the  serious  young  man  was  ashamed  of  it.  "What  am  I 
about?"  said  he,  half  aloud,  "chuckling  to  myself,  and  wasting 
time  when  I  ought  to  be  thinking  gravely  how  to  explain  away  my 
former  cavalier  courtship?  Such  a  masterpiece  as  I  thought  it 
then !  But  who  could  foresee  the  turn  .things  would  take  ?  Let  me 
think ;  let  me  think.  Plague  on  it,  here  she  cornes:" 

But  Randal  had  not  the  fine  ear  of  your  more  romantic  lover; 
and,  to  his  great  relief,  the  exile  entered  the  room  unaccompanied 
by  Violante.  Riccabocca  looked  somewhat  embarrassed. 

"  My  dear  Leslie,  you  must  excuse  my  daughter  to-day  ;  she  is 
still  suffering  from  the  agitation  she  has  gone  through,  and  can- 
not see  you." 

The  lover  tried  not  to  look  too  delighted. 

"Cruel,"  said  he  ;  "yet  I  would  not  for  worlds  force  myself 
on  her  presence.  I  hope,  duke,  that  she  will  not  find  it  too  dif- 
ficult to  obey  the  commands  which  dispose  of  her  hand,  and  in- 
trust hev  happiness  to  my  grateful  charge1/' 

"  To  be':plain  with  you,  Randal,  she  does  at  present  seem  to 
find  it  more  difficult  than  I  foresaw.  She  even  talks  of — •" 

"Another  attachment — Oh,  heavens  !  " 

"  Attachment,  pazzic  !  Whom  has  she  seen  ?  No — a  convent ! 
But  leave  it  to  me.  In  a  calmer  hour  she  will  comprehend  that  a 
child  must  know  no  lot  more  enviable  and  holy  than  that  of  re- 
deeming he?  father's  honor.  And  now,  if  you  are  returning  to 
London,  may  I  ask  you  to  convey  to  young  Mr.  Hazeldean  my 
assurances  "of  undying  gratitude  for  lii-s  share  in  my  daughter's 
delivery  from  that  poor  baffled  swindler  I" 

ft  is  noticeable  that,  now  Peschiera  was  ho  longer  an  object 
of  dread  to  the  nervous  father,  he  became  but  an  object  of  pity 
tp  the  philosopher,  and  of  contempt  to  the- grandee. 

"  True,"  said  Randal,  "  you  told  me  Frank  had  a  share  in  Lord 
L'Estrange's  very  clever  and  dramatic  device.  My  lord'  tfwret 
:be  by  nature  a  fine  actor — comic,  with  a  touch  of  melbdrarne  ! 
Poor  Frank !  apparently  he  has  lost  the  woman  he  adored— Bea- 
trice di  Negra.  You  say  she  lias  accompanied  the  Count.  Is  the 
marriage  that  was  to  be  between  her  and  Frank  broken  off  ?-" 

"I  did  not  know  such  a  marriage  was  contemplated:  I  un- 
derstood her  to  be  attached  to  another.  Not  that  that  is  any  rea- 
son why  she  should  not  have  married  Mr.  Hazeldean.  Express 
to  him  my  congratulations  on  his  escape." 

"  Nay,  he  must  not  knowthat  I  have  inadvertently  betrayed 
his  confidence  ;  twt  you  now  guess,  what  perhaps  puzzled  you 
before — viz.,  how  I  Came  to  be  so  well  acquainted  with  the  Count 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  313 

and  his  movements.  I  was  so  intimate  with  my  relation  Frank, 
and  Frank  was  affianced  to  the  Marchesa." 

"I  am  glad  you  give  me  that  explanation  ;  it  suffices.  After 
all,  the  Marchesa  is  not  by  nature  a  bad  woman — that  is,  not 
worse  than  women  usually  are,  so  Harley  says,  and  Violante  for- 
gives and  excuses  her." 

"Generous  Violante  !  But  it  is  true.  So  much  did  the  Mar- 
chesa appear  to  me  possessed  of  fine,  though  ill-regulated  qual- 
ities, that  I  always  considered  her  disposed  to  aid  in  frustrating 
her  brother's  criminal  designs.  So  I  even  said,  if  I  remember 
right,  to  Violante." 

Dropping  this  prudent  and  precautionary  sentence,  in  order 
to  guard  against  anything  Violante  might  say  as  to  that  subtle 
mention  of  Beatrice  which  had  predisposed  her  to  confide  in  the 
Marchesa,  Randal  then  hurried  on,— "  But  you  want  repose.  I 
leave  you,  the  happiest,  the^most  grateful  of  men.  I  will  give 
your  courteous  message  to  Frank*" 


CURIOUS  to  learn  what  had  passed  between  Beatrice  and  Frank 
and  deeply  interested  in  all  that  could  oust  Frank  out  of  the 
Squire's  good-will,  or  aught  that  could  injure  his  own  prospects, 
by  tending  to  unite  son  and'father,  Randal  was'nOt  slow  in  reach- 
ing his  young  kinsman's  lodgings.  It  might  be  supposed  that 
having,  in  all  probability,  just  secured  so  great  a  fortune  as  would 
accompany  Violante's  hand,  Randal  might  be  indifferent  to  the 
success  of  his  scheme  on  the  Hazeldean  exchequer.  Such  a  sup- 
position would  grievously  wrong  this  profound  young  man.  For, 
in  the  first  place,  Violante  was  not  yet  won  nor  her  father  yet 
restored  to  the  estates  which  would  defray  her  dower  ;  and,  in 
the  next  place,  Randal,  like  lago,  loved  villany  for  the  genius  it 
called  forth  in  him.  The  sole  luxury  the  abstemious  aspirer  al- 
lowed to  himself  was  that  which  is  found  in  intellectual  restless- 
ness. Untempted  by  wine,  dead  to  love,  unamused  by  pleasure, 
indifferent  to  the  arts,  despising  literature,  save  as  means  to  some 
end  of  power,  Randal  Leslie  was  the  incarnation  of  thought, 
hatched  out  of  the  corruption  of  Will.  At  twilight  we  see  thin  airy 
spectral  insects,  all  wing  and  nippers,  hovering,  as  if  they  couW 
never  pause,  over  some  sullen  mephitic  pool.  :  Just  so,  melhinks, 
hover  over  Acheron  sukzh  gnat-like,  rioiseless  soarers  into  gloomy 
air  out  of  Stygian  deeips,  as  are  the  thoughts  of  spirits  like  Ran- 
dal Leslie's.  Wings  have  they,  but  only  the  better  to  pounce 
down — draw  their  nutriment  from  unguarded  material  cuticles; 


314  'MV    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

and  just  when,  maddened,  you  strike,  and  exulting  exclaim, 
'Caught,  by  Jove  !  "  wh—irr  flies  the  diaphanous  ghostly  larva, 
and  your  blow  falls  on  your  own  twice-offended  cheek. 

The  young  men  who  were  acquainted  with  Randal  said  he  had 
not  a  vice  !  The..:  fact  being,  that  his  whole  composition  was  one 
epic  vice,  so  elaborately  constructed  that  it  had  not  an  episode 
which  a  critic  could  call  irrelevant.  Grand  young  man  ! 

"But,  my  dear  fejlow,"  said  Randal,  as  soon  as  he  had  learned 
from  Frank  all  that  had  passed  on  board  the  vessel  between  him 
and  Beatrice,  "I  cannot  believe  this.  '.Never  loved  you  !'  What 
was  her  object,  then,  in  deceiving,  not  only  you,  but  myself?  I 
suspect  her  declaration  was  but  some  heroical  refinement  of  gen- 
erosity. After  her  brother's  dejection  and  probable  ruin,  she 
might  feel  that  she  was  no  match  for  you.  Then,  too,  the  Squire's 
displeasure.  I  see  it  all — just  like  her — noble,  unhappy  woman  !  " 

Frank  shook  his  head.  "There  are  moments,"  said  he,  with  a 
wisdom  that  comes  out  of  those  instincts  which  awake  from  the 
depths  of  youth's  first  great  sorrow — "moments  when  a  woman 
cannot  feign,  and  there  are  tones  in  the  voice  of  awomantwhich 
men  cannot  misinterpret.  She  does  not  love  me — she  never  did 
love  me ;  lean  see  that  her  heart  has  been  elsewhere.;  No 
matter — all  is  over.  I  don't  deny  that  I  am  suffering  an  intense 
grief;  it  gnaws  like  a  kind  of  sullen  hunger ;  and  I  feel  so  broken, 
too,  as  if  I  had  grown  old,  and  there  was  nothing  left  worth  living 
for.  I  don't  deny  all  that." 

. "  My  poor  dear  friend,  if  you  would  but  believe — " 

"  I  don't  want  to  believe  anything,  except  that  I  have  been  a 
great  fool.  I  don't  think  I  can  ever  commit  such  follies  again. 
But  I'm  a  man.  I  shall  get  the  better  of  this  ;  I  should  despise 
myself  if  I  could  not.  And  now  let  us  talk  of  my  dear  father. 
Has  he  left  town  ?" 

"  Left  last  night,  by  the  mail.  You.  can  write  and  tell  him  you 
havegiven  up  the.Marchesa,  and  all  willbewellagain between  you." 

"Give  her  up  !  Fie,  Randal!  ;  Po  you  think  I  should  tell  such 
a  lie  ?. — She  gave  me  up  ;  I  can  claim  no  merit  out  of.  that." 

"Oh,  yes!  I  can,  make  the  Squire  see  all  to  your  advantage. 
Oh,  if  it  were  only  the  Marchesa !  but,  alas  !  that  cursed/to^ 
obit!  How  could  Levy  betray  you?  Never  trust  to  usurers  again  ; 
they  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of  a  speedy  profit.  They 
first  buy  the  son,  and  then  sell  him  to  the  father.  And  the  Squire 
has  such  strange  notions  on  a  matter  of  this  kind." 

"  He  is  right  to  have  them.  There,  just  read  this  Letter  from  my 
mother.  It  came  to  me  this  morning.  I  could  hang  myself,  if  I 
were  .a  dog ;  but  I'm  a  man,  and  so  I  must  bear  it." 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  315 

Randal  took  Mrs.  Hazeldean's  letter  from  Frank's  trembling 
hand. — The  poor  mother  had  learned,  though  but  imperfectly, 
Frank's  misdeeds  from  some  hurried  lines  which  the  Squire  had 
despatched  to  her  ;  and  she  wrote,  as  good,  indulgent,  but  sensi- 
ble, right-minded  mothers  alone  can  write.  More  lenient  to  an 
imprudent  love  than  the  Squire,  she  touched  with  discreet  tender- 
ness on  Frank's  rash  engagement  with  a  foreigner,  but  severely  on 
his  own  open  defiance  of  his  father's  wishes.  Her  anger  was,  how- 
ever, reserved  for  that  unholy  post-obit.  Here  the  hearty,  genial 
wife's  love  overcame  the  mother's  affection.  To  count,  in  cold 
blood,  on  that  husband's  death,  and  to  wound  his  heart  so  keenly, 
just  where  its  jealous  fatherly  fondness  made  it  most  susceptible ! 

"O  Frank,  Frank !"  wrote  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  "were  it  not  for 
this,  were  it  only  for  your  unfortunate  attachment  to  the  Italian 
lady,  only  for  your  debts,  only  for  the  errors  of  hasty,  extrava- 
gant youth,  I  should  be  with  you  now — my  arms  round  your  neck, 
kissing  you,  chiding  you  back  to  your  father's  heart.  But — but 
the  thought  that  between  you  and  his  heart  has  been  the  sordid 
calculation  of  his  death — //fo/is  a  wall  between  us.  I.cannotcome 
near  you.  I  should  not  like  to  look  on  your  face,  and  think  how 
my  William's  tears  fell  over  it,  when  I  placed  you,  new  born,  in 
his  arms,  and  bade  him  welcome  his  heir.  What !  you  a  mere 
boy  still,  your  father  yet  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  the  heir  cannot 
wait  till  nature  leaves  him  fatherless.  Frank,  Frank  !  this  is  so 
unlike  you.  Can  London  have  ruined  already  a  disposition  so 
honest  and  affectionate? — No  ;  I  cannot  believe  it.  There  must 
be  some  mistake.  Clear  it  up,  I  implore  you ;  or,  though  as  a 
mother  I  pity  you,  as  a  wife  I  cannot  forgive. 

"HARRIET  HAZELDEAN." 

Even  Randal  was  affected  by  the  letter;  for,  as  we  know, 
even  Randal  felt  in  his  own  person  the  strength  of  family  ties. 
The  poor  Squire's  choler  and  bluffness  had  disguised  the  paren- 
tal heart  from  an  eye  that,  however  acute,  had  not  been  willing 
to  search  for  it;  and  Randal,  ever  affected  through  his  intellect, 
had  despised  the  very  weakness  on  which  he  had  preyed.  But 
the  mother's  letter,  so  just  and  sensible  (allowing  that  the 
Squire's  opinions  had  naturally  influenced  the  wife  to  take, 
what  men  of  the  world  would  call  a  very  exaggerated  view  of 
the  every-day  occurrence  of  loans  raised  by  a  son,  payable  only 
at  a  father's  death), — this  letter,  I  say,  if  exaggerated  accord- 
ing to  fashionable  notions,  so  sensible  if  judged  by  natural  af- 
fections, touched  the  dull  heart  of  the  schemer,  because  approved 
by  the  quick  tact  of  his  intelligence. 

"Frank,"  said  he,  with  a  sincerity  that  afterward  amazed 


316  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

himself,  "  go  down  at  once  to  Hazeldean — see  your  mother, 
and  explain  to  her  how  this  transaction  really  happened.  The 
woman  you  loved,  and  wooed  as  wife,  in  danger  of  an  arrest — 
your  distraction  of  mind,  Levy's  counsels — your  hope -to  pay 
off  the  debt,  so  incurred  to  the  usurer,  from  the  fortuae  you 
would  shortly  receive  with  the  Marchesa.  Speak  to  your  moth- 
er— she  is  a  woman;  women  have  a  common  interest  in  forgiv- 
ing all  faults  that  arise  from  the  source  of  their  power  over  us 
men; — -I  mean  love.  Go  !  " 

"No — I  cannot  go; — you  see  she  would  not  like  to  look  on 
rny  face.  And  I  cannot  repeat  what  you  say  so  glibly.  Be- 
sides, somehow  or  other,:as  lani  so  dependent  upon  my  father — 
and  he  has  said  as  much — I  feel  as  if  it  would  be  mean  in  me  to 
make  any  dxcuses.  I  did  the  thing,  and  must  suffer  for  it.  But 
I'm  a  m-an— -no— I'm  not  a  man  here."  Frank  burst  into  tears. 

At  the  sight  of  those  tears,  Randal  gradually  recovered  from 
his  strange  aberration  into  vulgar  and  low  humanity.  His 
habitual  con  tempt  for  his  kinsman  returned;  and  with  contempt 
came  the  natural  indifference  to  the  sufferings  of  the  thing  to 
be  put  to  use.  It  is  contempt  for  the  worm  that  makes  the 
angler  fix  it  oh  the  hook,  and  observe  with  complacency  that 
the  vivacity  of  its  wriggles  will  attract  the  bite.  If  the  worm 
could  but  make,  the  angler  respect,  or  even  fear  it,  the  barb 
would  find  some  other  bait.  Few  anglers  would  impale  an  esti- 
mable silkworm,  and  still  fewer  the  anglers 'who  would  finger 
into  service  a  formidable  hornet. 

"  Pooh,  my  dear  Frank,"  said  Randal,  "  I  have  given  you  my 
advice;  you  reject  it.  Well,  what  then  will  you  do?  " 

"  I  shall  ask  for  leave  of  absence,  and  run  away  somewhere," 
said  Frank,  drying  his  tears.  "  I  can't  face  London ;  I  can't  mix 
with  others.  I  want  to  be  by  myself,  and  wrestle  with  all  that  I 
feel  here — in  my  heart.  Then  I  shall  write  to  my  moth er,  say  ^the 
plain  truth,  and  le^ve  her  to  judge  as  kindly  of  me  as  she  can." 

"  You  are  quite  right.  Yes,  leave  town  !  Why  not  go  abroad  ? 
You  have  never  been  abroad.  New  scenes  will  distract  your 
mind.  Run  over  to  Paris." 

"  Not  to  Paris — I  don't  want  gaieties;  but  I  did  intend  to  go 
abroad  somewhere — any  dull  dismal  hole  of  a  place.  Oi-ood- 
bye.  Don't  think  of  me  any  more  for  the  present." 

"But  let  me  know  where  you  go!  and  meanwhile  I  will  see 
the  Squire." 

"  Say  as  little  of  me  as  you  can  to  him.  I  know  you  mean 
most  kindly — but  oh,  how  I  wish  there  never  had  been  any 
third  person  between  me  and  my  father  !  There;  you  may  well 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  317 

snatch  away  your  hand.  What  an  ungrateful  wretch  to  you  I 
am  !  I  do  believe  I  am  the  wickedest  fellow.  What,  you  shake 
hands  with  me  still.  My  dear  Randal,  you  have  the  best 
heart — God  bless  you."  Frank  turned  away,  and  disappeared 
within  his  dressing-room. 

"  They  must  be  reconciled  now,  sooner  or  later — Squire  and 
son," — said  Randal  to  himself,  as  he  left  the  lodgings.  "  I  don't 
see  how  I  can  prevent  that — the  Marchesa  being  withdrawn — 
unless  Frank  does  it  for  me.  But  it  is  well  he  should  be  abroad — 
something  may  be  made  out  of  that;  meanwhile,  I  may  yet  do 
all  that  I  could  reasonably  hope  to  do — even  if  Frank  had  mar- 
ried Beatrice — since  he  was  not  to-be  disinherited.  '  Get  the 
Squire  to  advance  the  money  for  the  Thornhill  purchase — com- 
plete the  affair; — this  marriage  with  Violante  will  help;— Levy 
must  know : that;  secure  the  borough; — well  thought  of.  I  will 
goto  Avenel's.  By  the  bye — by  the  bye — the  Squire  might  as  well 
keep  me  still  in  the  entail  after  Frank — supposing  Frank  die 
childless.  This  love  affair  may  keep  him  long  from  marrying. 
His  hand  was  very  hot — a  hectic  color; — those  strong-looking 
fellows  often  go  off  in  a  "rapid  decline,  especially  if  anything 
preys  on  their  minds — their  minds  are  so  very  small. 

"  Ah — the  Hazeldean  Parson- — and  with  Avenel !  That  young 
man,  too^-who  is  he  ?  I  have  seen  him  before  somewhere.  My 
dear  Mr.  Dale,  this  is  a  pleasant  surprise.  I  thought  you  had 
returned  to  Hazeldean  with  our  friend  the  Squire  ? " 

MR.  DALE. — The  Squire  J  Has  he  left  town,  and-  without 
telling  me  ? 

RANDAL  (taking  aside  the  Parson). — He  was  anxious  to  get 
back  to  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  who  was  naturally  very  uneasy  about 
Tier' son  and  this  foolish  marriage;  but  lam  happy  to  tell  you 
that  that  marriage  is  effectually  and  permanently  broken  off. 

MR.  DALE. — How,  how  ?  My  poor  friend  told  me  he  had 
wholly  failed  to  make  any  impression  on  Frank — forbade  me  to 
mention  the  subject.  I  was  just  going  to  see  Frank  myself.  I 
always  had  some  influence  with  him.  But,  Mr.  Leslie,  explain 
this  very  sudden  and  happy  event — -the  marriage  broken  off  ! 

RANDAL. — It  is  a  long  story,  and  I  dare  not  tell  you  my  hum- 
ble share  in  it.  Nay,  I  must  keep  that  secret.  Frank  might 
not  forgive  me.  Suffice  it  that  you  have  my  word  that  the  fair 
Italian  has  left  England,  and  decidedly  refused  Frank's  ad- 
dresses. But  stay — take  my  advice — don't  go  to  him;— ^you  see 
it  was  not  only  the  marriage  that  has  offended  the  Squire,  but 
some  pecuniary  transactions — an  unfortunate  post-obit  bond  on 
the  Casino  property.  Frank  ought  to  be  left  to  his  own  repent- 


318  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

ant  reflections.  They  will  be  most  salutary — you  know  his  temper 
— he  don't  bear  reproof;  and  yet  it  isbetter,on  the  other  hand, 
not  to  let  him  treat  too  lightly  what  has  passed.  Let  us  leave  him 
to  himself  for  a  few  days.  He  is  in  an  excellent  frame  of  mind. 

MR.  DALE  (shakingRandal's  hand  warmly). — You  speakadmir- 
ably — a  post-obit ! — so  often  as  he  has  heard  his  father's  opinion  on 
such  transactions.  No — I  will  not  see  him — I  should  be  too  angry — 

RANDAL  (leading  the  Parson  back,  resumes,  after  an  exchange 
of  salutations  with  Avenel,  who,  meanwhile,  had  been  confer- 
ring with  his  nephew). — You  should  not  be  so  long  away  from 
your  rectory,  Mr.  Dale.  What  will  your  parish  do  without  you  ? 

MR.  DALE. — The  old  fable  of  the  wheel  and  the  fly.  I  am 
afraid  the  wheel  rolls  on  the  same.  But  if  I  am  absent  from  my 
parish,  I  am  still  in  the  company  of  one  who  does  me  honor  as 
an  old  parishioner.  You  remember  Leonard  Fairfield,  your 
antagonist  in  the  Battle  of  the  Stocks  ? 

MR.  AVENEL. — My  nephew,  I  am  proud  to  say,  sir. 

Randal  bowed  with  marked  civility— Leonard  with  a  reserve 
no  less  marked.  ; 

MR.  AVENEL  (ascribing  his  nephew's  reserve  to  shyness). — 
You  should  be  friends,  you  two  youngsters.  Who  knows  but 
you  may  run  together  in  the  same  harness?  Ah,  that  reminds 
rne,  Leslie — I  have  a  word  or  two  ttxsay  to  you.  Your  servant, 
Mi.  Dale.  Shall  be  happy  to  present  you  to  Mrs,  Avenel.  My 
card — Eaton  Square— Number  — .  You  will  call  on  me  to- 
morrow, Leonard.  And  mind,  I  shall  be  very  angry  if  you  per- 
sist in  your  refusal.  Such  an  opening  !  (Avenel  took  Randal's 
arm,  while  the  Parson  and  Leonard  walked  on.) 

"Any  fresh  hints  as  to  Lansmere  ?"  asked  Randal. 

"  Yes;  I  have  now  decided  on  the  plan  of  contest.  We  must 
fight  two  and  two — you  and  Egerton  against  me  and  (if  lean  get 
him  to  stand,  as  I  hope)  my- nephew,  Leonard." 

"  What  !  "  said  Randal,  alarmed;  "  then,  after  all,  I  can  hope 
for  no  support  from  you  ?  " 

"  I  don't  say  that;  but  I  have  reason  to  think  Lord  L'Estrange 
will  bestir  himself  actively  in  favor  of  Egerton.  If  so,  it  will 
be  a  very  sharp  contest;  and  I  must  manage  the  whole  election 
on  our  side,  and  unite  all  our  shaky  votes,  which  I  can  best  do 
by  standing  myself  in  the  first  instance,  reserving  it  to  after- 
consideration  whether  I  shall  throw  up  at  the  last;  for  I  don't 
particularly  want  to  come  in,  as  I  did  a  little  time  ago,  before  I 
had  found  out  my  nephew.  Wonderful  young  man  ! — with  such 
a  head — will  do  me  credit  in  the  rotten  old  House;  and  I  think 
I  had  best  leave  London,  go  to  Screwstown,  and  look  to  my 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  3t<) 

business.  No;  if  Leonard  stand,  I  must  first  see  to  get  him  in; 
and  next,  to  keep  Egerton  out.  It  will  probably,  therefore,  end 
in  the  return  of  one  and  one  on  either  side,  as  we  thought  of 
before.  Leonard  on  our  side;  and  Egerton  sha'n't  be  the  man 
on  the  other.  You  understand  ?  " 

"I  do,  my  dear  Avenel.  Of  course,  as  I  before  said,  I  can't 
dictate  to  your  party  whom  they  should  prefer — Egerton  or  my- 
self. And  it  will  be  obvious  to  the  public  that  your  party  would 
rather  defeat  so  eminent  an  adversary  as  Mr.  Egerton,  than  a 
tyro  in  politics  like  me.  Of  course  I  cannot  scheme  for  such  a 
result;  it  would  be  misconstrued,  and  damage  my  character. 
But  I  rely  equally  on  your  friendly  promise." 

"Promise!  No — I  don't  promise;  I  must  first  see  how  the  cat 
jumps;  and  I  don't  know  yet  how  our  friends  may  like  you,  nor 
how  they  can  be  managed.  All  I  can  say  is,  that  Audley  Eger- 
ton sha'n't  be  M.  P.  for  Lansmere.  Meanwhile,  you  will  take 
care  not  to  commit  yourself  in  speaking,  so  that  our  party  can't 
vote  for  you  consistently:  they  must  count  on  having  you — when 
you  get  into  the  House." 

"I  am  not  a  violent  party-man  at  present,"  answered  Randal, 
prudently;  "and  if  public  opinion  prove  on  your  side,  it  is  the 
duty  of  a  statesman  to  go  with  the  times." 

"Very  sensibly  said:  and  I  have  a  private  bill  or  two,  and 
some  other  little  jobs,  I  want  to  get  through  the  House,  which 
we  can  discuss  later,  should  it  come  to  a  frank  understanding 
between  us.  We  must  arrange  how  to  meet  privately  at  Lans- 
mere, if  necessary.  I'll  see  to  that.  I  shall  go  down  this  week, 
I  think  of  taking  a  hint  from  the  free  and  glorious  land  of  Ameri- 
ca, and  establishing  secret  caucuses.  Nothing  like  'em." 

"Caucuses  ?" 

"Small  sub-committees  that  spy  on  their  men  night  and  day, 
and  don't  suffer  them  to  be  intimidated  to  vote  the  other  way." 

"You  have  an  extraordinary  head  for  public  affairs,  Avenel. 
You  should  come  into  Parliament  yourself ;  your  nephew  is  so 
very  young." 

"So  are  you." 

"Yes,  but  I  know  the  world.     Does  he?" 

"The  world  knows  him,  though  not  by  name,  and  he  has  been 
the  making  of  me." 

"How?    You  surprise  me." 

Avenel  first  explained  about  the  patent  which  Leonard  had 
secured  to  him;  and  next  confided, upon  honor, Leonard's  iden- 
tity with  the  anonymous  author  whom  the  Parson  had  supposed 
to  be  Professor  Moss. 


320  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Randal  Leslie  felt  a  jealous  pang.  What!  then — had  this  vil- 
lage boy — this  associate  of  John  Burley  (literary  vagabond,  whom 
he  supposed  had  long  since  gone  to  the  dogs,  and  been  buried  at 
the  expense  of  the  parish) — had  this  boy  so  triumphed  over  birth, 
rearing,  circumstances,  that,  if  Randal  and  Leonard  had  met 
together  in  any  public  place,  and  Leonard's  identity  with  the 
rising  author  been  revealed,  every  eye  would  have  turned  from 
Randal  to  gaze  on  Leonard  ?  The  common  consent  of  mankind 
wojald  have  acknowledged  the  supreme  royalty  of  genius,  when 
it  once  leaves  its  solitude,  and  strides  into  the  world.  What! 
was  this  rude  villager  the  child  of  Fame  who,  without  ah  effort, 
and  unconsciously,  had  inspired  in  the  wearied  heart  of  Beatrice 
di  Negra  a  love  that  Randal  knew,  by  an  instinct,  no:arts,  no 
craft,  could  ever  create  for  him  in  the  heart  of  woman  ?  And, 
now,  did  this  same  youth  stand  on  the  same,  level  in  the  ascent  to 
power  as  he,  the  well-born  RandalLeslie,  the  accomplished/rtf/^ 
of  the  superb  AudleyEgerton!  Were  they  to  be  rivals  in  tlie  same 
arena  of  practical  busy  life?  Randal  gnawed  his  quivering  lip. 

All  the  while,  however,  the  young  man  whom  he  so  envied 
was  a  prey  to  sorrows  deeper  far  than  could  ever  find  room  or 
footing  in  the  narrow  and  stony  heart  of  the  unloving  schemer. 
As  Leonard  walked  through  the  crowded  streets  with  the  friend 
and  monitor  of  his  childhood,  confiding  the  simple  tale  of  his 
earlier  trials — when,  amidst  the  wreck  of  fortune,  andin  despair 
of  fame,  the  Child-angel  smiled  by  his  side,  like  Hope — all  re- 
nown seemed  to  him  so  barren,  all  the  future  so  dark!  His  voice 
trembled,  and  his  countenance  became  so  sad  that  his  benignant 
listener,  divining  that  around  the  image  of  Helen  there  clung 
some  passionate  grief  that  overshadowed  all  worldly  success,  drew 
Leonard  gently  on,  till  the  young  man,  long  wearying  for  some 
confidant,  told  him  all;— how,  faithful  through  Ipng  years  to  one 
pure  and  ardent  memory,  Helen  had  been  seen  once  more— the 
child  ripened  to  woman,  and  the  memory  revealing  itself  as.love. 

The  Parson  listened  with  a  mild  and  thoughtful  brow,  which 
expanded  into  a  more  cheerful  expression  as  Leonard  closed  his 
story. 

"  I  see  no  reason  to  despond,"  said  Mr.  Dale.  "  You  fear  that 
Miss  Digby  does  not  return  your  attachment ;  you  dwell  upon 
her  reserve — her  distant  though  kindly  manner.  Cheer  up!  All 
young  ladies  are  under  the  influence  of  what  phrenologists  call 
the  organ  of  Secretiveness,  when  they  are  in  the: society  of  the 
object  of  their  preference.  Just  as  you  describe  Miss  Digby's 
manner  to  you,  was  my  Carry's  manner  to  myself." 

The  Parson  here  indulged  in  a  very  appropriate  digression 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  321 

upon  female  modesty,  which  he  wound  up  by  asserting,  that  that 
estimable  virtue  became  more  and  more  influenced  by  the  secret- 
ive organ,  in  proportion  as  the  favored  suitor  approached  near 
and  nearer  to  a  definite  proposal.  It  was  the  duty  of  a  gallant 
and  honorable  lover  to  make  that  proposal  in  distinct  and  ortho- 
dox form,  before  it  could  be  expected  that  a  young  lady  should 
commit  herself  and  the  dignity  of  her  sex  by  the  slightest  hint 
as  to  her  own  inclinations. 

"  Next,"  continued  the  Parson,  "you  choose  tt>  torment  your- 
self by  contrasting  your  own  origin  and  fortunes  with  the  altered 
circumstances  of  Miss  Digby — the  ward  of  Lord  L'Estrange,  tne 
guest  of  Lady  Lansmeve-  You  say  that  if  Lord  L'Estrange 
could  have  countenanced  such  a  union,  he  would  have  adopted 
a  different  tone  with  you — sounded  your  heart,  encouraged  your 
hopes,  and  so  forth.  I  view  things  differently.  I  have  reason  to  do 
so;  and,  from  all  you  have  told  me  of  this  nobleman's  interest  in 
your  fate,  I  venture  to  make  you  this  promise,  that  if  Miss  Digby 
would  accept  your  hand,  Lord  L'Estrange  shall  ratify  her  choice." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Dale,"  cried  Leonard,  transported,  "you  make 
me  that  promise?" 

"I  do — from  what  you  have  said,  and  from  what  I  myself  know 
of  Lord  L'Estrange.  Go,  then,  at  once  to  Knightsbridge — see 
Miss  Digby — show  her  your  heart — explain  to  her,  if  you  will, 
your  prospects — ask  her  permission  to  apply  tp  Lord  L'Estrange 
(since  he  has  constituted  himself  her  guardian);  and  if  Lord  L'Es- 
trange hesitate— which,  if  your  happiness  be  set  on  this  union,! 
think  he  will  not— let  me  know,  and  leave  the  rest  to  me." 

Leonard  yielded  himself  to  the  Parson's  persuasive  eloquence. 
Indeed,  when  he  recalled  to  mind  those  passages  in  the  manu- 
scripts of  the  ill-fated  Nora  which  referred  to. the  love  that  Har- 
ley  had  once  borne  to  her  (for  he  felt  convinced  that  Harley  and 
the  boy  suitor  of  Nora's  narrative  were  one  and  the  same);  and 
when  all  the  interest  that  Harley  had  taken  in  his  own  fortunes 
was  explained  by  his  relationship  to  her  (even  when  Lord  L'Es- 
trange had  supposed  it  less  close  than  he  would  now  discover  it 
to  be),  the  young  man,  reasoning  by  his  own  heart,  could  not  but 
suppose  that  the  noble  Harley  would  rejoice  to  confer  happiness 
upon  the  son  of  her,  so  beloved  by  his  boyhood. 

"  And  to  thee,  perhaps,  O  my  mother!  "  thought  Leonard,  with 
swimming  eyes — "  to  thee,  perhaps,  even,  in  thy  grave,  I  shall 
owe  the  partner  of  my  life,  as  to  the  mystic  breath  of  thy  genius 
I  owe  the  first  pure  aspirations  of  my  soul." 

It  will  be  seen  that  Leonard  had  not  confided  to  the  Parson 
his  discovery  of  Nora's  manuscripts,  nor  even  his  knowledge  of 


322  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

his  'real  birth;  for  the  proud  son  naturally  shrank  from  any  con- 
fidence that  implicated  Nora's  fair  name,  until  at  last  Harley, 
who,  it  was  clear  from  those  papers,  must  have  intimately  known 
his  father,  should  perhaps  decide  the  question  which  the  papers 
themselves  left  so  terribly  vague— viz.,  whether  he  were  the  off- 
spring of  a  legal  marriage,  or  Nora  had  been  the  victim  of  some 
unholy  fraud. 

While  the  Parson  still  talked,  and  while  Leonard  still  mused 
and  listened,  their  steps  almost  mechanically  took  the  direction 
towird  Knightsbridge,  and  'paused  at  the  gates  of  Lord  Lans- 
mere's  house. 

"  Go  in,  my  young  friend ;  I  will  wait  without  to  know  the  issue," 
said  the  Parson,  cheeringly.  "  Go  ;  and,  with  gratitude  to 
Heaven,  learn  how  to  bear  the  most  precious  joy  that  can  befall 
mortal  man;  or  how  to  submit  to  youth's  sharpest  sorrow,  with 
the  humble  belief  that  even  sorrow  is  but  some  mercy  concealed." 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

LEONARD  was  shown  into  the  drawing-room,  and  it  so  chanced 
that  Helen  was  there  alone.  The  girl's  soft  face  was  sadly 
changed  even  since  Leonard  had  seen  it  last;  for  the  grief  of 
natures  mild  and  undemonstrative  as  hers  gnaws  with  quick  rava- 
ges; but  at  Leonard's  unexpected  entrance,  the  color  rushed  so 
vividly  to  the  pale  cheeks,  that  its  hectic  might  betaken  for  the 
lustre  of  blood  and  health.  She  rose  hurriedly,  and  in  great  con- 
fusion faltered  out,  "  that  she  believed  Lady  Lansmere  was  in 
her  room — she  would  go  for  her,"  and  moved  toward  the  door, 
without  seeming  to  notice  the  hand  tremulously  held  forth  to  her; 
when  Leonard  exclaimed,  in  uncontrollable  emotions  which 
pierced  to  her  very  heart,  in  the  keen  accent  of  reproach — 

"  Oh,  Miss  Digby— oh,  Helen— is  it  thus  that  you  greet  me — 
rather  thus  that  you  shun  me?  Could  I  have  foreseen  this 
when  we  two  orphans  stood  by  the  mournful  bridge ;  so  friend- 
less— so  desolate — and  so  clinging  each  to  each  !  Happy  time  !  " 
He  seized  her  hand  suddenly  as  he  spoke  the  last  words,  and 
bo\ved  his  face  over  it. 

"I  must  not  hear  you.  Do  not  talk  so,  Leonard — you  break 
my  heart.  Let  me  go — let  me  go." 

"  Is  it  that  I  am  grown  hateful  to  you  ?  is  it  merely  that  you  see 
my  love  and  would  discourage  it?  Helen,  speak  to  me — speak!" 

He  drew  her  with  tender  force  toward  him ;  and  holding  her 
firmly  by  both  hands,  sought  to  gaze  upon  the  face  that  she 
turned  from  him — turned  in  such  despair. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  323 

"You  dp  not  know,"  she  said  at  last,  struggling  for  compos- 
ure-— "you  do  not  know  the  new  claims  on  me — my  altered 
position — how  I  am  bound,  or  you  would  be  the  last  to  speak 
thus  to  me,  the  first  to  give  me  courage — and  bid  me — bid  me — " 

"  Bid  you  what  ? " 

"Feel  nothing  here  but  duty!"  cried  Helen, ;  drawing  from 
his  clasp  both  her  hands,  and  placing  them  firmly  on  her  breast. 

"Miss  Digby,"  said  Leonard,  after  a  short  pause  of  bitter 
reflection,  in  which  he  wronged,  while  he  thought  to  divine,  her 
meaning,  "you  speak  of  new  claims  on  you,  your  altered  position — 
I  comprehend.  You  may  retain  some  tender  remembrance  of  the 
past ;  but  your  duty  now  is  to  rebuke  my  presumption  ;  it  is  as  I 
thought  and  feared.  Thisvain  reputation  which  I  have  made  is 
but  a  hollow  sound — it  gives  me  no  rank,  assures  me  no  fortune. 
I  have  no  right  to  look  for  the  Helen  of  old  in  the  Helen  of 
to-day.  Be  it  so — forget  what  I  have  said,  and  forgive  me." 

This  reproach  stung  to  the  quick  the  heart  to  which  it  ap- 
pealed. A  flash  brightened  the  meek  tearful  eyes,  almost  like 
the  flash  of  .resentment — her  lips  writhed  in  torture,  and  she 
felt  as  if  all  other  pain  were  light  compared  with  the  anguish 
that  Leonard  could  impute  to  her  motives  which  to  her  simple 
nature  seemed  so  unworthy  of  her,  and  so  galling  to  himself. 

A  word  rushed  as  by  inspiration  to  her  lip,  and  that  word 
calmed  and  soothed  her. 

"Brother!"  she  said,  touchingly,  "brother!" 

The  word  had  a  contrary  effect  on  Leonard.  Sweet  as  it  was, 
tender  as  the  voice  that  spoke  it,  it  imposed  a  boundary  to  affec- 
tion— it  came  as  a  knell  to  hope.  He  recoiled,  shook  his  head 
mournfully — "  Too  late  to  accept  that  tie — too  late  even  for 
friendship.  Henceforth — for  long  years  to  come — henceforth, 
till  this  heart  has  ceased  to  beat  at  your  name- — to  thrill  at 
your  presence,  we  two — are  strangers." 

"Strangers  !  Well — yes,  it  is  right — it  must  be  so  ;  we  must 
not  meet.  Oh,  Leonard  Fairfield,  who  was  it  in  those  days  that 
you  recall  to  me — who  was  it  that  found  you  destitute  and'  ob- 
scure— who,  not  degrading  you  by  charity,  placed  you  in  your 
right  career — opened  to  you,  amidst  the  labyrinth  in  which  you 
were  well-nigh  lost,  the  broad  road  to  knowledge,  independence, 
fame  ?  Answer  me — answer  !  Was  it  not  the  same  who  reared— 
sheltered  your  sister  orphan  ?  If  I  could  forget  what  I  have  owed 
to  him,  should  I  not  remember  what  he  has  done  for  you  ?  Can  I 
hear  of  your  distinction  and  not  remember  it  ?  Can  I  think  how 
proud  she  may  be  who  will  one  day  lean  on  your  arm,  and  bear 
the  name  you  have  already  raised  beyond  all  the  titles  of  an  hour? 


324  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Can  I  think  of  this,  and  not  remember  our  common  friend,  bene- 
factor, guardian?    Would  you  forgive  me, if  I  failed  to  do  so?" 

"But,"  faltered  Leonard,  fear  mingling  with  the  conjectures 
these  words  called  forth — "but  is  it  that  Lord  L'Estrange 
would  not  consent  to  our  union  ? — or  of  what  do  you  speak ! 
You  bewilder  me." 

Helen  felt  for  some  moments  as  if  it  were  impossible  to  reply; 
and  the  words  at  length  were  dragged  forth  as  from  the  depth 
of  her  very  soul. 

"  He  came  to  me — our  noble  friend.  I  never  dreamed  of  it. 
He  did  not  tell  me  that  he  loved  me.  He  told  me  that  he  was 
unhappy,  alorie ;  that  in  me,  and  only  in  me,  he  :could  find  a 
comforter,  a  soother — He,  he  ! — And  I  had  just  arrived  in  Eng- 
land— was  under  his  mother's  roof — had  not  then  ofice  more 
seen  you ;  and — and — what  could  I  answer  ?  Strengthen  me — 
strengthen  me,  you  whom  I  look  up  to  and  revere.  Yes,  yes — 
yOu  are  right.  We  must  see  each  other  no  more.  .1  am  betrothed 
to  another — to  him  !  Strengthen  me  P* 

All  the  inherent  nobleness  of  the  poet's  nature  rose  at  once 
at  this  appeal. 

"Oh,  Helen — sister— Miss  Digby,  forgive  me.  You  need  no 
strength  from  trie  ;  I  borrow  it  from  you.  I  comprehend  you — • 
I  respect.  Banish  all  thought  of  me.  Repay  our  common 
benefactor  Be  what  he  asks  of  you — his  comforter,  his  soother; 
be  more — his  pride  and  his  joy.  Happiness  will  come  to  you,  as 
it  comes  to  those  who  confer  happiness  and  forget  self.  God  com- 
fort you  in  the  passing  struggle;  God  bless  you  in  the  long  years 
to  come.  Sister — I  accept  the  holy  name  now,  and  will  claim 
it  hereafter,  when  I  too  can  think  more  of  others  than  myself." 

Helen  had  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  sobbing ;  with 
that  soft  womanly  constraint  which  presses  woe  back  into  the 
heart.  A  strange  sense  of  utter  solitude  suddenly  pervaded  her. 
whole  being,  and  by  that  sense  of  solitude  she  knew  that  he 
was  gone. 
• 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

IN  another  room  in  that  same  house  sat,  solitary  as  Helen,  a 
stern,  gloomy,  brooding  man,  in  Whom  they  who  had  best 
known  him  from  his  childhood  could  scarcely  have  recognized 
a  trace  of  the  humane,  benignant,  trustful,  but  wayward  and 
varying"  Harley,  Lord  L'Estrange. 

He  had  read  that  fragment  of  a  memoir,  in  which,  out  of  all 
the  chasms  of  his  barren  and  melancholy  past,  there  rose  two: 
malignant  truths  that  seemed  literally  to  glare  upon  him  with 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  325 

mocking  and  demon  eyes :  the  woman  whose  remembrance  had 
darkened  all  the  sunshine  of  his  life,  had  loved  another ;  the 
friend  in  whom  he  had  confided  his  whole  affectionate  loyal 
soul  had  been  his  perfidious  rival.  He  had  read  from  the  first 
word  to  the  last,  as  if  under  a  spell  that  held  him  breathless  ; 
and  when  he  closed  the  manuscript,  it  was  without  groan  or 
sigh  ;  but  over  his  pale  lips  there  passed  that  withering  smile, 
which  is  as  sure  an  index  of  a  heart  overcharged  with  dire  and 
fearful  passions,  as  the  arrowy  flash  of  the  lightning  is  of  tem- 
pests that  are  gathered  within  the  cloud. 

He  then  thrust  the  papers  into  his  bosom,  and,  keeping  his 
hand  over  them  firmly  clenched,  he  left  the  room,  and  walked 
slowly  toward  his  father's  house.  With  every  step  by  the  way, 
his  nature,  in  the  war  of  its  elements,  seemed  to  change  and 
harden  into  forms  of  granite.  Love,  humanity,  trust,  vanished 
away.  Hate,  revenge,  misanthropy,suspicion,  and  scorn  of  all  that 
could  wear  the  eyes  of  affection,  or  speak  with  the  voice  of  honor, 
came  fast  through  the  gloom  of  his  thoughts,  settling  down  in  the 
wilderness,  grim  and  menacing  as  the  harpies  of  ancient  song — 
" Uncseqiie  manns,  et  palllda  semper  Ora."* 

Thus  the  gloomy  man  had  crossed  the  threshold  of  his 
father's  house,  and  silently"  entered  the  apartments  still  set 
apart  for  him.  He  had  arrived  about  an  hour  before  Leonard  ; 
and  as  he  stood  by  the  hearth,  with  his  arms  folded  on  his 
breast,  and  his  eyes  fixed  lead-like  on  the  ground,  his  mother 
came  in  to  welcome  and  embrace  him.  He  checked  her  eager 
inquiries  after  Violante— he  recoiled  from  the  touch  of  her  hand. 

"  Hold,  madam,"  said  he,  startling  her  ear  with  the  cold 
austerity  of  his  tone.  "  I  cannot  heed  your  questions — I  am 
filled  with  the  question  I  must  put  to  yourself.  You  opposed 
my  boyish  love  for  Leonora  Avenel.  I  do  not  blame  you — all 
mothers  of  equal  rank  would  have  done  the  same.  Yet,  had 
you  not  frustrated  all  frank  intercourse  with  her,  I  might  have 
taken  refusal  from  her  own  lips- — survived  that  grief,  and  now 
been  a  happy  man.  Years  since  then  have  rolled  away — rolled 
over  her  quiet  slumbers,  and  my  restless  waking  life.  All  this 
time  were  you  aware  that  Audley  Egerton  had  been  the  lover 
of  Leonora  Avenel  ? " 

"Harley,  Harley  !  do  not  speak  to  me  in  that  cruel  voice — 
do  not  look  at  me  with  those  hard  eyes?" 

"You  knew  it,  then — -you,  my  mother!"  continued  Harley, 
unmoved  by  her  rebuke;  "and  why  did  you  never  say,  'Son, 
you  are  wasting  the  bloom  and  uses  of  your  life  in  sorrowful 

*  "  Hands  armed  with  fangs,  and  lips  forever  pale," 


326  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

fidelity  to  a  lie  ?  You  are  lavishing  trust  and  friendship  on  a 
perfidious  hypocrite  ? ' " 

"  How  could  I  speak  to  you  thus — how  could  I  dare  to  do 
so — seeing  you  still  so  cherished  the  memory  of  that  unhappy 
girl — still  believed  that  she  had  returned  your  affection?  Had 
I  said  to  you  what  I  knew  (but  not  till  after  her  death),  as  to 
her  relations  with  Audley  Egerton — " 

"  Well  ? — you  falter — go  on — had  you  done  so  ? " 

"  Would  you  have  felt  no  desire  for  revenge  ?  Might  there 
not  have  been  strife  between  you — danger — bloodshed  ?  Har- 
ley,  Harley!  Is  not  such  silence  pardonable  in  a  mother?  And 
why  deprive  you  too  of  the  only  friend  you  seemed  to  prize — 
who  alone  had  some  influence  over  you — who  concurred  with 
me  in  the  prayer  and  hope,  that  some  day  you  would  find  a  living 
partner  worthy  to  replace  this  lost  delusion,  arouse  your  facul- 
ties— be  the  ornament  your  youth  promised  to  your  country  ? 
For  you-  wrong  Audley — indeed  you  do !." 

"Wrong  him!  Ah!  let  me  not  do  that.     Proceed." 

"I  do  not  excuse  him  his  rivalship,  nor  his  first  concealment  of 
it.  But  believe  me,  since  then,  his  genuine  remorse,  his  anxious 
tenderness  for  your  welfare,  his  dread  of  losing  your  friendship—" 

"Stop — it  was  doubtless  Audley  Egerton  who  induced  you  to 
conceal  what  you  call  his  'relations '  with  her  whom  I  can  now 
so  calmly  name — Leonora  Avenel?" 

"  It  was  so,  in  truth — and  from  motives  that — " 

"  Enough — let  me  hear  no  more." 

"But  you  will  not  think  too  sternly  of  what  is  past ;  you  are 
about  to  form  new  ties.  You  cannot  be  wild  and  wicked  enough 
to  meditate  what  your  brow  seems  to  threaten.  You  cannot 
dream  of  revenge — risk  Audley's  life  or  your  own  ?" 

"Tut — tut — tut!  What  cause  here  for  duels?  Single  combats 
are  out  of  date — civilized  men  do  not  slay  each  other  with  sword 
and  pistol.  Tut ! — revenge  !  does  it  look  like  revenge,  that  one 
object  which  brings  me  hither  is  to  request  my  father's  permis- 
sion to  charge  myself  with  the  care  of  Audley  Egerton's  election? 
What  he  values  most  in  the  world  is  his  political  position  ;  and 
his  political  existence  is  at  stake.  You  know  that  I  have  had 
through  life  the  character  of  a  weak,  easy,  somewhat  over-gener- 
ous man.  Such  men  are  not  revengeful.  Hold  !  You  lay  your 
hand  on  my  arm — I  know  the  magic  of  that  light  touch,  mother; 
but  its  power  over  me  is  gone.  Countess  of  Lansmere,  hearme! 
Ever  from  infancy  (save  in  that  frantic  passion  for  which  I  now 
despise  myself),  I  have  obeyed  you,  I  trust,  as  a  duteous  son. 
Now,  our  relative  positions  are  somewhat  altered.  I  have  the 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  327 

right  to  exact — I  will  not  say  to  command — the  right  which 
wrong  and  injury  bestow  upon  all  men.  Madam,  the  injured  man 
has  prerogatives  that  rival  those  of  kings.  I  now  call  upon  you  to 
question  me  no  more — not  again  to  breathe  the  name  of  Leonora 
Avenel, unless  I  invite  the  subject;  and  not  to  inform  AudleyEger- 
tonbyahint — by  a  breath — that  I  have  discovered — what  shall  I 
call  it? — his 'pardonable  deceit.'  Promise  me  this,  by  your  affec- 
tion as  mother,  and  on  your  faith  as  gentlewoman — or  I  declare 
solemnly,  that  never  in  life  will  you  look  upon  my  face  again." 

Haughty  and  imperious  though  the  Countess  was  her  spirit 
quailed  before  Harley's  brow  and  voice. 

"Is  this  my  son — this  my  gen  tie  Harley?"  she  said  falteringly. 
"Oh!  put  your  arms  round  my  neck — :let  me  feel  that  I  have  not 
lost  my  child  !  " 

Harley  looked  softened,  but  he  did  not  obey  the  pathetic 
prayer;  nevertheless,  he  held  out  his  hand,[and  turning  away  his 
face  said,  in  a  milder  voice,  "  Have  I  your  promise?" 

"Youhave — you  have;  but  on  condition  that  there  pass  nowords 
between  you  and  Audley  that  can  end  in  but  the  strife  which— " 

"  Strife  !  "  interrupted  Harley.  "  I  repeat  that  the  idea  of 
challenge  and  duel  between  me  and  my  friend  from  our  school- 
days, and  on  a  quarrel  that  we  could  explain  to  no  seconds, 
would  be  a  burlesque  upon  all  that  is  grave  in  the  realities  of 
life  and  feeling.  I  accept  your  promise  and  seal  it  thus — " 

He  pressed  his  lips  to  his  mother's  forehead,  and  passively 
received  her  embrace. 

"Hush,"  he  said,  withdrawing  from  her  arms;  "I  hear  my 
father's  voice." 

Lord  Lansmere  threw  open  the  door  widely,  and  with  a  cer- 
tain consciousness  that  a  door  by  which  an  Earl  of  Lansmere 
entered  ought  to  be  thrown  open  widely.  It  could  not  have  been 
opened  with  more  majesty  if  a  huissier,  or  officer  of  the  House- 
hold, had  stood  on  either  side.  The  Countess  passed  by. her 
lord  with  a  light  step,  and  escaped. 

"  I  was  occupied  with  my  architect  in  designs  for  the  new 
infirmary,  of  which  I  shall  make  a  present  to  our  county.  I  have 
only  just  heard  that  you  were  here,  Harley.  What's  all  this 
about  our  fair  Italian  guest?  Is  she  not  coming  back  to  us? 
Your  mother  refers  me  to  you  for  explanations." 

"You  shall  have  them  later, my  dear  father;  at  present  I  can 
think  only  of  public  affairs." 

"Public  affairs! — they  are  indeed  alarming.  I  am  so  rejoiced 
to  hear  you  express  yourself  so  worthily.  An  awful  crisis,  Har- 
ley! And,  gracious  Heaven!  I  have  heard  that  a  low  man,  who 


32$  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

was  born  in  Lansmere,  but  made  a  fortune  in  America,  is  about 
to  contest  the  borough.  They  tell  me  he  is  one  of  the  Avenels — 
a  born  Blue — is  it  possible  ? " 

"  I  have  come  here  on  that  business.  As  a  peer  you  cannot,  of 
course,  interfere.  But  I  propose,  with  your  leave,  to  go  down 
myself  to  Lansmere,  and  undertake  the  superintendence  of  the 
election.  It  would  be  better,  perhaps,  if  you  were  not  present ; 
*t  would  give  us  more  liberty  of  action." 

"  My  dear  Harley,  shake  hands  ;  anything  you  please.  You 
know  how  I  have  wished  to  see  you  come  forward,  and  take  that 
part  in  life  which  becomes  your  birth." 

"Ah,  you  think  I  have  sadly  wasted  my  existence  hitherto." 

"To  be  frank  with  you,  yes,  Harley,"  said  the  Earl,  with  a 
pride  that  was  noble  in  its  nature,  and  not  without  dignity  in  its 
expression.  "  The  more  we  take  from  our  country,  the  more  we 
owe  her.  From  the  moment  you  came  into  the  world,  as  the  in- 
heritor of  lands  and  honors,  you  were  charged  with  a  trust  for 
the  benefit  of  others,  that  it  degrades  one  of  our  order,  of  gentle- 
men not  to  discharge." 
.  Harley  listened  with  a  sombre  brow,  and  made  no  direct  reply. 

"Indeed,"  resumed  the  Earl,  "I  would  rather  you  were  ab.put 
to  canvass  for  yourself  than  for  your  friend  Egerton.  But  I 
grant  he  is  an  example  that  it  is  never  tpo  late  to  follow.  Why, 
who  that  had  seen  you  both  as  youths,  notwithstanding  Audley 
.had  the  advantage  of  being  some  years  your  senior — .who  could 
have  thought  that  he  was  the  one  to  become  distinguished  and 
eminent— and  you  to  degenerate  into  the  luxurious  idler,  averse 
to  all  trouble  and  careless  of  all  fame?  You,  with  such  advant- 
ages, not  only  of  higher  fortune,  but,  as  every  one  said,  of 
superior  talents — you,  who  had  then  so  much  ambition — so  keen 
a  desire  for  glory,  sleeping  with  Plutarch's  Lives  under  your 
pillow,  and  only,  my  wild. son,  only  too  much  energy.  But  you 
are  a  young  man  still — it  is  not  too  late  to  redeem  the  years  you 
haVe  thrown  away." 

"The  years — are  nothing — mere  dates  in  an  almanac;  but  the 
feelings,  what  can  give  me  back  those? — the  hope,  the  enthu- 
siasm, the-- no  matter !  feelings  do  not  help  men  to  rise  in  the 
world.  Egerton's  feelings  are  not  too  lively.  What  I  might  have 
been,  leave  it  to  me  to  remember — let  us  talk  of  the  example 
you  set  before  me — of  Audley  Egerton," 

"We  must  get  him  in,"  said  the  Earl,  sinking  his  voice  into  a 
whisper.  "It  is  of  more  importance  to  him  than  I  ever  thought 
for.  But  you  know  his  secrets.  Why  did  you  not  coniide  to  me 
frankly  the  state  of  his  affairs?" 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  329 

"His  affairs !  Do  you  mean  that  they  are  seriously  embarrassed? 
This  interests  me  much.  Pray,  speak;  what  do  you  know  ?" 

"  He  has  discharged  the  greater  part  of  his  establishment. 
Thatin  itself  is,  natural  on  quitting  office;  but  still  it  set  people 
talking;  and  it  has  got  wind  that  his  estates  are  not  only 
mortgaged  for  more  than  they  are  worth,  but  that  he  has  been 
living  upon  the  discount  of  bills;  in  short,  he  has  been  too  inti- 
mate with  a  man  whom  we  all  know  by  sight — a  man  who  drives  the 
finest  horses  in  London, andthey  tell  me  (butMa/ 1  cannot  believe) 
lives  in  the  familiar  society  of  the  young  puppies  he  snares  to  per- 
dition. What's  the  man's  name?  Levy,  is  it  not? — yes,  Levy." 
.  "I  have  seen  Levy  with  him,"  said  Harley;  and  a  sinister  joy 
iighted  up  his  falcon  eyes..  "Levy — Levy— it  is  well." 

"I  hear  but  the  gossip  of  the  clubs,"  resumed  the  Earl.  "But 
they  do  say  that  Levy  makes  little  disguise  of  his  power  over  our 
very  distinguished  friend,  and  rather  parades  it  as  a  merit  with  our 
party  (and, indeed, with  all  men— forEgerton  has  personal  friends 
in  every  party),  that  he  keeps  sundry  bills  locked  up  in  his  desk 
until  Egerton  is  once  more  safe  in  Parliament.  Nevertheless  if, 
after  all,. our  friend  were  to  lose  his  election,  and  Levy  were  then  to 
seize  on  his  effects,  and  proclaim  his  ruin — it  would  seriously 
damage,  perhaps  altogether  destroy,  Audley's  political  career." 

"So  I  conclude,"  said  Harley.  "A  Charles  Fox  might  be  a 
gamester,  and  a  William  Pitt  be  a  pauper.  But  Audley  Egerton 
is  not  of  their  giant  stature; — -he  stands  so  high  because  he  stands 
upon  heaps  of  respectable  gold.  Audley  Egerton,  needy  and 
impoverished— out  of  Parliament,  and,  as  the  vulgar  slang  has  it, 
out  at  elbows,  skulking  from  duns,  perhaps  in  the  Bench — " 

"  No,  no — our  party  would  never  allow  that ;  we  would  sub- 
scribe— ":  '.' 

"Worse  than  all,  living  as  the  pensioner  of  the  party  he  as- 
pired to  lead!  You  say  truly.  His  political  prospects  would  be 
blasted.  A  man  whose  reputation  lay  in  his  outward  respecta- 
bility! Why,  people  would  say  that  Audley  Egerton  has  been — 
a. solemn  lie  ;  eh,  my  father  ? " 

"  How  can  you  talk  with  such  coolness  of  your  friend  ?  You 
need  say  nothing  to  interest  me  in  his  election — if  you  mean 
that.  Once  in  Parliament,  he  must  soon  again  be  in  office — and 
learn  to  live  on  his  salary.  You  must  get  him  to  submit  to  me 
the  schedule  of  his  liabilities.  I  have  a  head  for  business,  as 
you  know.  I  will  arrange  his  affairs  for  him.  And  I  will  yet 
bet  five  to  one,  though  I  hate  wagers,  that  he  will  be  prime  minis- 
ter in  three  years.  He  is  not  brilliant,  it  is.  true  ;  but  just  at  this 
crisis  we  want  a  safe,  moderate,  judicious,  conciliatory  man  ;  and 


330  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

Audley  has  so  much  tact,  such  experience  of  the  House,  such 
knowledge  of  the  world,  and,"  added  the  Earl,  emphatically 
summing  up  his  eulogies,  "he  is  so  thorough  a  gentleman  !  " 

•"  A  thorough  gentleman,  as  you  say — the  soul  of  honor  !  But, 
my  dear  father,  it  is  your  hour  for  riding  ;  let  me  not  detain  you. 
It  is  settled,  then;  you  do  not  come  yourself  to  Lansmere. 
You  put  the  house  at  my  disposal,  and  allow  me  to  invite  Eger- 
ton,  of  course,  and  what  other  guests  I  may  please  ;  in  short 
you  leave  all  to  me  ?  " 

"  Certainly  ;  and  if  you  cannot  get  in  your  friend,  who  can  ? 
That  borough,  it  is  an  awkward,  ungrateful  place,  and  has  been 
the  plague  of  my  life.  So  much  as  I  have  spent  there,  too — so 
much  as  I  have  done  to  its  trade."  And  the  Earl,  with  an  in- 
dignant sigh,  left  the  room. 

Harley  seated  himself  deliberately  at  his  writing-table,  lean- 
ing his  face  on  his  hand,  and  looking  abstractedly  into  space 
from  under-knit  and  lowering  brows. 

Harley  L'Estrange  was,  as  we  have  seen,  a  man  singularly 
tenacious  of  affections  and  impressions.  He  was  a  man,  too, 
whose  nature  was  eminently  bold,  loyal,  and  candid  ;  even  the 
apparent  whim  and  levity  which  misled  the  world,  both  as  to 
his  dispositions  and  his  powers,  might  be  half  ascribed  to  that 
open  temper,  which,  in  its  over-contempt  for  all  that  seemed 
to  savor  of  hypocrisy,  sported  with  forms  and  ceremonials,  and 
extracted  humor,  sometimes  extravagant,  sometimes  profound — 
from  "the  solemn  plausibilities  of  the  world."  The  shock  he 
had  now  received  smote  the  very  foundations  of  his  mind,  and, 
overthrowing  all  the  airier  structures  which  fancy  and  wit  had 
built  upon  its  surface,  left  it  clear  as  a  new  world  for  the  oper- 
ations of  the  darker  and  more  fearful  passions.  When  a  man 
of  a  heart  so  loving,  and  a  nature  so  irregularly  powerful  as  Har- 
ley's,  suddenly  and  abruptly  discovers  deceit  where  he  had  most 
confided,  it  is  not  (as  with  the  calmer  pupils  of  that  harsh  teacher 
Experience)  the  mere  withdrawal  of  esteem  and  affection  from 
the  one  offender, — it  is,  that  trust  in  everything  seems  gone, — 
it  is,  that  the  injured  spirit  looks  back  to  the  Past,  and  con- 
demns all  its  kindlier  virtues  as  follies  that  conduced  to  its  own 
woe ;  and  looks  on  to  the  Future  as  to  a  journey  beset  with  smil- 
ing traitors,  whom  it  must  meet  with  an  equal  simulation,  or 
crush  with  a  superior  force.  The  guilt  of  treason  to  men  like 
these  is  incalculable,-— it  robs  the  world  of  all  the  benefits  they 
would  otherwise  have  lavished  as  they  passed, — it  is  responsible 
for  all  the  ill  that  springs  from  the  corruption  of  natures,  whose 
very  luxuriance,  when  the  atmosphere  is  once  tainted,  does  but 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  331 

diffuse  disease  ;  even  as  the  malaria  settles  not  over  thin  and 
barren  soils,  nor  over  wastes  that  have  been  from  all  time  deso- 
late, but  over  the  places  in  which  southern  suns  had  once  ripened 
delightful  gardens,  or  the  sites  of  cities,  in  which  the  pomp  of 
palaces  has  passed  away. 

It  was  not  enough  that  the  friend  of  his  youth,  the  confidant 
of  his  love,  had  betrayed  his  trust — been  the  secret  and  success- 
ful rival ;-— not  enough  that  the  woman  his  boyhood  had  madly 
idolized,  and  all  the  while  he  had  sought  her  traces  with  pining 
remorseful  heart, — believing  she  but  eluded  his  suit  from  the 
emulation  of  a  kindred  generosity, — desiring  rather  to  sacrifice 
her  own  love,  than  to  cost  to  his  the  sacrifice  of  all  which  youth 
rashly  scorns,  and  the  world  so  highly  estimates; — not  enough 
that  all  this  while  her  refuge  had  been  the  bosom  of  another. 
This  was  riot  enough  of  injury.  His  whole  life  had  been  wasted 
on  a  delusion — his  faculties  and  aims, — the  wholesome  ambition 
of  lofty  minds  had  been  arrested  at  the  very  onset  of  fair  exis- 
tence,— his  heart  corroded  by  a  regret  for  which  there  was  no 
cause, — his  conscience  charged  with  the  terror  that  his  wild  chase 
had  urged  a  too  tender  victim  to  the  grave,  over  which  he  had 
mourned.  What  years  that  might  otherwise  have  been  to  him- 
self so  serene,  to  the  world  so  useful,  had  been  consumed  in  ob- 
jectless, barren,  melancholy  dreams  !  And  all  this  while  to  whom 
had  his  complaints  been  uttered  ? — to  the  man  who  knew  that 
his  remorse  was  an  idle  spectre,  and  his  faithful  sorrow  a  mock- 
ing self-deceit.  Every  thought  that  could  gall  man's  natural 
pride,  every  remembrance  that  could  sting  into  revenge  a  heart 
that  had  loved  too  deeply  not  to  be  accessible  to  hate,  conspired 
to  goad  those  maddening  Furies  who  come  into  every  temple 
which  is  once  desecrated  by  the  presence  of  the  evil  passions. 
In  that  sullen  silence  of  the  soul,  vengeance  took  the  form  of 
justice.  Changed  though  his  feelings  toward  Leonora  Avenel 
we«e,  the  story  of  her  grief  and  her  wrongs  embittered  still  more 
his  wrath  against  his  rival.  The  fragments  of  her  memoir  left 
naturally  on  Harley's  mind  the  conviction  that  she  had  been  the 
victim  of  an  infamous  fraud — the  dupe  of  a  false  marriage.  His 
id«l  had  not  only  been  stolen  from  the  altar,  it  had  been  sullied  by 
the  sacrifice, — broken  with  remorseless  hand  and  thrust  into  dis- 
honored clay, — mutilated, — defamed, — its  very  memory  a  thingof 
contempt  to  him  who  had  ravished  it  from  worship.  The  living 
Harley  and  the  dead  Nora,  both  called  aloud  to  their  joint  despoil- 
er,  "Restore  what  thou  hast  taken  from  us,  or  pay  the  forfeit  I" 

Thus,  then,  during  the  interview  between  Helen  and  Leon- 
ard,— thus  Harley  L'Estrange  sat  alone  }  and  as  a  rude,  irregu- 


332  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

lar  lump  of  steel,  when  wheeled  round  into  rapid  motion,  assumes 
the  form  of  the  circle  it  describes,  so  his  iron  purpose,  hurried 
on  by  his  relentless  passion,  filled  the  space  into  which  he  gazed 
with  optical  delusions — scheme  after  scheme  revolving  and  con- 
summating the  circles  that  clasped  a  foe. 

• 
CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  entrance  of  a  servant,  announcing  a  name  which  Harley, 
in  the  absorption  of  his  gloomy  reverie,  did  not  hear,  was  fol- 
lowed by  that  of  a  person  on  whom  he  lifted  his  eyes  in  the  cold 
and  haughty  surprise  with  which  a  man,  much  occupied,  greets 
and  rebukes  the  intrusion  of  an  unwelcome  stranger. 

"  It  is  so  long  since  your  lordship  has  seen  me,"  said  the  visi- 
tor, with  mild  dignity,  "that  I  cannot  wonder  you  do  not  rec- 
ognize my  person,  and  have  forgotten  my  name." 

"Sir,"  answered  Harley,  with  an  impatient  rudeness  ill  in 
harmony  with  the  urbanity  for  which  he  was  usually  distin- 
guished— "sir,  your  person  is  strange  to  me,  and  your  name  I 
did  not  hear ;  but,  at  all  events,  I  am  not  now  at  leisure  to  at- 
tend to  you.  Excuse  my  plainness." 

"Yet  pardon  me  if  I  still  linger.  My  name  is  Dale.  I  was 
formerly  curate  at  Lansmere  ;  and  I  would  speak  to  your  lord- 
ship in  the  name  and  the  memory  of  one  once  dear  to  you — 
Leonora  Avenel." 

'TT  "•/    t  1  \          o-       T  ^  • 

HARLEY  (after  a  short  pause). — Sir,  I  cannot  conjecture  your 
business.  But  be  seated.  I  remember  you  now,  though  years 
have  altered  both  ;  and  I  have  since  heard  much  in  your  favor 
from  .Leonard  Fairfield.  Still,  let  me  pray  that  you  will  be  brief. 

MR.  DALE — May  I  assume  at  once  that  you  have  divined  the 
parentage  of  the  young  man  you  call  Fairfield  ?  When  I  listened 
to  his  grateful  praises  of  your  beneficence,  and  marked  with  mel- 
ancholy pleasure  the  reverence  in  which  he  holds  you,  my  heart 
jwelled  within  me.  I  acknowledge  the  mysterious  force  of  nature. 

HARLEY. — Force  of  nature!     You  talk  in  riddles. 

MR.  DALE  (indignantly).— Oh,  my  lord,  how  can  you  so  dis- 
guise your  better  self?  Surely  in  Leonard  Fairfield  you  have 
long  since  recognized  the  son  of  Nora  Avenel? 

Harley  passed  his  hand  over  hisface.  "Ah  .'"thought  he,  "she 
lived  to  bear  a  son,  then — a  son  to  Egerton  !  Leonard  is  that  son. 
I  should  have  known  him  by  the  likeness— by  the  fond  foolish 
impulse  that  moved  me  to  him,  This  is  why  he  confided  to  me 
these  fearful  memoirs.  He  seeks  his  father — he  shall  find  him." 

MR.  DALE  (mistaking  the  cause  of  Harley's  silence). — I  honor 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  333 

your  compunction,  my  lord.  Oh  !  let  your  heart  and  your  con- 
science continue  to  speak  to  your  worldly  pride. 

HARLKY. — My  compunction,  heart,  conscience  !  Mr.  Dale, 
you  insult  me  ! 

MR.  DALE  (sternly). — Not  so;  I  am  fulfilling  my  mission,  which 
bids  me  rebuke  the  sioner.  Leonora  Avenel  speaks  in  me,  and 
coaimands  the  guilty  father  to  acknowledge  the  innocent  child  ! 

Har.ley  half  rose,  and  his  eyes  literally  flashed  fire  ;  but  he 
calmed  his  anger  into  irony.  "Ha!'.'  said  he,  with  a  sarcastic 
smile,  "  so  you  suppose  that  /was  the  perfidious  seducer  of  Nora 
Avenel — that  /am  the  callous  father  of  the  child  who  came  into 
the  world  without  a  name.  Very  well,  sir,  taking  these  assump- 
tions for  granted,  what  is  it  you  demand  from  .me  on  behalf  of 
this  young  man?" 

"I  ask  from  you  his  happiness,"  replied  Mr.  Dale,  imploringly; 
and  yielding  to  the  compassion  with  which  Leonard  inspired  him, 
and  persuaded  that  Lord  L'  Estrange  felt  a  father's,  love  for  the  boy 
whom  he  had  saved  from  the  whirlpool  of  London,  and  guided 
to  s,afety  and  honorable  independence,  he  here,  with  simple  elo- 
quence, narrated  all  Leonard's  feelings  for  Helen — his  silent 
fidelity  to  her  image,  though  a  child's— his  love  when  he  again  be- 
held her  as  awoman— the  modest  fears  which  the  Parson  himself 
had  combated — the  recommendation  that  Mr.  Dale  had  forced 
upon  him,  to  confess  his  affection  to  Helen,  and  plead  his  cause. 
"Anxious,  as  you  may  believe,  for  his  success,"  continued  the 
Parson,  "I  waited  without  your  gates  till  he  came  from  Miss 
Digby's  presence.  And  oh,  my  lord,  had  you  but  seen  his  face! — 
such  emotion  and  such  despair  !  I  could  not  learn  from  him 
what  had  passed.  He  e'scaped  from  me,  and  rushed  away.  All 
that  I  could  gather  was  from  a  few;  broken  words,  and  from  those 
words  I  formed  the  conjecture  (it  may  be  erroneous)  that  the  ob- 
stacle to  his  happiness .  was  not  in.  Helen's  heart,  my  lord,,  but 
seemed  to  me  as  if  it  were  in  yourself.  Therefore,  when  he,had 
vanished  from  my  sight,  I  took  courage,  and  came  at  once  to  you. 
If  he  be  your  son,  and  Helen  Digby  be  your  ward — she  herself 
an  orphan,  dependent  upon  your  bounty — why  should  they 
be  severed?  Equals  in  years — united  by  early  circumstances — 
congenial,  it  seems,  in  simple  habits  and  refined  tastes — what 
should  hinder  their  union,  unless  it  be  the  want  of  fortune? — 
and  all  men  know  your  wealth — none  evfer  questioned  your  gen- 
erosity. My'  lord,  my  lord,  your  look  freezes  me.  If  I  have  of- 
fended, do  not  vis,it  my  offence  on  him—on  Leonard  ! " 

"  And  so,"  said  Harley,  still  controlling  his  rage,  "so  this  boy—- 
whom, as  you  say,  I  saved  from  that  pitiless  world  which  has  en- 


334  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

gulfed  many  a  nobler  genius — so,  in  return  for  all,  he  has  sought 
to  rob  me  of  the  last  affection,  poor  and  lukewarm  though  it  was, 
that  remained  to  me  in  life.  He  presumed  to  lift  eyes  to  my  af- 
fianced bride  !  He !  And  for  aught  I  know,  steal  from  me  her 
living  heart,  and  leave  to  me  her  icy  hand  ! " 

"Oh,  my  lord,  your  affianced  bride!  I  never  dreamed  of  this. 
I  implore  your  pardon.  The  very  thought  is  so  terrible — so  un- 
natural— the  son  to  woo  the  father's — !  Oh,  what  sin  have  I  fall- 
en into !  The  sin  was  mine-^I  urged  and  persuaded  him  to  it. 
He  was  ignorant  as  myself.  Forgive  him,  forgive  him  ! " 

"  Mr.  Dale,"  said  Harley,  rising,  and  extending  his  hand,  which 
the  poor  Parson  felt  himself  unworthy  to  take — "  Mr.  Dale,  you 
are  a  good  man — if,  indeed,  this  universe  of  liars  contains  some 
man  who  does  not  cheat  our  judgment  when  we  deem  him  hon- 
est. Allow  me  only  to  ask  why  you  consider  Leonard  Fairfield 
to  be  my  son?" 

"Was  not  your  youthful  admiration  for  poor  Nora  evident  to 
me  ?  Remember,  I  was  a  frequent  guest  at  Lansmere  Park;  and 
it  was  so  natural  that  you,  with  all  your  brilliant  gifts,  should  cap- 
tivate her  refined  fancy — her  affectionate  heart." 

"Natural— you  think  so— go  on." 

"Your  mother,  as  became  her,  separated  you.  It  was  not  un- 
known to  me  that  you  still  cherished  a  passion  which  your  rank 
forbade  to  be  lawful.  Poor  girl!  she  left  thereof  of  her  protec- 
tress, Lady  Jane.  Nothing  was  known  of  her  till  she  came  to  her 
father's  house  to  give  birth  to  a  child,  and  die.  And  the  same 
day  that  dawned  on  her  corpse,  you  hurried  from  the  place.  Ah! 
no  doubt  your  conscience  smote  you — you  have  never  returned 
to  Lansmere  since." 

Harley's  breath  heaved — he  waved  his  hand — the  Parson  re- 
sumed— 

"  Whom  could  I  suspect  but  you  ?  I  made  inquiries,  they  con- 
firmed my  suspicions." 

"Perhaps  you  inquired  of  my  friend,  Mr.  Egerton  ?  He  was 
with  me  when — when— as  you  say,  I  hurried  from  the  place." 

"I  did,  my  lord." 

"And  he?" 

"  Denied  your  guilt ;  but  still,  a  man  of  honor  so  nice,  of  heart 
so  feeling,  could  not  feign  readily.  His  denial  did  not  deceive  me." 

"  Honest  man  !  "  said  Harley  ;  and  his  hand  griped  the  breast 
over  which  still  rustled,  as  if  with  a  ghostly  sigh,  the  records  of 
the  dead.  " He  knew  she  had  left  a  son,  too?" 

"He  did,  my  lord  ;  of  course,  I  told  him  that." 

"  The  son  whom  I  found  starving  in  the  streets  of  London ! 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  335 

Mr.  Dale,  as  you  see,  your  words  move  me  very  much.  I  can- 
not deny  that  he  who  wronged,  it  may  be  with  no  common  treach- 
ery, that  young  mother — for  Nora  Avenel  was  not  one  to  be  lightly 
seduced  into  error — " 

"Indeed,  no!" 

"And  who  then  thought  no  more  of  the  offspring  of  her  an- 
guish and  his  own  crime — I  cannot  deny  that  that  man  deserves 
some  chastisement — should  render  some  atonement.  Am  I  not 
right  here  ?  Answer  with  the  plain  speech  which  becomes  your 
sacred  calling." 

"I  cannot  say  otherwise,  my  lord,"  replied  the  Parson,  pity- 
ing what  appeared  to  him  such  remorse.  "But  if  he  repent — " 

"Enough,"  interrupted  Harley,  "I  now  invite  you  to  visit  me 
at  Lansmere ;  give  me  your  address,  and  I  will  apprise  you  of 
the  day  on  which  I  will  request  your. presence.  Leonard  Fair- 
field  shall  find  a  father — I  was  about  to  say,  worthy  of  himself. 
For  the  rest — stay  ;  reseat  yourself.  For  the  rest," — and  again 
the  sinister  smile  broke  from  Harley 's  eye  and  lip — "I  will  not 
yet  say  whether  I  can,  or  ought  to,  resign  to  a  younger  and  fairer 
suitor  the  lady  who  has  accepted  my  own  hand.  1  have  no  rea- 
son yet  to  believe  that  she  prefers  him.  But  what  think  you, 
meanwhile,  of  this  proposal  ?  Mr.  Avenel  wishes  his  nephew  to 
contest  the  borough  of  Lansmere — has  urged  me  to. obtain  the 
young  man's  consent.  True,  that  he  may  thus  endanger  the  seat 
of  Mr.  Audley  Egerton.  What  then  ?  Mr.  Audley  Egerton  is  a 
great  man,  and  may  find  another  seat ;  that  should  not  stand  in 
the  way.  Let  Leonard  obey  his  uncle.  If  he  win  the  election ;  why, 
he'll  be  a  more  equal  match,  in  the  world's  eye,  for  Miss  Digby — 
that  is,  should  she  prefer  him  to  myself ;  and  if  she  do  not,  still, 
in  public  life,  there  is  a  cure  for  all  private  sorrow.  That  is  a 
maxim  of  Mr.  Audley  Egerton's  ;  and  he,  you  know,  is  a  man  not 
only  of  the  nicest  honor,  but  the  deepest  worldly  wisdom.  Do 
you  like  my  proposition  ?" 

"It  seems  to  me  most  considerate — most  generous." 

"  Then  you  shall  take  to  Leonard  the  lines  I  am  about  to  write." 
LORD  L'ESTRANGE  TO  LEONARD  FAIRFIELD. 

"I  have  read  the  memoir  you  intrusted  to  me.  I  will  follow 
up  all  the  clues  that  it  gives  me.  Meanwhile  I  request  you  to 
suspend  all  questions — forbear  all  reference  to  a  subject  which, 
as  you  may  well  conjecture,  is  fraught  with  painful  recollections 
to  myself.  At  this  moment,  too,  I  am  compelled  to  concentre 
my  thoughts  upon  affairs  of  a  public  nature,  and  yet  which  may 
sensibly  affect  yourself.  There  are  reasons  why  I  urge  you  to 
comply  with  your  uncle's  wish,  and  stand  for  the  borough  of 


336  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Lansmere  at  the  approaching  election.  If  the  exquisite  gratitude 
of  your  nature  so  overrates  what  I  may  have  done  for  you,  that 
you  think  you  owe  me  some  obligations,  you  will  richly  repay 
them  on  the  day  in  which  I  hear  you  hailed  as  member  for 
Lansmere.  Relying  on  that  generous  principle  of  self-sacrifice 
which  actuates  all  your  conduct,  I  shall  count  upon  your  sur- 
rendering your  preference  to  private  life,  and  entering  the  arena 
of  that  noble  ambition  which  has  conferred  such  dignity  on  the 
name  of  my  friend  Audley  Egerton.  He,  it  is  true,  will  be  your 
opponent ;  but  he  is  too  generous  not  to  pardon  my  zeal  for  the 
interest  of  a  youth  whose  career  1  am  vain  enough  to  think  that 
I  have  aided.  And  as  Mr.  Randal  Leslie  stands  in  coalition  with 
Egerton,  and  Mr.  Avenel' believes  that  two  candidates  of  the 
same  party  cannot  both  succeed,  the  result  may  'be  to  the  satis- 
faction of  all  the  feelings  which  I  entertain  for  Audley  Egerton, 
and  for  you,  who,  I  have  reason  to  think,  will  emulate  his  titles 
to  my  esteem.  Yours,  L'ESTRANGE." 

"There,  Mr.  Dale,"  said  Harley,  sealing  his  letter,  and  giving 
it  into  the  Parson's  hands.  "  There,  you  shall  deliver  this  note 
to  your  friend.  But  no — upon  second  thoughts,  since  he  does 
not  yet  know  of  your  visit  to  me,  it  is  best  that  he  should  be  still 
in  ignorance  of  it.  For  should  Miss  Digby  resolve  to  abide  by 
her  present  engagement,  it  were  surely  kind  to  save  Leonard  the 
pain  of  learning  that  you  had  communicated  to  me  that  rivalry 
he  himself  had  concealed.  Let  all  that  has  passed  between  us 
be  kept  in  strict  confidence." 

"I  will  obey  you,  my  lord,"  answered  the  Parson,  meekly, 
startled  to  find  that  he,  who  had  come  to  arrogate  authority,  was 
now  submitting  to  commands  ;  and  all  at  fault  what  judgment 
he  could  venture  to  pass  upon  the  man'  whom  he  had  regarded 
as  a  criminal,  who  had  not  even  denied  the  crime  imputed  to 
him,  yet  who  now  impressed  the  accusing  priest  with  something 
of  that  respect  which  Mr.  Dale  had  never  before  conceded  but 
to  Virtue.  Could  he  have  then  but  looked  into  the  dark  and 
st6rmy' heart,  which  he  twice  misread  ! 

"It  is  we'll— very  well,"  muttered  Harley,  when  the  door  had 
closed  upon  the  Parson.  "  The  viper  and  the  viper's  brood!  So 
it  was  this  man's  sOn  that  I  led  from  the  dire  Slough  of  Despond; 
and  the  son  unconsciously  imitates  the  father's  gratitude  and 
honor— Ha— ha  !"  Suddenly  the  bitter  laugh  was  arrested;  a 
flash  of  almost  celestial  joy  darted  through  the  Warring  elements 
of  storm  and  darkness.  If  Helen  returned  Leonard's  affection, 
Harley  L'Estrange  was  free!  And  through  that  flash  the  faceof 
Violante  shone  upon  him  as  an  angel's.  But  the  heavenly  light 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  337 

and  the  angel  face  vanished  abruptly,  swallowed  up  in  the  black 
abyss  of  the  rent  and  tortured  soul. 

"  Fool ! "  said  the  unhappy  man,  aloud,  in  his  anguish — "  fool! 
what  then  ?  Were  I  free,  would  it  be  to  trust  my  fate  again  to 
falsehood?  If,  in  all  the  bloom  and  glory  of  my  youth,  I  failed 
to  win  the  heart  of  a  village  girl— if,  once  more  deluding  my- 
self, it  is  in  vain  that  I  have  tended,  reared,  cherished,  some 
germ  of  woman's  human  affection  in  the  orphan  I  saved  from 
penury — how  look  for  love  in  the  brilliant  princess,  whom  all  the 
sleek  Lotharios  of  our  gaudy  world  will  surround  with  their 
homage  when  once  she  alightson  th«ir  sphere!  If  perfidy  be  my 
fate— what  hell  of  hells  in  the  thought  ?— that  a  wife  might  lay  her 
head  in  my  bosom — and — oh,  horror!  horror! — No!— I  would  not 
accept  her  hand  were  it  offered,  nor  believe  in  her  love  were  it 
pledged  to  me.  Stern  soul  of  mine — wise  at  last,love  never  more — 
never  more  believe  in  truth  !  " 
• 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

As  Harley  quitted  the  room,  Helen's  pale,  "sweet  face  looked 
forth  from  a  door  in  the  same  corridor.  She  advanced  toward 
him  timidly. 

"May  I  speak  with  you?"  she  said,  in  almost  inaudible  ac- 
cents. "  I  have  been  listening  for  your  footstep." 

Harley  looked  at  her  steadfastly.  Then,  without  a  word,  he 
followed  her  into  the  room  she  had  left,  and  closed  the  door. 

"I  too,"  said  he,  "meant  to  seek  an  interview  with  yourself — 
but  later.  You  would  speak  to  me,  Helen — say  on.— Ah!  child, 
what  mean  you  ?  Why  this  ?  " — for  Helen  was  kneeling  at  his  feet. 

"Let  me  kneel,"  she  said,  resisting  the  hand  that  sought  to 
raise  her.  "  Let  me  kneel  till  I  have  explained  all,  and  perhaps 
won  your  pardon.  You  said  something  the  other  evening.  It  has 
weighed  on  my  heart  and  my  conscience  ever  since.  You  said, 
'that  I  should  have  no  secret  from  you;  for  that,  in  our  relation 
to  each  other,  would  be  deceit.'  I  have  had  a  secret;  but,  oh, 
believe  me!  it  was  long  ere  it  was  clearly  visible  to  myself.  You 
honored  me  with  a  suit  so  far  beyond  my  birth,  my  merits.  You 
said  that  I  might  console  and  comfort  you.  At  those  words,  what 
answer  could  I  give  ? — I,  who  owe  you  so  much  more  than  a 
daughter's  duty?  And  I  thought  that  my  affections  were  free- — 
that  they  would  obey  that  duty.  But — -but — but — "  continued 
Helen,  bowing  her  head  still  lowlier,- arid  in  a  voice  far  fainter — <• 
"I  deceived  myself.  I  again  saw  him  who  has  been  all  in  the 
world  to  rife,  when  the  world  was  so  terrible— and  then — and 
then— I  trembled.  I  was  terrified  at  my  own  memories — my  own 


338  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

thoughts.  Still  I  struggled  to  banish  the  past — resolutely — firmly. 
Oh,  you  believe  me,  do  you  not  ?  And  I  hoped  to  conquer.  Yet 
ever  since  those  words  of  yours,  I  felt  that  I  ought  to  tell  you 
even  of  the  struggle.  This  is  the  first  time  we  have  met  since 
you  spoke  them.  And  now — now — I  have  seen  him  again,  and 
— and — though  not  by  a  word  could  she  you  had  deigned  to  woo 
as  your  bride  encourage  hope  in  another — though  there — there 
where  you  now  stand — he  bade  me  farewell,  and  we  parted  as 
for  ever; — yet — yet — O  Lord  L'Estrange!  in  return  for  your 
rank,  wealth,  your  still  nobler  gifts  of  nature — what  should  I 
bring? — something  more  than  gratitude,  esteem,  reverence — at 
least  an  undivided  heart,  filled  with  your  image,  and  yours  alone. 
And  this  I  cannot  give.  Pardon  me  not  for  what  I  say  now,  but  for 
not  saying  it  before.  Pardon  me — O  my  benefactor,  pardon  me!  " 

"  Rise,  Helen,"  said  Harley,  with  relaxing  brow,  though  still 
unwilling  to  yield  to  one  softer  and  holier  emotion.  "  Rise  !  " 
And  he  lifted  her  up,  and  drew  her  toward  the  light.  "  Let  me 
look  at  your  face.  There  seems  no  guile  here.  These  tears  are 
surely  honest.  If  I  cannot  be  loved,  it  is  my  fate,  and  not  your 
crime.  Now,  listen  tome.  If  you  grant  me  nothing  else,  will  you 
give  me  the  obedience  which  the  ward  owes  to  the  guardian, — 
the  child  to  the  parent  ?  " 

"Yes — oh  yes  !  "  murmured  Helen. 

"  Then  while  I  release  you  from  all  troth  to  me,  I  claim  the 
right  to  refuse,  if  I  so  please  it,  my  assent  to  the  suit  of — of  the 
person  you  prefer.  I  acquit  you  of  deceit,  but  I  reserve  to  my- 
self the  judgment  I  shall  pass  on  him.  Until  I  myself  sanction 
that  suit,  will  you  promise  not  to  recall  in  any  way  the  rejection 
which,  if  I  understand  you  rightly,  you  have  given  to  it?" 

"  I  promise." 

"  And  if  I  say  to  you, '  Helen,  this  man  is  not  worthy  of  you — '  " 

"  No,  no  !  do  not  say  that— I  could  not  believe  you." 

Harley  frowned,  but  resumed  calmly — "  If,  then,  I  say,  '  Ask 
me  not  wherefore,  but  I  forbid  you  to  be  the  wife  of  Leonard 
Fairfield,'  what  would  be  your  answer  ?  " 

"  Ah,  my  lord,  if  you  can  but  comfort  him,  do  with  me  as  you 
will;  but  do  not  command  me  to  break  his  heart." 

"Oh,  silly  child,"  cried  Harley,  laughing  scornfully,  "hearts 
are  not  found  in  the  race  from  which  that  man  sprang.  But  I 
take  your  promise  with  its  credulous  condition.  Helen,  I  pity  you. 
I  have  been  as  weak  as  you,  bearded  man  though  I  be.  Some 
day  or  other,  you  and  I  may  live  to  laugh  at  the  follies  at  which  you 
weep  now.  I  can  give  you  no  other  comfort,  for  I  know  of  none." 

He  moved  to  the  door,  and  paused  at  the  threshold,  "I  shall 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  339 

not  see  you  again  for  some  days,  Helen.  Perhaps  I  may  request 
my  mother  to  join  me  at  Lansmere;  if  so,  I  shall  pray  you  to 
accompany  her.  For  the  present,  let  all  believe  that  our  posi- 
tion is  unchanged.  The  time  will  soon  come  when  I  may — " 

Helen  looked  up  wistfully  through  her  tears. 

"  I  may  release  you  from  all  duties  to  me,"  continued  Harley, 
with  grave  and  severe  coldness;  "  or  I  may  claim  your  promise 
in  spite  of  the  condition;  for  your  lover's  heart  will  not  be 
broken.  Adieu !  " 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

As  Harley  entered  London,  he  came  suddenly  upon  Randal 
Leslie,  who  was  hurrying  from  Eaton  Square,  having  not  only 
accompanied  Mr.  Avenel  in  his  walk,  but  gone  home  with  him, 
and  spent  half  the  day  in  that  gentleman's  society.  He  was  now 
on  his  way  to  the  House  of  Commons,  at  which  some  disclosure 
as  to  the  day  for  the  dissolution  of  Parliament  was  expected. 

"Lord  L'Estrange,"said  Randal,"!  must  stop  you.  I  have  been 
to  Norwood,  and  seen  our  noble  friend.  He  has  confided  to  me,  of 
course,  all  that  passed.  How  can  I  express  my  gratitude  to  you  ! 
By  what  rare  talent — with  what  signal  courage— you  have  saved 
the  happiness — perhaps  even  the  honor — of  my  plighted  bride  !" 

"  Your  bride!  The  Duke,  then,  still  holds  to  the  promise  you 
were  fortunate  enough  to  obtain  from  Dr.  Riccabocca  ?  " 

"  He  confirms  that  promise  more  solemnly  than  ever.  You 
may  well  be  surprised  at  his  magnanimity." 

"No;  he  is  a  philosopher — nothing  in  him  can  surprise  me. 
But  he  seemed  to  think,  when  I  saw  him,  that  there  were  cir- 
cumstances you  might  find  it  hard  to  explain." 

"  Hard!  nothing  so  easy.  Allow  me  to  tender  to  you  the  same 
explanations  which  satisfied  one  whom  philosophy  itself  has 
made  as  open  to  truth  as  he  is  clear-sighted  to  imposture." 

"Another  time,  Mr.  Leslie.  If  your  bride's  father  be  satisfied, 
what  right  Jiave  I  to  doubt  ?  By  the  way,  you  stand  for  Lans- 
mere. Do  me  the  favor  to  fix  your  quarters  at  the  Park  during 
the  election.  You  will,  of  course,  accompany  Mr.  Egerton." 

"You  are  most  kind,"  answered  Randal,  greatly  surprised. 

"  You  accept  ?  That  is  well.  We  shall  then  have  ample  op- 
portunity for  those  explanations  which  you  honor  me  by  offering; 
and,  to  make  your  visit  still  more  agreeable,  I  may,  perhaps,  in- 
duce our  friends  at  Norwood  to  meet  you.  Good  day." 

Harley,  walked  on,  leaving  Randal  motionless  in  amaze,  but 
tormented  with  suspicion.  What  could  such  courtesies  in  Lord 
L'Estrange  portend  ?  Surely  no  good. 


340  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

"I  am  abo^t  to  hold  the  balance  of  justice,"  said  Harley  to 
himself.-r-",  I  will  cast  the  light-weight  of  that  knave  into  the  scale. 
Violante  never  can  be  mine  ;  but  I  did  not  save  her  from  a  Pes- 
chiera  to  leave  her  to  a  Randal  Leslie,  Ha,  ha!  AudleyEgerton 
has  some  human  feeling — tenderness  for  that  youth  whom  he  has 
selected  from  the  world  in  which  he  left  Nora's  child  to the  jaws 
of  Famine.  Through  that  side  I  can  reach  at  his  heart,  and  prove 
himafoollike  myself,  where  he  esteemed  and  confided  !  Good." 

Thus  soliloquizing,  Lord  L'Eslrange  gained  the  corner  of  Bru- 
ton  Street,  when  he  was  again  somewhat  abruptly  accosted. 

"  My  dear  Lord  L'Estrange,  Ifet  me'  shake  you  by  the  hand  ; 
for  Heaven  knows  when  .  I  may  see  you  again  ;  and  you  have 
suffered  me  to  assist  in.  one  good  action." 

"Frank  Hazeldean,  I  am  pleased  indeed  to  meet  you.  Why 
do  you  indulge  in  that  melancholy  doubt  as  to  the  time  when  I 
may  see  you  again?" 

I  have  just  got  leave  of  absence.     I  am  not  well,  and  I  am 
rather  hipped,  so  I  shall  go  abroad  for  a  few  weeks." 

In  spite  of  himself,  the  sombre  brooding  pi  an  felt  interest  and 
sympathy  in  the  dejection  that  was  evident  in  Frank's  voice  and 
countenance.  "Another  dupe  to  affection,"  thought  he,  as  if  in 
apology  tohimselfi;— '"of  course,  a  dupe;,  he  ishonestandartless — 
at  present."  He  pressed  kindly  on  the  arm  which  he  had  invol- 
untarily twined  within  his  own.  "I  conceive  how  you  now  grieve, 
my  young  friend,"  said  he  ;  "but  you  will  congratulate  yourself 
hereafter  on  what  this  day  seems  ^o  you  an  affliction." 

"  My  dear  lord — " 

"I  am  much  older  than  you,  but  not  old  enough  for  such  formal 
ceremony.  Pray,  call  me  L'Estrange." 

"  Thank  you  5  and  I  should  indeed  like  to  speak  to  you  as  a 
friend.— There  is  a  thought  on  my  mind  which  haunts  me.  I 
daresay  it  is  foolish  enough,  but  I  am  sure^w/  will  not  laugh  at 
me.  You  heard  what  Madame  di  Negra  said  to  me  last  night.  I 
have  been  trifled  with  and  misled,  but  I  cannot  forget  so  soon 
how  dear  to  me  that  woman  was.  I  .am  not  going  to  bore  you 
with  such  nonsense  ;  but  from  what  I  can  understand,  her  brother 
is  likely  to  lose  all  his  fortune;  and,  even  if  not,  he  is  a  sad  scoun- 
drel. I  cannot  bear  the  thought  that  she  should  be  so  dependent 
on  him — that  she  may.  come  to  want. — After  all,  there  must  be 
good  in  her — good  in  her  to  refuse  my  hand  if  she  did  not  love  me. 
A  mercenary  woman  so  circumstanced  woulfl  not  have  done  that." 

"You  are  quite  right.  But  do  not  torment  yourself  with  such 
generous  fears.  Madame  di  Negra  shall  not  come  to  want — shall 
not  be  dependent  on  her  infamous  brother.  The  first  act  of  the 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  341 

Duke  of  Serrano,  on  regaining  his  estates,  will  be  a  suitable 
provision  for  his  kinswoman.  I  will  answer  for  this." 

"  You  take  a  load  off  my  mind.  I  did  not  mean  to  ask  you.to 
intercede  with  Riccabocca — that  is,  the  Duke  (it  is  so  hard  to 
think  he  can  be  a  Duke  !)  I,  alas  !  have  nothing  in  my  power  to 
bestow  upon  Madame  di  Negra.  I  may  indeed,  sell  my  commis- 
sion ;  but  then  I  have  a  debt  which  I  long  to  pay  off,  and  the 
sale  of  the  commission  would  not  suffice  even  for  that ;  and 
perhaps.my  father  might  be  still  more  angry  if  I  dp  sell  it.  Well, 
good-bye.  I  shall  now  go  away  happy — that  is,  comparatively. 
One  must  bear  things  like — a  man  !  " 

"  I  should  like,  however,  to  see  you  again  before  you  go  abroad. 
I  will  call  on. you.  Meanwhile,  can  you  tell  me  the  number  of 
one  Baron  Levy?  He  lives  in  this  street,  I  know  !'" 

"Levy!  Oh,  have  no  dealings  with  him,  I  advise — I  entreat 
you!  He  is  the  most  plausible,  dangerous  rascal,  and,  for 
Heaven's  sake  !  pray  be  warned  by  me,  and  let  nothing  entangle 
you  into — a  POST-OBIT  !  " 

"Be  reassured,  I  am  more  accustomed  to  lend  money  than 
borrow  it;  and,  as  to  a  post-obit,  I  have  a  foolish  prejudice 
against  such  transactions." 

"Don't  call  it  foolish,  L'Estrange;  I  honor  you  for  it.  Howl 
wish  I  had  known  you  earlier— -so  few  men  of  the  world  are  like 
you.  Even  Randal  Leslie,  who  is  so  faultless  in  most  things,  and 
never  gets  into  a  scrape  himself,  called  my  own  scruples  foolish. 
Howeyer — " 

"  Stay — Randal  Leslie  !  What !  He  advised  you  to  borrow 
on  a  post-obit,  and  probably  shared  the  loan  with  you  ?  " 

"  Oh  no  ;  not  a  shilling." 

"Tell .me  all  about  it,  Frank..  Perhaps,  as  I  see  that  Levy  is 
mixed  up  in  the  affair,  your  information  may  be  useful  to  myself, 
andputmeonmy  guard  in  dealing  with  that  popular  gentleman." 

Frank,  who  somehow  or  other  felt  himself  quite  at  home  with 
Harley,  and  who,  with-  all  his  respect  for  Randal  Leslie's  talents, 
had  a  vague  notion  that  Lord  L'Estrange  was  quite  as  clever, 
and,  from  his  years  and  experience,  likely  to  be  a  safer  and  more 
judicious  counsellor,  was  noways  loath  to  impart  the  confidence 
thus  pressed  for. 

He  told  Harley  of  his  debts— his  first  dealings  with  Levy— 
the  un.happy  post-obit  into  which  he  had  been  hurried  by  the  dis- 
tress of  Madame  di  Negra;  his  father's  anger — his  mother's 
letters — his  own  feelings  of  mingled  shame  and  pride,  which 
made  him  fear  that  repentance  would  but  seem  self-interest — 
his  desire  to  sell  his  commission,  and  let  its  sale  redeem  in  part 


342  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

the  post-obit y  in  short,  he  made  what  is  called  a  clean  breast  of 
it.  Randal  Leslie  was  necessarily  mixed  up  with  this  recital; 
and  the  subtle  cross-questionings  of  Harley  extracted  far  more 
as  to  that  young  diplomatist's  agency  in  all  these  melancholy 
concerns,  than  the  ingenuous  narrator  himself  was  aware  of. 

"  So  then,"  said  Harley,  "  Mr.  Leslie  assured  you  of  Madame 
di  Negra's  affection,  when  you  yourself  doubted  of  it?" 

"Yes;  she  took  him  in,  even  more  than  she  did  me." 

"Simple  Mr.  Leslie  !  And  the  same  kind  friend — who  is 
related  to  you — did  you  say  ? " 

"His  grandmother  was  a  Hazeldean." 

"  Humph  !  The  same  kind  relation  led  you  to  believe  that  you 
could  pay  off  the  bond  with  the  Marchesa's  portion,  and  that  he 
could  obtain  the  consent  of  your  parents  to  your  marriage  with 
that  lady  ? " 

"  I  ought  to  have  known  better;  my  father's  prejudices  against 
foreigners  and  Papists  are  so  strong." 

"And  now  Mr.  Leslie  concurs  with  you,  that  it  is  best  for  you 
to  go  abroad,  and  trust  to  his  intercession  with  your  father.'  He 
has  evidently,  then,  gained  a  great  influence  over  Mr.  Hazeldean." 

"My  father  naturally  compares  me  with  him; — he  so  clever,  so 
promising,so  regular  in  his  habits,and  I  such  a  reckless  scapegrace. " 

"And  the  bulk  of  your  father's  property  is  unentailed — Mr. 
Haieldean  might  disinherit  you?" 

"I  deserve  it.     I  hope  he  will." 

"  You  have  no  brothers  nor  sisters — no  relation,  perhaps,  after 
your  parents,  nearer  to  you  than  your  excellent  friend  Mr.  Ran- 
dal Leslie  ? " 

"  No;  that  is  the  reason  he  is  so  kind  to  me,  otherwise  I  am  the 
last  person  to  suit  him.  You  have  no  idea  how  well-informed  and 
clever  he  is,"  added  Frank,  in  a  tone  between  admiration  and  awe. 

"  My  dear  Hazeldean,  you  will  take  my  advice — will  you  not  ?" 

"Certainly.     You  are  too  good." 

"Let  all  your  family,  Mr.  Leslie  included,  suppose  you  to  be 
gone  abroad;  but  stay  quietly  in  England,  and  within  a  day's 
journey  of  Lansmere  Park.  I  am  obliged  to  go  thither  for  the 
approaching  election.  I  may  ask  you  to  come  over.  I  think 
I  see  a  way  to  serve  you;  and  if  so,  you  will  soon  hear  from  me. 
Now,  Baron  Levy's  number?" 

"  That  is  the  house  with  the  cabriolet  at  the  door.  How  such 
a  fellow  can  have  such  a  horse !- — 'tis  out  of  all  keeping  !  " 

"Not  at  all;  horses  are  high-spirited,  generous,  unsuspicious 
animals.  They  never  know  if  it  is  a  rogue  who  drives  them.  I 
have  your  promise,  then,  and  you  will  send  me  your  address?" 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  343 

"  I  will.  Strange  that  I  feel  more  confidence  in  you  than  I 
do  even  in  Randal !  Do  take  care  of  Levy." 

Lord  L'Estrange  and  Frank  here  shook  hands,  and  Frank, 
with  an  anxious  groan,  saw  L'Estrange  disappear  within  the 
portals  of  the  sleek  destroyer, 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

LORD  L'ESTRANGE  followed  the  spruce  servant  into  Baron 
Levy's  luxurious  study. 

The  Baron  looked  greatly  amazed  at  his  unexpected  visitor; 
but  he  got  up — handed  a  chair  to  my  lord  with  a  low  bow. 
"  This  is  an  honor,"  said  he. 

"You  have  a  charming  abode  here,"  said. Lord  L'Estrange, 
looking  round.  "  Very  fine  bronzes — excellent  taste.  Your  re- 
ception-rooms above  are,  doubtless,  a  model  to  all  decorators !" 

"  Would  your  lordship  condescend  to  see  them  ? "  said 
Levy,  wondering,  but  flattered. 

"  With  the  greatest  pleasure!" 

"  Lights  ! "  cried  Levy,  to  the  servant  who  answered  his  bell. 
"  Lights  in  the  drawing-rooms — it  is  growing  dark." 

Lord  L'Estrange  followed  the  usurer  up-stairs;  admired  every- 
thing— pictures,  draperies,  Sevres  china,  to  the  very  shape  of 
the  downy  fauteuils,  to  the  very  pattern  of  the  Tournay  carpets. 
Reclining  then  on  one  of  the  voluptuous  sofas,  Lord  L  Estrange 
said,  smilingly,  "You  are  a  wise  man;  there  is  no  advantage  in 
being  rich,  unless  one  enjoys  one's  riches." 

"  My  own  maxim,  Lord  L'Estrange." 

"  And  it  is  something,  too,  to  have  a  taste  for  good  society. 
Small  pride  would  you  have,  my  dear  Baron,  in  these  rooms, 
luxurious  though  they  are,  if  filled  with  guests  of  vulgar  exterior 
and  plebeian  manners.  It  is  only  in  the  world  in  which  we  move 
that  we  find  persons  who  harmonize,  as  it  were,  with  the  porcelain 
of  Sevres,  and  these  sofas  that  might  have  come  from  Versailles." 

"  I  own,"  said  Levy>  "  that  I  have  what  some  may  call  a  weakness 
in  a  parvenu  like  myself.  I  have  a  love  for  the  beau  monde.  It  is 
indeed  a  pleasure  to  me  when  I  receive  men  like  your  lordship." 

"But  why  call  yourself  a  parvenu?  Though  you  are  con- 
tented to  honor  the  name  of  Levy,  we,  in  society,  all  know  that 
you  are  the  son  of  a  long-descended  English  peer.  Child  of 
love,  it  is  true;  but  the  graces  smile  on  those  over  whose  birth 
Venus  presided.  Pardon  my  old-fashioned  mythological  similes — 
they  go  so  well  with  these  rooms — Louis  Quinze" 

*'  Since  you  touch  on  my  birth,"  said  Levy,  his  color  rather 


344  MY  NOVEL  ;  6R, 

heightening,  not  with  shame,  but  with  pride,  "I  don't  deny  that 
it  has  had  some  effect  on  my  habits  and  tastes  in  life.  In  fact — " 

"  In  fact,  own  that  you  would  be  a  miserable  nian,  in  spite  of 
all  your  wealth,  if  the  young  dandies,  who  throng  to  your  ban- 
quets, were  to  cut  you  dead  in  the  streets;— if,  when  your  higto- 
stepping  horse  stopped  at  your  club,  the  porter  shut  the  door  in 
your  face; — if,  when  you  lounged  into  the  opera-pit,  handsome 
dog  that  you  are,  each  spendthrift  rake  in  '  Fop's  Alley,'  who 
now  waits  bat  the  scratch  of  "your  pen  to  endorse  billet-doux 
with  the  charms  that  can  chain  to  himself  for  a  month  some 
nymph  of  the  Ballet,  spinning  round  in  a  whirlwind  of  tulle, — 
would  shrink  from  the  touch  of  your  condescending  forefinger 
with  more  dread  of  its  contact  than  a  bailiff's  tap  in  the  thick 
of  Pall  Mall  could  ^inspire; — if,  reduced  to  the  company  of  city 
clerks,  parasite  led-captain*- — " 

"  Oh,  don't  go  on,  my  dear  lord,"  cried  Levy,  laughing  affect- 
edly. "Impossible  though  the  picture  be, it  is  really  appalling. 
Cut  me  off  from  May  Fair  and  St.  James's,  and  I  should  go  into 
my  strong  closet  and  hang  myself/' 

"  And  yet,  my  dear  Baron,  all  this  may  happen  if  I  have  the 
whim  just  to  try; — all  this  will- ;  happen, ;  unless,  ere  I  leave  your 
house,  you  concede  the  conditions  I  come  here  to  impose." 

"  My  lord  !  "  exclaimed  Levy,  starting!  up,  and  pulling  do\vn 
bis  waistcoat  with  nervous  passionate  fingers,  "if  you  were  not 
under  my  own  roof,  I  would — "•  v  a;ij  to  ono  rr 

"  Truce  with. mock  heroics.  Sit  down,  sir— sit  down.  I  will 
briefly  state  my  threat— more  briefly  my  conditions.  You.  will 
be  scarcely  more  prolix  in  your  reply.  Your  fortune  I  cannot 
touch — your  enjoyment  of  it  I  can  destroy.  Refase  my  con- 
ditions— make  me  your  enemy^-and  war  to  :the  knife  !  I  will 
interrogate  all  the  young  dupes  you  have  ruined.  I  will  learn 
the  history  of  all  the  transactions  by  .which  you  have  gained  the 
wealth  that 'it  pleases  you  to.  spend  in  courting  the  society  and 
sharing  the  vices  of  men  who— go  with  these  rooms,  Louis  Quinze! 
Not  a  roguery  of  yours  shall  escape  me,  down  even  to  your 'last 
notable  connivance  with  an  Italian,  reprobate  for  the  criminal 
abduction  of  an  heiress.  All  these  particulars  I  will  proclaim 
in  the  clubs  to  which  you  have  gained  admittance — in  ehrery 
club  in  London  which  you  yet  hope  to  creep  into.  Alhthese  I 
will-impart  to  some  such  authori-ty  in  the  Press  as  Mr.  Henry 
Norreys;— all  these! will,  upon  the  voucher  of  my  own  name, 
have  so  published  in  some  journals  of  repute  that  you  must 
either  tacitly  submit  to  the  revelations  that  blast  you,  or  bring 
before  a  court  of  law-actions  that  will  convert  accusations  into 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE. 

evidence.  It  is  but  by  sufferance  that  you  are  now  in  society — - 
you  are  excluded  when  one  man  like  me  comes  forth  to  denounce 
you.  You  try  in  vain  to  sneer  at  my  menace — your  white  lips 
show  your  terror.  1  have  rarely  in  life  drawn  any  advantage 
from  my  rank  and 'position  ;  but  I  am  thankful  that  they  give 
me, the  power  to  make  my  voice  respected  and  my  exposure 
triumphant.  Now,  Baron  Levy,  will  you  go  into  your  strong  closet 
and  hang  yourself,  or  will  you  grant  me  my  very  moderate  condi- 
tions ?  You  are  silent.  I  will  relieve  you,  and  state  those  condi- 
tions. Until  the  general  election,  about  to  take  place, is  concluded, 
you  will  obey  me  to  the  letter  in  all  that  I  enjoin— no  demur,  and 
no  scruple.  And  the  first  proof  of  obediehce  I  demand  is,  your 
candid  disclosure  of ''all  Mr.  Audley  Egerton'specuniary  affairs." 

^Has  my  client  Mr.  Egerton  authorized  you  to  request  of  me 
(hat  disclosure?" 

"  On  the  contrary,  all  that  p&sses  between  us  you  will  conceal 
from  your  client."  - 

"You  would  save  him  from  ruin?  Your  trusty  friend,  Mr;, 
Egerton  !" 'said  the  Baron,  with  a  livid  sneer. 

"Wrong  again,  Baron  Levy.     If  I  would  save  him  from  ruin, 


your  business-room."* 

Levy  said  not  a  word  until  he  had  rectonducted  his  visitor  into 
his  den  of  destruction — all  gleaming  with  spotiaria  in  rosewood. 
Then  he  said  this  :  "If,  Lord L'Estrange,  you  seek  but  revenge 
on  Audley  Egerton,  you  need  not  have  uttered  those  threats,  I 
too — hate  th:e  man."  " 

'Harley  looked  at  him  wistfully,  and  the  nobleman  felt  a  pang 
that  he  had  debased  himself  in  to  a  single  feeling  which  the  usurer 
could  share.  Nevertheless  the  interview  appeared  to  close  with 
Satisfactory  arrangements,  and  to  produce  amicable  understandi- 
ing.  For,  as  the  Baron  ceremoniously  followed  Lord  L'Estrange 
through  the  hall,  his  noble  visitor  said,  with  marked  affability — 

"  Then  I  shall  see  you  at  Larisfnere  with  Mr.  Egerton,  to  assist 
in  conductinghis  election.  It  is  a  sacrifice  of  your  time  worthy 
of  your  friendship  ;  not  a  step  farther,  I  beg.  Baron,  I  have 
the  honor  to  wish  you  good-evening." 

As  the  street- dbor  opened  on  Lord  L'Estrange,  he  again  found 
himself  face  to  face  with  Randal  Leslie,  whose  hand  was  already 
lifted  to  the  knocker.  * 

"  Ha,  Mr.  Leslie  ! — you  too  a  client  of  Baron  Levy's  ;- 
useful,:  accommodating  man."  a 


34^6  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Randal  stared  and  stammered, — "  I  come  in  haste  from  the 
House  of  Commons  on  Mr.  Egerton's  business.  Don't  you  hear 
the  newspaper  venders  crying  out  '  Great  news — Dissolution 
of  Parliament  ? ' ' 

"  We  are  prepared.  Levy  himself  consents  to  give  us  the  aid 
of  his  talents.  Kindly,  obliging — clever  person  !  " 

Randal  hurried  into  Levy's  study,  to  which  the  usurer  had 
shrunk  back,  and  was  now  wiping  his  brow  with  his  scented 
handkerchief,  looking  heated  and  haggard,  and  very  indifferent 
to  Randal  Leslie. 

"  How  is  this  ?  ",'cried  Randal.  "  I  come  to  tell  you  first  of 
Peschiera's  utter  failure,  the  ridiculous  coxcomb,  and  I  meet  at 
your  door  the  last  man  I  thought  to  find  there — the  man  who 
foiled  us  all,  Lord  L'Estrange.  What  brought  him  to  you  ?  Ah, 
perhaps  his  interest  in  Egerton's  election  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Levy,  sulkily.  "I  know  all  about  Peschiera.  I 
cannot  talk  to  you  now  ;  I  must  make  arrangements  for  going  to 
Lansmere."  Snirr 

"  But  don't  forget  my  purchase  from  Thornhill.  I  shall  have 
the  money  shortly  from  a  surer  source  than  Peschiera." 

"The  Squire?" 

"Or  a  rich  father-in-law." 

In  the  meanwhile,  as  Lord  L'Estrange  entered  Bond  Street, 
his  ears  were  stunned  by  vociferous  cries  from  the  Stentors  em- 
ployed by  Standard,  Sun,  and  Globe — "Great  news — Dissolution 
of  Parliament — Great  news  ! "  The  gas-lamps  were  lighted — a 
brown  fog  was  gathering  over  the  streets,  blending  itself  with 
the  falling  shades  of  niglH.  The  forms  of  men  loomed  large 
through  the  mist.  The  lights  from  the  shops  looked  red  and  lurid. 
Loungers  usually  careless  as  to  politics,  were  talking  eagerly  and 
anxiously  of  King,  Lords,  Commons,  "  Constitution  at  stake"— 
"Triumph  of  liberal  opinions," — according  to  their  several  biases. 
Hearing,  and  scorning — unsocial,  isolated — walked  on  Harley 
L'Estrange.  With  his  direr  passions  had  been  roused  up  all  the  na- 
tive powers  that  made  them  doubly  dangerous.  He  became  proud- 
ly conscious  of  his  own  great  faculties,  but  exulted  in  them  only  so 
far  as  they  could  minister  to  the  purpose  which  had  invoked  them. 

"I  have  constituted  myself  a  Fate,"  he  said  inly ;  "let  the 
gods  be  but  neutral — while  I  weave  the  meshes.  Then,  as  Fate 
itself  when  it  has  fulfilled  its  mission,  let  me  pass  away  into 
shadow,  with  the  still  and  lonely  stride  that  none  may  follow. 

'Oh  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness.' 

How  weary  I  am  of  this  world  of  men  I "     And  again  the  cry 
"Great  news — National  crisis — Dissolution  oi  Parliament-— 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  347 

Great  news!"  rang  through  the  jostling  throng.  Three  men, 
arm-in-arm,  brushed  by  Harley,  and  were  stopped  at  the  cross- 
ing by  a  file  of  carriages.  The  man  in  the  centre  was  Auclley 
Egerton.  His  companions  were  an  ex-minister  like  himself, 
and  one  of  those  great  proprietors  who  are  proud  of  being  above 
office,  and  vain  of  the  power  to  make  and  unmake  Governments. 

"You  are  the  only  man  to  lead  us,  Egerton,"  said,  this  last 
personage.  "  Do  but  secure  your  seat,  and  as  soon  as  this  pop- 
ular fever  has  passed  away,  you  must  be  something  more  than 
the  leader  of  Opposition — you  must  be  the  first  man  in  England." 

"Not  a  doubt  of  that,"  chimed  in  the  fellow  ex-minister — a 
worthy  man — perfect  red-tapist,  but  inaudibl.e  in  the  reporters' 
gallery.  "And  your  election  is  quite  safe,  eh  !  All  depends  on 
that.  You  must  not  be  thrown  out  at  such  a  time,  even  for  a 
month  or  two.  I  'hear  that  you  will  have  a  contest — some 
townsman  of  the  borough,  I  think.  But  the  Lansmere  interest 
must  be  all  powerful;  and  I  suppose  L'Estrange  will  come  out  and 
canvass  for  you.  You  are  not  the  man  to  have  lukewarm  friends." 

"  Don't  be  alarmed  about  my  election.  I  am  as  sure  of  that 
as  of  L'Estrange's  friendship."  \ 

Harley  heard,  with  a  grim  smile,  and  passing  his  hand  within 
his  vest,  laid  it  upon  Nora's  memoir. 

"What  could  we  do  in  Parliament  without  you!"  said  the 
great  proprietor,  almost  piteously. 

"  Rather  what  could  I  do  without  Parliament  ?  Public  life 
is  the  only  existence  I  own.  Parliament  is  all  in  all  to  me.  But 
we  may  cross  now." 

Harley's  eye  glittered  cold  as  it  followed  the  tall  form  of  the 
statesman,  towering  high  above  all  other  passers-by. 

"Ay,"  he  muttered — "ay,  rest  as  sure  of  my  friendship  as  I 
am  of  thine  !  And  be  Lansmere  our  field  of  Philippi !  There, 
where  thy  first  step  was  made  in  the  only  life  that  thou  own'st 
as  existence,  shall  the  ladder  itself  rot  from  under  thy  footing. 
There,  where  thy  softer  victim  slunk  to  death  from  the  deceit 
of  thy  love,  shall  deceit  like  thine  own  dig  a  grave  for  thy  frigid 
ambition.  I  borrow  thy  quiver  of  fraud  ;  its  still  arrows  shall 
strike  thee ;  and  thou  too  shalt  say,  when  the  barb  pierces 
home,  "This  comes  from  the  hand  of  a  friend.'  Ay,  at  Lans- 
mere, at  Lansmere,  shall  the  end  crown  the  whole!  Go,  and  dot 
on  the  canvas  the  lines  for  a  lengthened  perspective,  where  my 
eyes  note  already  the  vanishing-point  of  the  picture." 

Then  through  the  dull  fog,  and  under  the  pale  gas-lights, 
Harley  L'Estrange  pursued  his  lonely  way,  soon  distinguished 
no  more  amongst  the  various,  motley,  quick-succeeding  groups, 


348  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

with  their  infinite  subdivisions  of  thought,  care,  and  passion ; 
while  loud-  over  all  their  low  murmurs,  or  silent  hearts,  were 
heard  the  tramp  of  horses  and  din  of  wheels,  and  the  vociferous, 
discordant  cry  that  had  ceased  to  attract  an  interest  in  the  ears 
it  vexed^-"  Great  News,  Great  News — Dissolution  of  Parlia- 
ment— Great  News  ! " 

CHAPTER  XIX. . 

THE  scene  is  at  Lansmere  Park— a  spacious  pile,  commenced 
in  the  reign  of  Charles  II.;  enlarged  and  altered  in  the  reign  of 
Anne.  Brilliant  interval  in  the  History  of  bur  National  Man- 
ners, when  even  the  courtier  dreaded  to  be  dull,  and  Sir  Fopling 
raised  himself  on  tiptoe  to  catch  the  ear  of  wit — when  the  names 
of  Devonshire  and  Dorset,  Halifax  and  Carteret,  Oxford  and  Bo- 
lingbroke,  unite  themselves,  brother-like,  with  those  of  Hobbes 
and  of  Dryden,  of  Prior  and  Bentley,  of  Arbuthnot,  Gay,  Pope, 
and  Swift;  and  still,  wherever  we  turn,  to  recognize  some  ideal 
of  great  Lord  or  fine  Gentleman — the  Immortals  of  Literature 
stand  by  his  side. 

The  walls  of  the  rooms  at  Lansmere  were  covered  with  the 
'portraits  of  those  who  illustrate  that  time  which  Europe  calls 
the  Age  of  Louis  XIV.  A  L'Estrange,  who  had  lived  through 
the  reigns  of  four  English  princes  (and  with  no  mean  impor- 
tance through  all),  had  collected  those  likenesses  of  noble  con- 
temporaries. As  you  passed  through  the  chambers — opening  one 
on  the  other  in  that  pomp  of  parade  introduced  with  Charles  II. 
from  the  palaces  of  France,  and  retaining  its  mode  till  Versailles 
'and  Trianon  passed,  themselves,  out  of  date— you  felt  you  were 
in  excellent  company.  What  saloons  of  our  day,  demeaned  to 
tailed  coats  and  white  waistcoats,  have  that  charm  of  high  breed- 
ing which  speaks  out  from  the  canvas  of  Kneller  and  Jervis, 
Vivien  and  Rigaud  ?  And  withal,  'notwithstanding  lace  and 
brocade — the  fripperies  of  artificial  costume— -still  those  who 
give  interest  or  charm. to  that  day,  look  from  their  portraits  like 
men — raking. or  ddbonnaire,  if  you  will — never  mincing  nor  fem- 
inine. Can  we  say  as  much  of  the  portraits  of  Lawrence?  Gaze 
there  on'fair  Marlborough — what  delicate  perfection  of  features, 
yet  how  easy  in  boldness,  how  serene  in  the  conviction  of  power ! 
So  fair  and  so  tranquil  he  might  have  looked  through  the  cannon- 
reek  at  Ramilies  and  Blenheim,  suggesting  to  Addison  the  image 
of  an  angel  of  war.  Ah,  there,  Sir  Charles  Sedley,  the  Lovelace 
of  wits  !  Note  that  strong  jaw  and  marked  brow; — do  you  not 
recognize  the  courtier  who  scorned  to  ask  one  favor  of  the  king 
with  whom  he  lived  as  an  equal,  and  who  stretched  forth  the 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  349. 

right  hand  of  man  to  hurl  from  a  throne  the  king  who  had  made 
his  daughter — a  Countess?* 

Perhaps,  from  his  childhood  thus  surrounded  by  the  haunting 
faces — that  spoke  of  their  age  as  they  looked  from  the  walls- — 
that  age  and  those  portraits  were  not  without  influence  on  the 
character  of  Harley  L'Estrange.  The  whim  and  the  daring — 
the  passion  for  letters  and  reverence  for  genius— the  mixture  of 
levity  and  strength — the  polished  sauntering  indolence,  or  the 
elastic  readiness  of  energies  once  called  into  action — all  might 
have  found  their  prototypes  in  the  lives  which  those  pictures  re- 
kindled. The  deeper  sentiment,  the  more  earnest  nature,  which  in 
Harley  L'Estrange  were  commingled  with  the  attributes  common 
to  a  former  age— these,  indeed,  were  of  his  own.  Our  age  so  little 
comprehended,  while  it  colors  us  from  its  atmosphere! — so  full 
of  mysterious  and  profound  emotions,  which  our  ancestors  never 
knew! — Will  those  emotions  be  understood  by  our  descendants? 

In  this  stately  house  were  now  assembled,  as  Harley's  guests, 
many  of  the  more  important  personages  whom  the  slow  length 
of  this  story  has  made  familiar  to  the  reader.  The  two  candi- 
dates for  the  borough  in  the  True  Blue  interest — Audley  Egerton 
and  Randal  Leslie  : — and  Levy — chief  among  the  barons  to  whom 
modern  society  grants  a  seigniory  of  pillage,  which,  had  a  baron 
of  old  ever  ventured  to  arrogate,  burgess  and  citizen,  socman 
and  bocman,  villein  and  churl,  would  have  burned  him  alive  in 
his  castle  ;  the  Duke  di  Serrano,  still  fondly  clinging  to  his  title 
of  doctor  and  pet  name  of  Riccabocca  ;— Jemima,  not  yet  with 
the  airs  of  a  duchess,  but  robed  in  very  thick  silks,  as  the  chrysalis 
state  of  a  duchess  ; — Violante,  too,  was  there,  sadly  against  her 
will,  and  shrinking  as  much  as  possible  into  the  retirement  of  her 
own  chamber.  The  Countess  of  Lansmere  had  deserted  her 
lord,  in  order  to  receive  the  guests  df  her  son  ;  my  lord  himself, 
ever  bent  on  being  of  use  in  some  part  of  his  country,  and  striving 
hard  to  distract  his  interest  from  his  plague  of  a  borough,  had 
gone  down  into  Cornwall  to  inquire  into  the  social  condition  of 
certain  troglodytes  who  worked  in  some  mines  which  the  Earl 
had  lately  had  the  misfortune  to  wring  from  the  Court  of  Chan- 
cery, after  a  lawsuit  commenced  by  his  grandfather  :  and  a  Blue 
Book,  issued  in  the  past  session  by  order  of  Parliament,  had 
especially  quoted  the  troglodytes  thus  devolved  on  the  Earl  as 
bipeds  who  were  in  considerable  ignorance  of  the  sun,  and  had 

*  Sedley  was  so  tenacious  of  his  independence,  that  when  his  affairs  were  most  embar- 
rassed, he  refused  all  pecuniary  aid  from  Charles  II.  His  bitter  sarcasm,  in  vindication  of 
the  part  he  took  in  the  deposition  of  James  II.,  who  had  corrupted  his  daughter,  and  made 
her  Countess  of  Dorchester,  is  well  known.  "  As  the  King  his  made  my  daughter  9 
Countess,  the  least  I  can  do,  in  common  gratitude,  is  to  assist  in  making  his  majesty's 
daughter — a  Queen  I  " 


350  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

never  been  known  to  wash  their  feet  since  the  day  that  they  came 
into  the  world — their  world  underground,  chipped  off  from  the 
Bottomless  Pit ! 

With  the  Countess  came  Helen  Digby,  of  course,  and  Lady 
Lansmere,  who  had  hitherto  been  so  civilly  cold  to  the 'wife 
elect  of  her  son,  had,  ever  since  her  interview  with  Harley  at 
Knightsbridge,  clung  to  Helen  with  almost  a  caressing  fondness. 
The  stern  Countess  was  tamed  by  fear ;  she  felt  that  her  own 
influence  over  Harley  was  gone  ;  she  trusted  to  the  influence  of 
Helen — in  case  of  what  ? — ay,  what  ?  It  was  because  the  danger 
was  not  clear  to  her,  that  her  bold  spirit  trembled  ;  superstitions, 
like  suspicions,  are  "as  bats  among  birds,  and  fly  by  twilight." 
Harley  had  ridiculed  theideaof  challengeand  strife  between  Aud- 
ley  and  himself;  but  still  Lady  Lansmere  dreaded  the  fiery  emo- 
tionsof  the  last,  and  the  high  spirit  and  austere  self-respect  which 
were  proverbial  to  the  first.  Involuntarily  she  strengthened  her  in- 
timacy with  Helen.  In  caseher  alarm  should  appear  justified, what 
mediator  could  be  so  persuasive  in  appeasing  the  angrier  passions, 
as  one  whom  courtship  and  betrothal  sanctified  to  the  gentlest? 

On  arriving  at  Lansmere,  the  Countess,  however,  felt  some- 
what relieved.  Harley  had  received  her,  if  with  a. manner  less 
cordial  and  tender  than  had  hitherto  distinguished  it,  still  with 
easy  kindness  and  calm  self-possession.  His  bearing  towards 
Audley  Egerton  still  more  reassured  her  ;  it  was  not  marked  by 
any  exaggeration  of  familiarity  or  friendship — which  would  at 
once  have  excited  her  apprehension  of  some  sinister  design — 
nor,  on  the  other  hand, did  it  betray,  by  covert  sarcasms,  an  ill- 
suppressed  resentment.  It  was  exactly  what,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, would  have  been  natural  to  a  man  who  had  received 
an  injury  from  an  intimate  friend,  which,  in  generosity  of  dis- 
cretion, he  resolved  to  overlook,  but  which  those  aware  of  it 
could  just  perceive  had  cooled  or  alienated  the  former  affec- 
tion. Indefatigably  occupying  himself  with  all  the  details  of 
the  election,  Harley  had  afair  pretext  for  absenting  himself  from 
Audley,  who,  really  looking  very  ill,  and  almost  worn  out,  pleaded 
indisposition  as  an  excuse  for  dispensing  with  the  fatigues  of  a  per- 
sonal canvass,and,passingmuch  of  his  timein  his  own  apartments, 
left  all  the  preparations  for  contest  to  his  more  active 'friends. 
It  was  not  till  he  had  actually  arrived  at  Lansmere  that  Aud- 
ley became  acquainted  with  the  name  of  his  principal  opponent. 
Richard  Avenel!  the  brotherof  Nora!  rising  up  from  obscurity, 
thus  to  stand  front  to  front  against  him  in  a  contest  on  which  all  his 
fates  were  cast.  Egerton  quailed  as  before  an  appointed  avenger. 

He  would  fain  have  retired  from  the  fields; — he  spoke  to  Harley  : 

4i?>  i 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  351 

"How  canyau  support  all  the  painful  remembrances  which 
the  very  name  of  my  antagonist  must  conjure  up?" 

"Did  you  not  tell  me,"  answered  Harley,  "to  strive  against 
such  remembrances— to  look  on  them  as  sickly  dreams?  I  am 
prepared  to  brave  them.  Gan  you  be  more  sensitive  than  I?" 

Egerton  durst  not  say  more.  He  avoided  all  further  reference 
to  the  subject.  .-The' strife  raged  around  him,  and  he  shut  him- 
self out  from  it — shut  himself  up  in  solitude  with  his  own  heart. 
Strife  enough  there  !  Once,  late  at  night,  he  stole  forth  and  re- 
paired to  Nora's  grave.  He  stood  there,  amidst  the  rank  grass, 
and  under  the  frosty  starlight,  long,  and  in  profound  silence. 
His  whole  past  life  seemed  to  rise  before  him  ;  and,  when  he  re- 
gained his  lonely  room,  and  strove  to  survey  the  future,  still  he 
could  behold  only  that  past  and  that  grave. 

In  thus  declining  all  active  care  for  an  election,  to  his  pros- 
pects so  important,  Audley  Egerton  was  considered  to  have  ex- 
cuse, not  onlyin  the  state  of  his  health,  but  in  his  sense  of  dignity. 
A  statesman  so  eminent,  of  opinions  so  well  known,  of  public 
services  so  incontestable,  might  well  be  spared  the  personal 
trouble  that  falls  upon  obscurer  candidates.  And  besides,  accord- 
ing to  current  report,  and  the  judgment  of  the  Blue  Committee, 
the  return  of  Mr.  Egerton  was  secure.  But,  though  Audley 
himself  was  thus  indulgently  treated,  Harley  and  the  Blue  Com- 
mittee took  care  to  inflict  double  work  upon  Randal.  That  active 
young  spirit  found  ample  materials  for  all  its  restless  energies. 
Randal  Leslie  was  kept  on  his  legs  from  sunrise  to  starlight. 
There  does  not  exist  in  the  Three  Kingdoms  a  constituency  more 
fatiguing  to  a  candidate  than  that  borough  of  Lansmere.  As 
soon  as  you  leave  the  High  Street,  wherein,  according  to  im- 
memorial usage,  the  Blue  canvasser  is  first  le.d,  in  order  to  put 
him  into  spirits  for  the  toils  that  await  him  (delectable,  propitious, 
constitutional  High  Street,  in  which  at  least  two-thirds  of  the 
electors — opulent  tradesmen  employed  at  the  Park — always  vote 
for  "my  lord's  man, "and  hospitably  prepare  wine  and.cakes  in 
their  tidy  back  parlors  !) — as  soon  as  you  quit  this  stronghold  of 
the  party,  labyrinths  of  lanes  and  defiles  stretch  away  into  the 
farthest  horizon  ;  level  ground  is  found  nowhere  ;  it  is  all  up- 
hill and  down-hill — now  rough  craggy  pavements  that  blister  the 
feet,  and  at  the  very  first  tread  upon  which  all  latent  corns  shook 
prophetically — now  deep  muddy  ruts,  into  which  you  sink  ankle- 
deep — oozing  slush  creeping  into  the  pores,  and  moistening  the 
way  for  catarrh,rheum, cough,  sore-throat,bronchitis,  andphthisis. 
Black  sewers,  and  drains  Acherontian,  running  before  the  thresh- 
olds, and  so  filling  the  homes  behinds  with  effluvia,  that,  while 


352  MY    NOVEL  ;   OR, 

one  hand  clasps  the  grimy  paw  of  the  voter,  the  other  instinc- 
tively guards  from  typhus  and  cholera'your  abhorrent  nose.  Not 
in  those  days  had  mankind  ever  heard  of  a -sanitary  reform! 
and,  to  judge  of  the  slow;  progress  which  that  reform  seems  to 
make,  sewer  and  drain  would  have  been  much  the  same  if  they 
had.  Scot-and-lot  voters  were  the  independent  electors  of  Lans- 
mere,  with  the  additional  franchise  of  Freemen.  Universal 
suffrage  could  scarcely  more  efficiently  swamp  the  franchises  of 
men  who  care  a  straw  what  becomes  of  Great  Britain  !  With  all 
Randal  Leslie's  profound  diplomacy,  all  his  art  in  talking  over, 
deceiving,and  (to  borrow  Dick  Avenel's  vernacular  phrase)"hum- 
bugging"  educated  men,  his  eloquence  fell  flat  upon  minds  in- 
vulnerable to  appeals  whether  to  State  or  to  Church,  to  Reform 
or  to  Freedom.  TocatchaSco,t-and-lot  voter  by  such  frivolous 
arguments,  Randal  Leslie  might  as  well  have  tried  to  bring  down 
a  rhinoceros;by  a  pop-gun  charged  with  split-peas!  The  young 
man  who  so  firmly  believed  that  "knowledge  was  power,"  was 
greatly  disgusted.  It  was  here  the  ignorance  that  foiled  him. 
When  he  got  hold  of  a  man  with  some  knowledge,  Randal  was 
pretty  sure  to  trick  him  out  of  &.  vote. 

Nevertheless,  Randal  Leslie  walked  and  talked  on,  with  most 
credible  perseverance.  The  Blue  Committee  allowed  that  he 
was  an  excellent  canvasser.  They  conceived  a  liking  for  him, 
mingled  with  pity.  :  For,  though  sure  of  Egerton's  return,  they 
regarded  Randal's  as  out  of  the  question.  He  was  merely  there 
to  keep  split  votes  from  going  to  the  opposite  side;  to  serve  his 
patron,  the  ex-minister;  shake  the  paws  and  smell  the  smells 
which  the  ex-minister  was  too  great  a  man  to  shake  and  to  smell. 
But,  in  point  of  fact,  none  of  that  Blue  Committee  knew  any- 
thing of  the  prospects  of  the  election.  Harley  received  all  the 
reports  of  eacli  canvass-day.  Harley  kept  the  canvass-book, 
locked  up  from  all  eyes  but  his  own,  or  it  might  be  Baron  Levy's, 
as  Audley  Egerton's  confidential,  if  not  strictly  professional,  ad- 
viser;— Baron  Levy,  the  millionaire,  had  long  since  retired  from 
all  acknowledged  professions.  Randal,  however — close,  observ- 
ant, shrewd1 — perceived  that  he  himself  was  much  stronger  than 
the  Blue  Committee  believed.  And,  to  his  infinite  surprise,  he 
owed  that  strength  to  Lord  L'Estrange's  exertions  on  his  behalf. 
For  though  Harley,  after  the  first  day  on  which  he  ostentatiously 
showed  himself  in  the  High  .Street,  did  not  openly  canvass  with 
Randal,  yet  when  the  reports  were  brought  in  to  him,  and  he  saw 
the  names  of  the  voters  who  gave  one  vote  to  Audley  and  with- 
held the  other  from  Randal,  he  would  say  to  Randal,  dead  beat 
as  that  young  gentleman  was,  "Slip  out  with  me,  the  moment 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  353 

dinner  is  over,  and  before  you  go  the  round  of  the  public-houses; 
there  are  some  voters  we  must  get  for  you  to-night."  And  sure 
enough  a  few  kindly  words  from  the  popular  heir  of  the  Lans- 
mere  baronies  usually  gained  over  the  electors,  from  whom, 
though  Randal  had  proved  that  all  England  depended  on  their 
votes  in  his  favor,  Randal  would  never  have  extracted  more  than 
a  "  Wu'll,  I  shall  waute  gin  the  Dauy  coomes!  "  Nor  was  this 
all  that  Harley  did  for  the  younger  candidate.  If  it  was  quite 
clear  that  only  one  vote  could  be  won  for  the  Blues,  and  the  other 
was  pledged  to  the  Yellows,  Harley  would  say,."  Then  put  it 
down  to  Mr.  Leslie  "; — a  request  the  more  readily  conceded,  since 
Audley  Egerton  was  considered  so  safe  by  the  Blues,  and  alone 
worth  a  fear  by  the  Yellows. 

Thus  Randal,  who  kept  a  snug  little  canvass-book  of  his  own, 
became  more  and  more  convinced  that  he  had  a  better  chance 
than  Egerton,  even  without  the  furtive  aid  he  expected  from 
Avenel ;  and  he  could  only  account  for  Harley's  peculiar  exer- 
tions in  his  favor,  by  supposing  that  Harley,  unpractised  in  elec- 
tions, and  deceived  by  the  Blue  Committee,  believed  Egerton  to 
be  perfectly  safe,  and  sought,  for  the  honor  of  the  family  inter- 
est, to  secure  both  the  seats. 

•Randal's  public  cares  thus  deprived  him  of  all  opportunity  of 
pressing  his  courtship  on  Violante;  and,  indeed,  if  ever  he  did  find 
a  moment  in  which  he  could  steal  to  her  reluctant  side,  Harley 
was  sure  to  seize  that  very  moment  to  send  him  off  to  canvass 
an  hesitating  freeman,  or  harangue  in  some  public-house. 

Leslie  was  too  acute  not  to  detect  some  motive  hostile  to  his 
wooing,  however  plausibly  veiled  in  the  guiseof  zeal-for  his  elec* 
tion,  in  this  officiousness  of  Harley's.  But  Lord  L-Estrange's 
manner  to  Violante  was  so  little  like  that  of  a  jealous  lover,  and 
he  was  so  well  aware  of  her  engagement  to  Randal,  that  the  lat- 
ter abandoned  the  suspicion  he  had  before  conceived,  that  Har- 
ley was  his  rival.  And  he  was  soon  led  to  believe  that  Lord 
L'Estrange  had  another,  more  disinterested,  and  less  formidable 
motive  for  thus  stinting  his  opportunities  to  woo  the  heiress. 

"Mr.  Leslie,"  said  Lord  L'Estrange,  one  day,  "the  Duke  has 
confided  to  me  his  regret  at  his  daughter's  reluctance  to  ratify 
his  own  promise;  and  knowing  the  warm  interest  I  take  in  her 
own  welfare — for  his  sake  and  her  own;  believing,  also,  that 
some  services  to  herself,  as  well  as  to  the  father  she  loves,  give 
me  a  certain  influence  over  her  inexperienced  judgment,  he  has 
even  requested  me  to  speak  a  word  to  her  in  your  behalf." 

"Ah!  if  you  would!  "  said  Randal,  surprised. 

"  You  must  give  me  the  power  to  do  so.     You  were  obliging 


354  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

enough  to  volunteer  tome  the  same  explanations  which  you  gave 
to  the  Duke,  his  satisfaction  with  which  induced  him  to  renew, 
or  confirm,  the  promise  of  his  daughter's  hand.  Should  those 
explanations  content  me,  as  they  did  him,  I  hold  the  Duke  bound 
to  fulfil  his  engagement,  and  I  am  convinced  that  his  daughter 
would,  in  that  case,  not  be  inflexible  to  your  suit.  But,  till  such 
explanations  be  given,  my  friendship  for  the  father,  and  my  in- 
terest in  the  child,  do  not  allow  me  to  assist  a  cause  which,  how- 
ever, at  present,  suffers  little  by  delay." 

"  Pray,  listen  at  once  to  those  explanations." 

"Nay,  Mr.  Leslie,  I  can  now  only  think  of  the. election.  As 
soon  as  that  is  over,  rely  on  it  you  shall  have  the  amplest  oppor- 
tunity to  dispel  any  doubts  which  your  intimacy  with  Count  di 
Peschiera  and  Madame  di  Negra  may  have  suggested.  Apropos 
of  the  election — here  is  a  list  of  voters  you  must  see  at  once  in 
Fish  Lane. — Don't  lose  a  moment." 

In  the  meanwhile,  Richard  Avenel  and  Leonard  had  taken  up 
their  quarters  in  the  hotel  appropriated  to  the  candidates  for  the 
Yellows;  and  the  canvass  on  that  side  was  prosecuted  with  all 
the  vigor  which  might  be  expected  from  operations  conducted 
by  Richard  Avenel,  and  backed  by  the  popular  feeling. 

The  rival  parties  met  from  time  to  time,  in  the  streets  and 
lanes,  in  all  the  pomp  of  war— banners  streaming,  fifes  resound- 
ing (for  bands  and  colors  were  essential  proofs  of  public  spirit, 
and  indispensable  items  in  a  candidate's  bills,  in  those  good  old 
days).  When  they  thus  encountered,  very  distant  bows  were  ex- 
changed between  the  respective  chiefs.  .  But  Randal,  contriving 
ever  to  pass  close  to  Avenel,  had  ever  the  satisfaction  of  perceiv- 
ing that  gen-tleman'sjcountenance  contracted  into  a  knowing  wink, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "All  right,  in  spite  of  this  tarnation  humbug." 

But  now  that  both  parties  were  fairly  in  the  field,  to  the  private 
arts  of  canvassing  were  added  the  public  arts  of  oratory.  The 
candidates  had  to  speak— at  the  close  of  each  day's  canvass — 
out  from  wooden  boxes,  suspended  from  the  windows  of  their 
respective  hotels,  and  which  looked  like  dens  for  the  exhibition 
of  wild  beasts.  They  had  to  speak  at  meetings  of  the  commit- 
tees— meetings  of  electors — go  the  nightly  round  of  enthusiastic 
public-houses,  and  appeal  to  thesenseof  an  enlightened  people 
through  wreaths  of  smoke  and  odors  of  beer.  . 

The  alleged  indisposition  of  Audley  Egerton  had  spared  him 
the  excitement  of  oratory,  as  well  as  the  fatigue  of  canvassing. 
The  practised  debater  had  limited  the  display  of  his  talents  to  a 
concise,  but  clear  and  masterly  exposition  of  his  own  views  on  the 
leading  public  questions  of  the  day,  and  the  state  of  parties,  which, 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  35$ 

on  the  day  after  his  arrival  at  Lansmere,  was  delivered  at  a  meet- 
ing of  his  general  committee — in  the  great  room  of  their  hojel — 
and  which  was  then  printed  and  circulated  amongst  the  voters. 

Randal,  though  he  expressed  himself  with  more  fluency  and 
self-possession  than  are  usually  found  in  the  first  attempts  of  a 
public  speaker,  was  not  effective  in  addressing  an  unlettered 
crowd; — for  a  crowd  of  this  kind  is  all  heart — and  we  know  that 
Randal  Leslie's  heart  was  as  small  as  heart  could  be.  If  he  at- 
tempted to  speak  at  his  own  intellectual  level,  he  was  so  subtle 
and  refining  as  to  be  incomprehensible;  if  he  fell  into  the  fatal 
error — not  uncommon  to  inexperienced  orators — of  trying  to 
lower  himself  to  the  intellectual  level  of  his  audience,  he  was 
only  elaborately  stupid.  No  man  can  speak  too  well  for  a  crowd — 
as  no  man  can  write  too  well  for  the  stage  ;  but  in  neither  case 
should  he  be  rhetorical,  or  case  in  periods  the  dry  bones  of  reason- 
ing. It  is  to  the  enactions,  or  to  the  humors,  that  the  speaker 
must  address  himself;  his  eye  must  brighten  with  generous  sen- 
timent, or  his  lip  must  expand  in  the  play  of  animated  fancy  or 
genial  wit.  Randal's  voice,  too,  though  pliant  and  persuasive  in 
private  conversation,  was  thin  and  poor  when  strained  to  catch 
the  ear  of  a  numerous  assembly.  The  falsehood  of  his  nature 
seemed  to  come  out,  when  he  raised  the  tones  which  had  been 
drilled  into  deceit.  Men  like  Randal  Leslie  may  become  sharp 
debaters — admirable  special  pleaders;  they  can  no  more  become 
orators  than  they  can  become  poets.  Educated  audiences  are  es- 
sential to  them,  and  the  smaller  the  audience  (that  is,  the  more  the 
brain  supersedes  the  action  of  the  heart)  the  better  they  can  speak. 

Dick  Avenel  was  generally  very  short  and  very  pithy  in  his 
addresses.  He  had  two  or  three  favorite  topics,  which  always 
told.  He  was  a  fellow-townsman — a  man  who  had  made  his  own 
way  in  life — he  wanted  to  free  his  native  place  from  aristocratic 
usurpation — it  was  the  battle  of  the  electors,  not  his  private  cause, 
etc.  He  said  little  against  Randal — "  Pity  a  clever  young  man 
should  pin  his  future  to  two  yards  of  worn-out  red  tape  " — "  He 
had  better  lay  hold  of  the  strong  rope,  which  the  People,  in  com- 
passion to  his  youth,  were  willing  yet  to  throw  out  to  save  him 
from  sinking,"  etc.  But  as  for  Audley  Egerton,  "  the  gentleman 
who  would  not  show,  who  was  afraid  to  meet  the  electors,  who 
could  only  find  his  voice  in  a  hole-and-corner  meeting,  accus- 
tomed all  his  venal  life  to  dark  and  nefarious  jobs  " — Dick,  upon 
that  subject,  delivered  philippics  truly  Demosthenian.  Leonard, 
on  the  contrary,  never  attacked  Harley's  friend,  Mr.  Egerton; 
but  he  was  merciless  against  the  youth  who  had  filched  reputa- 
tion from  John  Burley,  and  whom  he  knew  that  Harley  despised 


356  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

as  heartily  as  himself.  And  Randal  did  not  care  to  retaliate 
(though  boiling  over  with  indignant  rage),  for  fear  of  offending 
Leonard's  uncle.  Leonard  was  unquestionably  the  popular 
speaker  of  the  three.  Though  his  temperament  was  a  writer's, 
not  an  orator's — though  he  abhorred  what  he  considered  the 
theatrical  exhibition  of  self,  which  makes  what  is  called  "  de- 
livery "  more  effective  than  ideas — though  he  had  little  interest 
at  any  time  in  party  politics— though  at  this  time  his  heart  was 
far  away  from  the  Blues  and  Yellows  of  Lansmere,  sad  and  for- 
lorn— yet,  forced  in  action,  the  eloquence  that  was  natural  to  his 
conversation  poured  itself  forth.  He  had  warm  blood  in  his 
veins^  and  his  dislike  to  Randal  gave  poignancy  to  his  wit,  and 
barbed  his  arguments  with  impassioned  invective.  In  fact,  Leon- 
ard could  conceive  no  other  motive  for  Lord  L'Estrange's  re- 
quest to  take  part  in  the  election,  than  that  nobleman's  desire  to 
.defeat  the  man  whom  they  both  regarded  as  an  impostor.  And 
this  notion  was  confirmed  by  some  inadvertent  expressions  which 
Avenel  let  fall,  and  which  made  Leonard  suspect  that,  it  he  were 
not  in  the  field,  Avenel  would  have  exerted  all  his  interest  to 
return  Randal  instead  of  Egerton.  With  Dick's  dislike  to  that 
statesman,  Leonard  found  it  impossible  to  reason  ;  nor,  on  the 
other  hand,  could  all  Dick's  scoldings  or  coaxings  induce  Leon- 
ard to  divert  his  siege  on  Randal  to  an  assault  upon  the  man 
who,  Harley  had  often  said,  was  dear  to  him  as  a  brother. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Dick  kept  the  canvass-book  of  the  Yellows 
as  closely  as  Harley  kept  that  of  the  Blues  ;  and,  in  despite  of 
many  pouting  fits  and  gusts  of  displeasure,  took  precisely  the 
same  pains  for  Leonard  as  Harley  took  for  Randal.  There  re- 
mained, however,  apparently  unshaken  by  the  efforts  on  either 
side,  a  compact  body  of  about  a  hundred  and  fifty  voters,  chiefly 
freemen.  Would  they  vote  Yellow?  Would  they  vote  Blue?  No 
one  could  venture  to  decide;  but  they  declared  that  they  would 
all  vote  the  same  way.  Dick  kept  his  secret  "caucuses,"  as  he 
called  them,  constantly  nibbling  at  this  phalanx.  Ahundredand 
fifty  voters! — they  had  the  election  in  their  hands  !  Never  were 
hands  so  cordially  shaken-^-so  caressingly  clung  to — so  fondly 
lingered  upon  !  But  the  votes  still  stuck  as  firm  to  the  hands  as  if  a 
part  of  the  skin,  or  of  the  dirt — which  was  much  the  same  thing  ! 

CHAPTER  XX. 

WHENEVER  Audley  joined  the  other  guests  of  an  evening — 
while  Harley  was  perhaps  closeted  with  Levy  and  committee- 
men,  and  Randal  was  going  the  round  of  the  public-houses — 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  357 

the  one  with  whom  he  chiefly  conversed  was  Violante.  He  had 
been  struck  at  first,  despite  his  gloom,  less,  perhaps,  by  herextraor- 
dinary  beauty,  than  by  something  in  the  expression  of  her  coun- 
tenance which,  despite  differences  in  feature  and  complexion, 
reminded  him  of  Nora ;  and  when,  by  his  praises  of  Harley,  he 
drew  her  attention,  and  won  into  her  liking,  he  discovered,  per- 
haps, that  the  likeness  which  had  thus  impressed  him  came  from 
some  similarities  in  character  between  the  living  and  the  lost 
one — the  same  charming  combination  of  lofty  thought  and  child- 
like innocence — the  same  enthusiasm— the  same  rich  exuberance 
of  imagination  and  feeling.  Two  souls  that  resemble  'each  other 
will  give  their  likeness  to  the  looks  from  which  they  beam.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  person  with  whom  Harley  most  familiarly 
associated,  in  his  rare  intervals  of  leisure,  was  Helen  Digby. 
One  day,  Audley  Egerton,  standing  mournfully  by  the  window  of 
the  sitting-room  appropriated  to  his  private  use,  saw  the  two, 
whom  he  believed  still  betrothed,  take  their  way  across  the  park, 
side  by  side.  "Pray  Heaven,  that  she  may  atone  to  him  for  all !" 
murmured  Audley.  "But  ah,  that  it  had  been  Violante  !  Then  I 
might  have  felt  assured  that  the  Future  would  efface  the  Past — 
and  found  the  courage  to  tell  him  all.  And  when  last  night  I 
spoke  of  what  Harley  ought  to  be  to  England,  how  like  were 
Violante's  eyes  and  smile  to  Nora's  when  Nora  listened  in  de- 
lighted sympathy  to  the  hopes  of 'my  own  young  ambition  !" 
With  a  sigh  he  turned  away,  and  resolutely  sat  down  to  read  and 
reply  to  the  voluminous  correspondence  which  covered  the  table 
of  the  busy  public  man.  For,  A  udley's  return  to  Parliament  being 
considered  by  his  political  party  as  secure,  to  him  were  trans- 
mitted all  the  hopes  and  fears  of  the  large  and  influential  section 
of  it  whose  members  looked  up  to  him  as  their  future  chief,  and 
who  in  that  general  election  {unprecedented  for  the  number  of 
eminent  men  it  was  fated  to  expel  from  Parliament,  and  the 
number  of  new  politicians  it  was  fated  to  send  into  it),  drew  their 
only  hopes  of  regaining  their  lost  power  from  Audley's-sanguine 
confidence  in  the  reaction  of  that  Public  Opinion  which  he  had 
hitherto  so  profoundly  comprehended  ;  and  it  was  too  clearly 
seen,  that  the  seasonable  adoption  of  his  counsels  would  have 
saved  the  existence  and  popularity  of  the  late  Administration, 
whose  most  distinguished  members  could  now  scarcely  show 
themselves  on  the  hustings. 

Meanwhile,  Lord  L'Estrange  led  his  young  companion  toward 
a  green  hill  in  the  centre  of  the  Park,  on  which  stood  a  circular 
temple,  that  commanded  a  view  of  the  country  round  for  miles. 
They  had  walked  in  silence  till  they  gained  the  summit  of  the 


358  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

sloped  and  gradual  ascent;  and  then,  as  they  stood  still,  side 
by  side,  Harley  thus  spoke — 

"  Helen,  you  know  that  Leonard  is  in  "the  town,  though  I  can 
not  receive  him  at  the  Park,  since  he  is  standing  in  opposition 
to  my  guests,  Egerton  and  Leslie." 

HELEN. — But  that  seems  to  me  so  strange.  How — how  could 
Leonard  do  anything  that  seems  hostile  to  you? 

HARLEY. — Would  his  hostility  to  me  lower  him  in  your  opin- 
ion ?  If  he  know  that  I  am  his  rival,  does  not  rivalry  include  hate  ? 

HELEN. — Oh,  Lord  L'Estrange,  how  can  you  speak  thus? — 
how  so  wrong  yourself?  Hate — hate  to  you  !  and  from  Leon- 
ard Fairfield ! 

HARLEY. — You  evade  my  question.  Would  his  hate  or  hos- 
tility to  me  affect  your  sentiments  toward  him  ? 

HELEN  (looking  down). — I  could  not  force  myself  to  believe 

TT*  «T1  -.  "''     *>V 

HARLEY. — Why  ? 

TT  T*  •  1  J    i-  I          •     r  1    • 

HELEN. — Because  it  would  be  so  unworthy  of  him. 

HARLEY. — -Poor  child  !  You  have  the  delusion  of  your  years. 
You  deck  a  cloud  in  the  hues  of  the  rainbow,  and  will  not  be- 
lieve that  its  glory  is  borrowed  from  the  sun  of  your  own  fancy. 
But  .here,  at  least,  you  are  not  deceived.  Leonard  obeys  but 
my  wishes,  and,  I  believe,  against  his  own  will.  He  has  none 
of  man's  noblest  attribute,  ambition. 

HELEN. — No  ambition  ! 

HARLEY. — It  is  vanity  that  stirs  the  poet  to  toil— if  toil  the 
wayward  chase  of  his  own  chimeras  can  be  called.  Ambition 
is  a  more  masculine  passion. 

Helen  shook  her  head  gently,  but  made  no  answer. 

HARLEY. — If  I  utter  a  word  that  profanes  one  of  your  delu- 
sions, you  shake  your  head  and  are  incredulous.  Pause:  listen 
one  moment  to  my  counsels — perhaps  the  last  I  may  ever  ob- 
trude upon  you.  Lift  your  eyes;  look  around.  Far  as  your 
eye  can  reach,  nay,  far  beyond  the  line  which  the  horizon  forms 
in  the  landscape,  stretch  the  lands  of  my  inheritance.  Yonder 
you  see  the  home  in  which  my  forefathers  for  many  generations 
lived  with  honor  and  died  lamented.  All  these,  in  the  course 
of  nature,  might  one  day  have  been  your  own,  had  you  not  re- 
jected my  proposals.  I  offered  you,  it  is  true,  not  what  is  com- 
monly called  Love;  I  offered  you  sincere  esteem,  and  affections 
the  more  durable  for  their  calm.  You  have  not  been  reared  by 
the  world  in  the  low  idolatry  of  rank  and  wealth.  But  even 
romance  cannot  despise  the  power  of  serving  others,  which 
rank  and  wealth  bestow.  For  myself,  hitherto  indolence,  and 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  359 

lately  disdain,  rob  fortune  of  these  nobler  attributes.  But  she 
who  will  share  my  fortune  may  dispense  it  so  as  to  atone  for  my 
sins  of  omission.  On  the  other  side,  grant  that  there  is  no  bar 
to  your  preference  for  Leonard  Fairfield,  what  does  your  choice 
present -to  you  ? — Those  of  his  kindred  with  whom  you  will  as- 
sociate are  unrefined  and  mean.  His  sole  income  is  derived 
from  precarious  labors;  the  most' vulgar  of  all  anxieties — the 
fear  of  bread  itself  for  the  morrow — must  mingle  with  all  your 
romance)  and  soon  steal  from  love  all  its  poetry.  You  think  his 
affection  will  console  you  for  every  sacrifice.  Folly  ! — the  love 
of  poets  is  for  a  mist — a  moonbeam — a  denizen  of  air — a  phan- 
tom that  they  call  an  ideal.  They  suppose  for  a  moment  that 
they  have  found  that  Ideal  in  Chloe  or  Phyllis — Helen  or  a 
milkmaid.  Bah  ! — the  first  time  you  come  to  the  poet  with  the 
baker's  bill,  where  flies  the  Ideal?  1  knew  one  more  brilliant 
than  Leon ard— -in ore  exquisitely  gifted  by  nature— that  one  was 
a  woman;  she  saw  a  man  hard  and  cold  as  that  stone  at  your 
feet — a  false,  hollow,  sordid  worldling;  she  made  him  her  Idol — 
beheld  in  him  all  that  history  would  not  recognize  in  a  Caesar — 
that  mythology  would  scarcely  grant  to  an  Apollo;  to  him  she 
was  a  plaything  of  an  hour — she  died,  and  before  the  year  was 
out  he  had  married  for  money  !  I  knew  another  instance — I 
speak  of  myself.  I  loved  before  I  was  your  age.  Had  an  angel 
warned  me  then,  I  would  have  been  incredulous  as  you.  How 
that  ended,  no  matter;  but  had  it  not  been  for  that  dream  of  maud- 
lin delirium,  I  had  lived  and  acted  as  others  of  my  kind  and  my 
sphere — married  from  reason  and  judgment — been  now  a  useful 
and  happy  man.  Pause,  then.  Will  you  still  reject  me  for  Leonard 
Fairfield  ?  For  the  last  time  you  have  the  option — me  and  all  the 
substance  of  waking  life — Leonard  Fairfield  and  the  shadows  of  a 
fleeting  dream.  Speak!  You  hesitate.  Nay,  take  time  to  decide. 

HELEN.— Ah,  Lord  L'Estrange,  you,  who  have  felt  what  it  is 
to;love,  how  can  you  doubt  my  answer  ? — how  think  that  I  could 
be  so  base,  so  ungrateful  as  take  from  yourself  what  you  call  the 
substance  of  waking  life,  while  my  heart  was  far  away — fa,ithful 
to  what  you  call -a  dream  ? 

HARLEY/ — But,  can  you  not  dispel  the  dream  ? 

HELEN  (her  whole  face  one  flush). — It  was  wrong  to  call  it 
dream  !  It  is  the  reality  of  life  tome.  All  things  else  are  as  dreams. 

HARLEY  (taking  her  hand  and  kissing  it  with  respect). — 
Helen,  you  have  a  noble  heart,  and  I  have  tempted  you  in  vain. 
I  regret  your  choice,  though  I  will  no  more  oppose  it.  I  regret 
it,  though  I  shall  never  witness  your  disappointment.  As  the 
wife  of  that  man,  I  shall  see  and  know  you  no  more. 


360  MY   NOVEL;   Oft, 

HELEN. — Oh,  no  ! — do  not  say  that.     Why  ? — wherefore  ? 

HARLEY  (his  brows  meeting). — He  is  the  child  of  fraud  and 
of  shame.  His  father  is  my  foe,  and  my  hate  descends  to  the 
son.  He,  too,  the  son,  filches  from  me — but  complaints  are  idle. 
When  the  next  few  days  are  over,  think  of  me  but  as  one  who 
abandons  all  right  over  your  actions,  and  is.  a  stranger  to  your 
future  fate.  Pooh  ! — dry  your  tears;  so  long  as  you  love  Leon- 
ard or  esteem  me,  rejoice  that  our  paths  do  not  cross. 

He  walked  on  impatiently;  but  Helen,  alarmed  and  wonder- 
ing, followed  close,  took  his  arm  timidly,  and  sought  to  soothe 
him.  She  felt  that  he  wronged  Leonard — that  he  knew  not  how 
Leonard  had  yielded  all  hope  when  he  learned  to  whom  she  was 
affianced.  For  Leonard's  sake  she  conquered  her  bashfulness,and 
sought  to  explain.  But  at  her  first  hesitating,  faltered  words,  Har- 
ley,  who  with -great  effort  suppressed  the  emotions  which  swelled 
within  him,  abruptly  left  her  side,  a,nd  plunged  into  the  recesses 
of  thick  far-spreading  groves,  that  soon  wrapt  him  from  her  eye. 

.While  this  conversation  occurred  between  Lord  L'Estrange 
and  his  ward,  the  soi-disant  Riccabocca  and  Violante  were  walk- 
ing slowly  through  the  gardens.  The  philosopher,  unchanged 
<by  his  brightening  prospects— so  far  as  the  outer  man  was  con- 
cerned— still  characterized  by  the  red  umbrella  and  the  accus- 
tomed pipe-r-took;  the  way  mechanically  toward  the  sunniest 
quarter  of  the  grounds,  now  and  then  glancing  tenderly  at  Vio- 
lante's  downcast  melancholy  face,  but  not  speaking;  only,  at 
each  glance,  there  came  a  brisker  cloud  from  the  pipe,  as  if 
obedient  to  a  fuller  heave  of  the  heart. 

At  length,  in  a  spot  which  ,iay  open  toward  the  sojjth,  and 
seemed  to  collect  all  the  gentlest  beams  of  the  November  sun, 
screened  from  the  piercing  east  by  dense  evergreens,  and  flanked 
from  the  bleak  north  by  lofty  walls,  Riccabocca  paused  and 
seated  himself.  Flowers  still  bjoomed  on  the  sward  in  front, 
•over  which  still  fluttered  the  wings  of  those  later  and  more  bril- 
liant butterflies  that,  unseen  in  the  genial  days  of  our  English 
Summer,  come  with  autumnal  skies,  and  sport  round  the  mourn- 
ful steps  of  the  coming  winter — types. of  those  thoughts  which 
visit  and  delight  the  coriteimplation  of  age,  while  th£  current  yet 
glides  free  from-  the  iron  ice,  and  the  leaves  yet  linger  on  ,;the 
boughs;  thoughts  that  associate  the  memories  of  the  .departed 
summer  with  messages  from  suns  that  shall  succeed  the  winter, 
anrd  expand  colors  the  most  steeped  in  light  and  glory,  just  as 
"the  skies  through  which  they  gleam  are  darkening,  and  the 
•flo'wers  on  which  they  hover  fade  from  the  surface  of  the  earth- 
dropping  still  seeds,  that  sink  deep  out  of  sight  below. 


VARIETIES  -IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  361 

"  Daughter,"  said  Riccabocca,  drawing  Violante  :to  his  side, 
with  caressing  arm — "  Daughter !  Mark,  how  they  who  turn 
toward  the  south  can  still  find  the  sunny  side  of  the  landscape! 
In  all  the  seasons  of  life,  how  much  of  chill  or  of  warmth  de- 
pends on  our  choice  of  the  aspect  !  Sit  down — let  us  reason." 

Violante  sat  down  passively,  clasping  her  father's  hand  in 
both  her  own.  Reason  !— harsh  word  to  the  ears  of  Feeling  ! 

"  You  shrink,"  resumed  Riccabocca,  "  from  even  the  court- 
ship, even  the  presence  of  the  suitor  in  whom  my  honor  binds 
me  to  recognize  your  future  bridegroom." 

Violante  drew  away  her  hands,  and  placed  them  before  her 
eyes,  shudderingly. 

"But,"  continued  Riccabocca,  rather  peevishly,  "this  is  not 
listening  to  reason.  I  may  object  to  Mr.  Leslie,  because  he  has 
not  an  adequate  rank  or  fortune  to  pretend  to  a  daughter  of  my 
house;  that  would  be  what  every  one  would  allow  to  be  reason- 
able in  a  father ;  except,  indeed,"  added  the  poor  sage,  trying 
hard  to  be  sprightly,  and  catching  hold  of  a  proverb  ,to  help 
him — "except,  indeed,  those  wise  enough  to  recollect  that 
admonitory  saying,  'Casa  il  figlio  quando  vuoi,.e,lafigliaquando 
puoij' — (Marry  your  .-son  when  you  will,  your  daughter  when  you 
can).  Seriously,  if  I  overlook  those  objections  to  Mr.  Leslie,  it 
is  not  natural  for  a  young  girl  to  enforce  them.  What  is  reason 
in  you  is  quite  another  thing  from  reason  in  me.  Mr.  Leslie  is 
young,  not  ill-looking,  has  the  airof  a  gentleman,  is  passionately 
enamoured  of  you,  and  has  proved  his  affection  by  risking  his 
life  against  that  villanous  Peschiera — that  is,  he  would  have  risked 
it  had  Peschiera  not  been  shipped  out  of  the  way.  If,  then,  you 
will  listen  to  reason,  pray  what  can  reason  say  against  Mr.  Leslie  ? " 

"  Father,  I  detest  him  ! " 

"  Cospetto ! "  persisted  Riccabocca,  testily,  ".you  have  no 
reason  to  detest. him.  If  you  had  any  reason,  child,  I  am  sure 
that  I  should  be  the  last /person  to  dispute  it.  ;  How  can  you 
know  your  own  mind  in  such  a  matter  ?  It  is  not  as  if  you  had 
seen  any  one  else  you  could  prefer.  Not  angther  man  of  your 
own  years  do  you  even  know — except,  indeed,.  Leonard  Fair- 
field,  whom,  though  I  grant  he  is  handsomer,;  and  with  more 
imagination  and  genius  than  Mr.  Leslie,  you  still  must  remem- 
ber as  the  boy  who  worked  in  my  garden.  Ah!  tQ;be  sure, there 
is  Frank  Hazeldean — fine; lad — but  his  affections  are  pre-en- 
gaged. In  short,"  continued  the  sage,  dogmatically,  "there  is  no 
one  else  you  can,  by  any  possible  caprice,;  prefer  to  Mr.  Leslie; 
and  for  a  girl,  who  has  no  one  else  in  her  head,  to  talk  of  detest- 
ing a  well-looking,  well-dressed,  clever  young  man,  is  non- 


362  MY   NOVEL;   OR, 

sense.  'Chi  lascia  il  poco  per  haver  1'assai,  ne  1'uno  ne  1'altro 
avera  mai'; — which  may  be  thus  paraphrased — The  young  lady 
who  refuses  a  mortal  in  the  hopes  of  obtaining  an  angel,  loses 
the  one,  and  will  never  fall  in  with  the  other.  So  now,  having 
thus  shown  that  the  darkest  side  of  the  question  is  contrary  to 
reason — let  us  look  to  the  brighter.  In  the  first  place — " 

"Oh,  father,  father!"  cried  Violante,  passionately,  "you  to 
whom  I  once  came  for  comfort  in  every  childish  sorrow!  '  Do 
not  talk  to  me  with  this  cutting  levity.  See,  I  lay  my  head  upon 
your  breast — I  'put  my  arms  around  you — and  now,  can  you 
reason  me  into  misery?"  ••• 

"Child,  child,  do  not  be  so  wayward.  Strive,  at  least,  against 
a  prejudice  that  you  cannot  defend.  My  Violante,  my  darling, 
this  is  no  trifle.  Here  I  must  cease  to  be  the  fond  foolish  father 
whom  you  can  do  what  you  will  with.  Here  I  am  Alphonso, 
Duke  di  Serrano;  for  here  my  honor  as  noble,  and  my  word  as 
man,  are  involved.  I,  then  but  a  helpless  exile — no  hope  of 
fairer  prospects  before  me— trembling  like  a  coward  at  the  wiles 
of  my  unscrupulous  kinsman — grasping  at  all  chances  to  save 
you  from  his  snares — I  myself  offered  your  hand  to  Randal 
Leslie — offered,  promised,  pledged  it ; — and  now  that  my  for- 
tunes seem  assured,  my  rank  in  all  likelihood  restored,  my  foe 
crushed,  my  fears  at  rest — now,  does  it  become  me  to  retract 
what  I  myself  had  urged?  It  is  not  the  noble,  it  is  the  parvenu, 
who  had  only  to  grow  rich,  in  order  to  forget  those  whom  in 
poverty  he  hailed  as  his  friends.*  Is  it  for  me  to  make  the  poor 
excuse,  never  heard  on  the  lips  of  an  Italian  prince,  'that  lean- 
not  command  the  obedience  of  my  child,' — subject  myself  to 
the  galling  answer — 'Duke  of  Serrano,  you  could  once  command 
that  obedience,  when,  in  exile,  penury,  and  terror,  you  offered 
me  a  bride  without  a  dower.'  Child — Violante — daughter  of  an- 
cestors on  whose  honor  never  slander  set  a  stain,  I  call  on  you 
to  redeem  your  father's  plighted  word." 

"Father,  must  it  be  so?  Is  not  even  the  convent  open  to  me? 
Nay,  look  not  so  coldly  on  me.  If  you  could  but  read  my  heart ! 
And,  oh!  I  feel  so  assured  of  your  own  repentance  hereafter — 
so  assured  that  this  man  is  not  what  you  believe  him.  I  so  sus- 
pect that  he  has  been  playing  throughout  some  secret  and 
perfidious  part." 

"Ha!"  interrupted  Riccabocca,  "Harley  has  perhaps  infected 
you  with  that  notion." 

"No — no.    But  is  not  Harley — is  not  Lord  L'Estrange  one 

, 

*  "Quando'I  villano  e  divenuto  ricco, 

Nan  ha  (i.e.,  riconosce)  parent  «4  amico."          Italian  P reverb. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  363 

tvhose  opinion  you  have  cause  to  esteem?     And  if  he  distruy 
Mr.  Leslie — " 

"Let  him  make  good  his  distrust  by  such  proof  as  will  absolve 
my  word,  and  I  shall  share  your  own  joy.  I  have  told  him  this 
[  have  invited  him  to  make  good  his  suspicions — he  puts  me  off 
He  cannot  do  so,"  added  Riccabocca,  in  a  dejected  tone;  "Ran. 
dal  has  already  so  well  explained  all  that  Harley  deemed  equiv- 
ocal. Violante,  my  name  and  my  honor  rest  in  your  hands. 
Cast  them  away  if  you  will;  I  cannot  constrain  you,  and  I  can- 
not stoop  to  implore.  Noblesse  oblige — With  your  birth  you  took 
its  duties.  Let  them  decide  between  your  vain  caprice  and  your 
father's  solemn  remonstrances." 

Assuming  a  sternness  that  he  was  far  from  feeling,  and  putting 
aside  his  daughter's  arms,  the  exile  walked  away. 

Violante  paused  a  moment,  shivered,  looked  round,  as  if 
taking  a  last  farewell  of  joy,  and  peace,  and  hope  on  earth,  and 
then  approaching  her  father  with  a  firm  step,  she  said, — "I 
never  rebelled,  father;  I  did  but  entreat.  What  you  say  is  my 
law  now,  as  it  has  been  ;  'and  Come  what  may,  never  shall  you 
hear  complaint  or  murmur  from  me.  Poor  father,  you  will  suffer 
more  than  I  shall.  Kiss  me!" 

About  an  hour  afterward,  as 'the  short  day  closed  in,  Harley, 
returning  from  his  solitary  wanderings,  after  he  had  parted  from 
Helen,  encountered  on  the  terrace,  before  the  house,  Lady  Lans- 
mere  and  Audley  Egerton  arm  in  arm. 

Harley  had  drawn  his  hat' over  his  brows,  and  his  eyes  were. 
fixed  on  the  ground,  so  that  he  did  not  see  the  group  upon 
which  he  came  unawares,  until  Audley's  voice  started  him  from 

Me     «„*«•«, 

Harley,"  said  the  ex-minister,  with  a  faint  smile, 
ot  pass  us  by,  now  that  you  have  a  moment  of  leis- 
ure from  the  cares  of  the  election.  And,  Harley,  though  we  are 
under  the  same  roof,  I  see  you  so  little."  Lord  L'Estrange 
darted  a  quick  glance  toward  his  mother — aglance  that  seemed 
to  say,  "You  leaning  on  Audley's  arm!  Have  you  kept  your 
promise?"  And  the  eye  that  met  his  own  reassured  him. 

"It  is  true,"  said  Harley,  "but  you,  who  know  that, once 
gaged  in  public  affairs,  one  hns  no  heart  left  for  the  tics 
private  life,  will  excuse  me.  And  this  election 'is  so  important!  " 

"And  you;  Mr.  Egefton,"  s-ud  Lady  Lansmere,  "'whom  the 
election  most  concerns,  seem  pri\  ileged  to  be  the  only  one  wfio 
appears  indifferent  to  success." 

"Ay— but  you  are  not  indifferent?"  said  Lord  L'Estrange. 
abruptly. 


his  reverie. 

My  dear 
1  you  must  not 


364  MY    NOVEL  ;   OR, 

"No.  How  can  I  be  so,  when  my  whole  future  career  may 
depend  on  it." 

Harley  drew  Egerton  aside.  "There  is  one  voter  you  ought 
at  least  to  call  upon  and  thank.  He  cannot  be  made  to  com- 
prehend that,  for  the  sake  of  any  relation,  even  for  the  sake  of 
his  own  son,  he  is  to  vote  against  the  Blues — against  you  ; 
I  mean,  of  course,  Nora's  father  John  Avenel.  His  vote 
and  his  son-in-law's  gained  your  majority  at  your  first 
election." 

EGERTON. — Call  on  John  Avenel!     Have  j##  called  ? 

HARLEY  (calmly). — Yes.  Poor  old  man,  his  mind  has  been 
affected  ever  since  Nora's  death.  But  your  name  as  the  candi- 
date.for  the  borough  at  that  time — the  successful  candidate  for 
whose  triumph  the  joy-bells  chimed  with  her  funeral  knell — your 
name  brings  up  her  memory;  and  he  talks  in  a  breath  of  her  and 
of  you.  Come,  let  us  walk  together  to  his  hpuse;  it  is  close  by 
the  Park  Lodge." 

The  drops  stood  on  Audley's  brow!  He  fixed  his  dark  hand- 
some eyes,  in  mournful  amaze,  upon  Harley's  tranquil  face. 

"  Harley,  at  last  then  you  have  forgotten  the  Past." 

"No;  but  the  Present  is  more  imperious.  All  my  efforts  are 
needed  to  requite  your  friendship.  You  stand  against  her 
brother— yet  her  father  votes  for  you.  And  her  mother  says  to 
her  son,  'Let  the  old  man  alone.  Conscience  is  all  that  is  well 
alive  in  him;  and  he  thinks  if  he  were  to  vote  against  the  Blues, 
he  would  sin  against  honor.'  'An  electioneering  prejudice,' some 
sceptics  would  say.  But  you  must  be  touched  by  this  trait  of 
human  nature — in  her  father,  .too — you,  Audley  Egerton,  who 
are  the  soul  of  honor.  What  ails  you?" 
,  EGERTON. — Nothing — a  spasm  at  the  heart' — my  old  com- 
plaint. Well,  I  will  call  on  the  poor  man  .later,  but  not  now — 
not  with  you.  Nay,  nay,  I  will  not — I  cannot.  Harley,  just  as 
you  joined  us,  I  was  talking  to,  your  mother. 

HARLEY.— Ay,  and  what  of? 

EGERTON. — Yourself.  I  saw  you  from  my  windows  walking 
with  your  betrothed.  Afterward,  I  observed  her  coming  home 
alone ;  and  by  the  glimpse  I  caught  of  her  gentle  countenance, 
it  seemed  sad.  Harley,  do  you  deceive  us? 

HARLEY. — Deceive — I ! — How ! 

EGERTON. — Do  you  really  feel  that  your  intended  marriage 
will  bestow  on  you  the  happiness,  which  is  my  prayer,  as  it  must 
be  your  mother's? 

HARLEY. — Happiness — I  hoped  so.     But  perhaps — 

EGERTON.— Perh'aps  what? 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  365 

HARLEY. — Perhaps  the  marriage  may  not  take  place.  Perhaps 
I  have  a  rival — not  an  open  one — a  secret,  stealthy  wooer — in 
one,  too,  whom  I  have  loved,  served,  trusted.  Question  me  not 
now.  Such  instances  of  treachery  make  one  learn  more  how  to 
prize  a  friendship  honest,  devoted,  faithful,  as  your  own,  Audley 
Egerton.  But  here  comes  your  protigt,  released  awhile  from  his 
canvass,  and  your  confidential  adviser,  Baron  Levy.  He  accom- 
panied Randal  through  the  town  to-day.  So  anxious  is  he  to  see 
that  that  young  man  does  not  play  false,  and  regard  his  own  in- 
terest before  yours.  Would  that  surprise  you  ? 

EGERTON. — You  are  too  severe  upon  Randal  Leslie.  He  is 
ambitious,  worldly — has  no  surplus  of  affection  at  the  command 
of  his  heart — 

HARLEY. — Is  it  Randal  Leslie  you  describe? 

EGERTON  (with  a  languid  smile). — Yes,  you  see  I  do  not  flat- 
ter. But  he  is  born  and  reared  a  gentleman  ;  as  such  he  would 
scarcely  do  anything  mean.  And,  after  all,  it  ,is  with  me  that  he 
must  rise  or  fall.  His  very  intellect  must  tell  him  that.  But 
again  I  ask,  do  not  strive  to  prepossess  me  against  him.  I  am  a 
man  who  could  have  loved  a  son.  I  have  none.  Randal,  such  as 
he  is,  is  a  sort  of  son.  He  carries  on  my  projects  and  my  inter- 
ests in  the  world  of  men  beyond  the  goal  of  the  tomb." 

Audley  turned  kindly  to  Randal. 

"Well,  Leslie,  what  report  of  the  canvass?" 

"  Levy  has  the  book,  sir.  I  think  we  have  gained  ten  fresh 
votes  for  you,  and  perhaps  seven  for  me." 

"  Let  me  rid  you  of  your  book,  Baron  Levy,"  said  Harley. 

Just  at  this  time  Riccabocca  and  Violante  approached  the 
house,  both  silent.  The  Italian  caught  sight  of  Randal,  and 
made  him  a  sign  to  join  them.  The  young  lover  glanced  fear- 
fully toward  Harley,  and  then  with  alacrity  bounded  forward, 
and  was  soon  at  Violante's  side.  But  scarce  had  Harley,  sur- 
prised by  Leslie's  sudden  disappearance,  remarked  the  cause, 
than  with  equal  abruptness  he  abandoned  the  whispered  confer- 
ence he  had  commenced  with  Levy,  and  hastening  to  Randal, 
laid  hand  on  the  young  man's  shoulder,  "Ten  thousand  pardons 
to  all  three  !  You  have  yet  an  hour  before  it  grows  dark.  T,fyere 
are  three  out-voters  six  miles  off,  influential  farmers,  whom  you 
m,ust  canvass  in  person  with  my  father's  steward.  Hasten  to  the 
stables  ;  choose  your  own  horse.  To  saddle — to  saddle  !  Baron 
Levy,  go  and  order  my  lord's  steward,  Mr.  Smart,  to  join  Mr. 
Leslie  at  the  stables  ;  then  come  back  to  me— quick.  What  ? — 
loitering  still,  Mr.  Leslie  !  You  will  make  me  throw  up  your  whole 
cause  in  disgust  at  your  indolence  and  apathy." 


366  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

Alarmed  at  this  threat,  Randal  lifted  his  accusing  eyes  to 
Heaven,  and  withdrew. 

Meanwhile  Audley  had  drawn  close  to  Lady  Lansmere,  who 
was  leaning  in  thought  over  the  balustrade  of  the  terrace. 

"  Did  you  note,"  said  Audley,  whispering,  "  how  Harley  sprang 
forward  when  the  fair  Italian  came  in  sight?  Trust  me,  I  was  right. 
I  know  little  of  the  young  lady,  but  I  have  conversed  with  her.  I 
have  gazed  on  the  changes  in  her  face.  If  Harley  ever  love  again, 
and  if  ever  love  influence  and  exalt  his  mind,  wish  with  me  that 
his  choice, may  yet  fall  where  I  believe  that  his  heart  inclines  it." 

LADY  LANSMERE. — Ah !  that  it  were  so.  Helen,  I  own,  is  charm- 
ing ;  but — but — Violante  is  equal  in  birth  !  Are  you  not  aware 
that  she  is  engaged  to  your  young  friend,  Mr.  Leslie? 

AUDLEY.- — Randal  told  me  so  ;  but  I  cannot  believe  it.  In  fact, 
I  have  taken  occasion  to  sound  that  fair  creature's  inclinations, 
and  if  I  kno\v  aught  of  women,  her  heart  is  not  with  Randal.  I 
cannot  believe  her  to  be  one  whose  affections  are  so  weak  as 
:tobe  easily  constrained  ;  nor  can  I  suppose  that  her  father  could 
desire  to  enforce  a  marriage  that  is  almost  a.  Mesalliance.  Ran- 
dal must  deceive  himself ;  and  from  something  Harley  just  let 
fall,  in  our  painful,  but  brief  conversation,  I  suspect  that  his  en- 
gagement with  Miss  Digby  is  broken  off.  He  promises  to  tell 
me  more,  later.  Yes  (continued  Audley,  mournfully),  observe  Vi- 
olante's  countenance,  with  its  ever-varying  play ;  listen  to  her 
voice,  to  which  feeling  seems  to  give  the  expressive  music,  and 
tell  me  whether  you  are  not  sometimes  reminded  of — -of' — in  One 
Avord,  there  is  one  who,  even  without  rank  or  fortune,  would  be 
worthy  to  replace  the  image  of  Leonora,  and  be  to  Harley — what 
Leonora  could  not;  for  sure  I  am  that  Violante  loves  him. 

Harley,  meanwhile,  had  lingered  with  Riccabocca  and  Vio- 
lante, speaking  but  on  indifferent  subjects,  obtaining  short  answers 
from  the  first  and  none  from  the  last,  when  the  sage  drew  him  a 
little  aside,  and  whispered1, <f  She  has  consented  to  sacrifice  herself 
to  my  sense  of  honor.  But,  O  Harley  !  if  she  be  unhappy,  it  will 
break  my  heart.  Either  you  must  give  me  sufficient  proof  of  Ran- 
dal's unworthiness,  to  absolve  me  from  my  promise,  or  I  must  again 
entreat  you  to  try  and  conciliate  the  poor  child  in  his  favor.  All 
you  say  has  weight  with  her;  she  respects  you  as — a  second  father." 

Harley  did  not  seem  peculiarly  flattered  by  that  last  assurance, 
but  he  was  relieved  from  an  immediate  answer  by  the  appearance 
bra 'man  who  came  from  the  direction  of  the  stables,  and  whose 
dress,  covered  with  dust,  and  travel-stained,  seemed  likethatof 
a  foreign  courier.  No  sooner  did  Harley  catch  sight  of  this  person, 
than  he  sprang  forward,  and  accosted  him  briefly  and  rapidly. 


VARIETIES  ,IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  367 

"You  have  been  quick  ;  I  did  not  expect  you  so  soon.  You 
discovered  the  trace?  You  gave  my  letter?" 

"And  have  brought  back  the  answer,  my  lord,"  replied  the 
man,  taking  the  letter  from  a  leathern  pouch  at  his  side.  Harley 
hastily  broke  open  the  seal,  and  glanced  over  the  contents,  which 
were  comprised  in  a  few  lines. 

"  Good.  Say  not  whence  you  came.  Do  not  wait  here ;  re- 
turn at  once  to  London." 

Harley's  face  seemed  so  unusually  cheerful,  as  he  rejoined  the 
Italians,  that  the  Duke  exclaimed, — 

"A  despatch  from  Vienna!     My  recall!" 

"From  Vienna,  my. dear  friend?  Not  possible  yet.  I  cannot 
calculate  on  hearing  from  the  Prince  till  a  day  or  two  before  the 
close  of  this  election. ,  But  you  wish  me  to  speak  to  Viqlante. 
Join  my  mother  yonder.  What  can  she  be  saying  to  Mr.  Egerton  ? 
I  will  address  a  few  words  apart  to  your  fair  daughter,  that  may  at 
least  prove  the  interest  in  her  fate  taken  by — her  second  father," 

"Kindest  of  friends,"  said  the  unsuspecting  pupil  of  Machia- 
velli ;  and  he  walked  toward  the  terrace.  Violante  was  about  to 
follow.  Harley  detained  her. 

"  Do  not  go  till  you  have  thanked  me  ;  for  you  are  not  the  no- 
ble Violante  for  whom  I  take  you,  unless  you  acknowledge 
gratitude  to  any  one  who  delivers  you  from  the  presence  of  an 
admirer  in  Mr.  Randal  Leslie." 

VIOLANTE. — Ought  I  to  hear  this  of  one  whom— whom — 

HARLEY. — One  whom  your  father  obstinately  persists  in  ob- 
truding on  your  repugnance.  Yet,  O  dear  child,  you  who,  when 
almost  an  infant,  ere  yet  you  knew  what  snares  and  pitfalls,  for 
all  who  trust  to  another,  lie  under  the  sward  at  our  feet,  even 
when  decked  the  fairest  with  the  flowers  of  spring, — you  who  put 
your  small  hands  around  my  neck,  and  murmured  in  your  mu- 
sical voice,  "Save  us — save  my  father";  you,  at  least,  I  will  not 
forsake,  in  a  peril  worse  than  that  which  menaced  you  then;,— a 
peril  which  affrights  you  more  than  that  which  threatened  you 
in  the  snares  of  Pesqhiera.  Randal  Leslie  may  thrive  in  his 
meaner  objects  of  ambition — those  I  fling  to  him  in  scorn, — but 
you! — the  presuming  varlet !  (Harley  paused  a  moment,  half- 
stifled  with  indignation.  He  then  resumed,  calmly) — Trust  to 
me,  and  fear  not.  I  will  rescue  this  hand  from  the  profanation 
of  Randal  Leslie's  touch  ;  and  then  farewell,  for  life,  to  every 
soft  emotion.  Before  me  expands  the  welcome  solitude.  The 
innocent  saved,  the  honest  righted,  the  perfidious  stricken  by 
just  retribution — and  then— what  then  ?  Why,  #t  least  I  shall 
hart  studied  Machiavelli  with  more  effect  than  your  wise  father  j 


368  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

and  I  shall  lay  him  aside,  needing  no  philosophy  to  teach  me  never 
again  to  be  deceived.  (His  brow  darkened  ;  he  turned  abruptly 
away,  leaving  Violante  lost  in  amaze,  fear — and  a  delight,  vague, 
yet  more  vividly  felt  than  all.) 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

THAT  night,  after  the  labors  of  the  day,  Randal  had  gained 
the  sanctuary  of  his  own  room,  and  seated  himself  at  his  table, 
to  prepare  the  heads  of  the  critical  speech  he  would  have  now 
very  soon  to  deliver  on  the  day  of  nomination— critical  speech, 
when,  in  the  presence  of  foes  and  friends,  reporters  from  Lon- 
don, and  all  the  jarring  interests  that  he  sought  to  weave  into 
the  sole  self-interest  of  Randal  Leslie,  he  would  be  called  upon 
to  make  the  formal  exposition  of  his  political  opinions.  Randal 
Leslie,  indeed,  was  not  one  of  those  speakers  whom  either  mod- 
esty, fastidiousness,  or  conscientious  desire  of  truth,  predisposes 
toward  the  labor  of  written  composition.  He  had  too  much  clev- 
erness to  be  in  want  of  fluent  period,  or  ready  commonplace; — 
the  ordinary  materials  of  oratorical  impromptu, — too  little  taste 
for  the  Beautiful,  to  study  what  graces  of  diction  will  best  adorn 
a  noble  sentiment, — too  obtuse  a  conscience,  to  care  if  the  pop- 
ular argument  were  purified  from  the  dross  which  the  careless 
flow  of  a  speech  wholly  extemporaneous  rarely  fails  to  leave 
around  it.  But  this  was  no  ordinary  occasion.  Elaborate  study 
here  was  requisite,  not  for  the  orator,  but  the  hypocrite.  Hard 
task,  to  please  the  Blues,  and  not  offend  the  YeHows,-^-appear 
to  side  with  Audley  Egerton,  yet  insinuate  sympathy  with  Dick 
Avenel, — confront,  with  politesmile,  the  youngei  opponent,  whose 
words  had  lodged  arrows  in  his  vanity,  which  rankled  the  more 
gallingly  because  they  had  raised  the  skin  of  his  conscience. 

He  had  dipped  his  pen  into  the  ink,  and  smoothed  the  paper 
before  him,  when  a  knock  was  heard  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,"  said  he,  impatiently.    Levy  entered,  saunteringly. 

"I  am  come  to  talk  over  matters  with  you,  mon  c/itr,"  said 
the  Baron,  throwing  himself  on  the  sofa.  "And,  first,  I  wish 
you  joy  of  your  prospects  of  success." 

Randal  postponed  his  meditated  composition  with  a  quick  sigh, 
drew  his  chair  toward  the  sofa,  and  lowered  his  voice  into  a  whis- 
per. "You  think  with  me,  that  the  chanceof  my  success  is — good?" 

"Chance  ! — Why,  it  is  a  rubber  of  whist,  in  which  your  partner 
gives  you  all  the  winnings,  and  in  which  the  adversary  is  almost 
sure  to  revoke.  Either  Avenel  or  his  nephew,  it  is  true,  must 
come  in;  but  not  both.  Two  parvenus  aspiring  to  make  a  family- 
seat  of  an  Earl's  borough  !  Bah  !  too  absurd." 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  369 

"  I  hear  from  Riccabocca  (or  rather  the  Duke  di  Serrano) 
that  this  same  young  Fairfield  is  greatly  indebted  to  the  kind- 
ness of  Lord  L'Estrange.  Very  odd  that  he  should  stand  against 
the  Lansmere  interest." 

"  Ambition,  won  cher.  You  yourself  are  under  some  obliga- 
tion to  Mr.  Egerton.  Yet,  in  reality,  he  has  more  to  apprehend 
from  you  than  from  Mr.  Fairfield." 

"  I  disown  obligations  to  Mr.  Egerton.  And  if  the  electors 
prefer  me  to  him  (whom,  by  the  bye,  they  once  burned  in  effigy), 
it  is  no  fault  of  mine;  the  fault,  if  any,  will  rest  with  his  own 
dearest  friend,  L'Estrange.  I  do  not  understand  how  a  man  of 
such  clear  sense  as  L'Estrange  undoubtedly  possesses,  should 
be  risking  Egerton's  election  in  his  zeal  for  mine.  Nor  do  his 
formal  courtesies  to  myself  deceive  me.  He  has  even  implied 
that  he  suspects  me  of  connivance  with  Peschiera's  schemes  on 
Violante.  But  those  suspicions  he  cannot  support.  For  of 
course,  Levy,  you  would  not  betray  me  ?" 

"  I !     What  possible  interest  could  I  serve  in  that  ?" 

"  None  that  I  could  discover,  certainly,"  said  Randal,  relaxing 
into  a  smile.  "And  when  I  get  into  Parliament,  aided  by  the  social 
position  which  my  marriage  will  give  me,  I  shall  have  so  many 
ways  to  serve  you.  No,  it  is  certainly  your  interest  not  to  betray 
me.  I  shall  count  on  you  as  a  witness,  if  a  witness  can  be  required." 

"Count  on  me,  certainly,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  the  Baron. 
"  And  I  suppose  there  will  be  no  witness  the  other  way.  Done 
for  eternally  is  my  poor  friend  Peschiera,  whose  cigars,  by  the 
bye,  were  matchless;^-!  wonder  if  there  will  be  any  for  sale. 
And  if  he  were  not  so  done  for,  it  is  not  you,  it  is  L'Estrange, 
that  he  would  be  tempted  to  do  for." 

"  We  may  blot  Peschiera  out  of  the  map  of  the  future,"  re- 
joined Randal.  "  Men  from  whom  henceforth  we  have  nothing 
to  hope  or  to  fear,  are  to  us  as  the  races  before  the  deluge." 

"  Fine  remark,"  quoth  the  Baron,  admiringly.  "Peschiera, 
though  not  without  brains,  was  a  complete  failure.  And  when 
the  failure  of  one  I  have  tried  to  serve  is  complete,  the  rule  I 
have  adopted  through  life  is  to  give  him  up  altogether." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Randal. 

"  Of  course,"  echoed  the  Baron.  "  On  the  other  hand,  you 
know  that  I  like  pushing  forward  young  men  of  mark  and  promise. 
You  really  are  amazingly  clever ;  and  how  comes  it  you  don't 
speak  better?  Do  you  know  I  doubt  whether  you  will  do  in  the 
House  of  Commons  all  that  I  expected  from  your  address  and 
readiness  in  private  life." 

"Because  I  cannot  talk  trash  vulgar  enough  for  a  mob? 


J70  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

Pooh  !  I  shall,  succeed  wherever  knowledge  is  really  power.  Be- 
sides you  must  allow  for  my  infernal  position.  You  know,  after  all, 
that  Avenel,  if  he  can  only  return  himself  or  his  nephew,  still  holds 
in  his  hands  the  choice  of  the  candidate  upon  our  side.  I  can- 
not attack  him— «-I  cannot  attack  his  insolent  nephew." 

"  Insolent ! — not  that,  but  bitterly  eloquent.  He  hits  you  hard. 
Yon  are  no  match  for  him,  Randal,  before  a  popular  audience; 
though  tn  petite  comite,  the  devil  himself  were  hardly  a  match 
for  you.  But  now  to  a  somewhat  more  serious  point.  Your 
election  you  will  win — your  bride  is  promised  to  you;  but  the 
old  Leslie  lands,  in  the  present  possession  of  Squire  Thornhill, 
you  have  not  gained — and  'your  chance  of  gaining  them  is  in 
great  jeopardy.  I  did  not  like  to  tell  you  this  morning — it 
would  have  spoiled  your  temper  for  canvassing;  but  I  have  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  Thornhill  himself.  He  has  had  an  offer  for 
the  property,  which  is  only  ^£1000  short  of  what  he  asks.  A 
city  alderman,' called  jobson,  is  the  bidder;  a  man,  it  seems,  of 
large  means  and  few  words.  The  alderman  has  fixed  the  date 
on  which  he  must  have  a  definite  answer,  and  that  date  falls  on 
the — th,  two  days  after  that  fixed  for  the  poll  at  Lansmere. 
The  brute  declares  he  will  close.  Avith  another;  investment,  if 
Thornhill  does  not  then  come  into  his  terms.  Now,  as  Thorn- 
hill  will,  accept  these  terms  unless  I  can  positively  proniise 
him -better,  and  as  those  funds  on  which  you  calculated  (had 
the  marriage  pf  Peschiera  with  Violante,  and  Frank  Hazeldean 
with  Madame,  di  Negra,  taken  place)  fail  you,  I  see  no  hope  for 
your  being  in  time  with  the  money — and  the  old  lands  of  the 
Leslies  must  yield  their  rents  to  a  Jobson." 

"  I  care  for  nothing  on  earth  like  those  old  lands  of  my  fore- 
fathers," said  Randal,  with  unusual  vehemence — "  I  reverence 
so  little  amongst  the  living — and  I  do  reverence  the  dead.  And 
my  marriage  will  take  place  so  soon ;  and  the  dower  would  so 
amply  cover  the  paltry  advance  required." 

"  Yes;  but  the  mere  prospect  of  a  marriage  to  the  daughter 
of  a  man  whose  lands  are  still  sequestered,  would  be  no  security 
to  a  money-lender." 

"  Surely,"  said  Randal,  "  you,  who  once  offered  to  assist  me 
when  my  fortunes  were  more  precarious,  might  now  accom- 
modate me  with  this  loan,  as  a  friend,  and  keep  the  title-deeds 
of  the  estate  as — " 

"  As  a  money-lender,"  added  the  Baron,  laughing  pleasantly. 
"  No,  man  c/ier,  I  will  still  lend  you  half  the  sum  required  in 
advance,  but  the  other  half  is  more  than  I  can  afford  as  friend, 
or  hazard  as  money-lender;  and  it  would  damage  my  character — 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  371 

be  out  of  all  rule — if,  the  estates  falling,  by  your  default  of  pay- 
ment, into  my  own  hands,  I  should  appear  to  be  the  real  pur- 
chaser of  the  property  of  my  own  distressed  client.  But,  now 
I  think  of  it,  did  not  Squire  Hazeldean  promise  you  his  assist- 
ance in  this  matter?" 

"He  did  so,"  answered  Randal,  "as  soon  as  the  marriage 
between  Frank  and  Madame  di  Negra  was  off  his  mind.  I  meant 
to  cross  over  to  Hazeldean  immediately  after  the  election.  How 
can  I  leave  the  place,  till  then  ?  " 

"  If  you  do,  your  election  is  lost.  But  why  not  write  to  the 
Squire  ?  " 

!  "  It  is  against  my  maxim  to  write  where  I  ean  Speak.  How- 
ever, there  is  no  option;  I  will  write  at  once.  Meanwhile,  com- 
municate with  Thornhill;  keep  up  his  hopes;  and  be  sure,  at 
least,  that  he  does  not  close  with  this  greedy  alderman  before 
the  day  fixed  for  decision." 

"I  have  done  all  that  already,  and  my  letter  is  gone.  Now, 
do  your  part-;  and  if  you  write  as  cleverly  as  you  talk,  you 
would  coax  the  money  out  from  a  stonier  heart  than  poor  Mr. 
Hazeldean's.  I  leave  you  now — Good-night." 

Levy  took  up  his  candlestick,  nodded,  yawned,  and  went. 

Randal  still  suspended  the  completion  of  his  speech,  an<3  in- 
dited the  following  epistle  : — -  ' 

"  MY  DEAR  MR.  HAZELDEAN: — I  wrote  to  you  a  few  hasty 
lines  on  leaving  town,  to  inform  you  that  the  match  you  so 
dreaded  was  broken  off,  and  proposing  to  defer  particulars  till 
I  could  visit  your  kind  and  hospitable  roof,  which  I  trusted  to 
do  for  a  few  hours  during  my  stay  at  Lansmere,  since  it  is  not 
a  day's  journey  hence  to  Hazeldean.  But  I  did  not  calculate 
on  finding  so  sharp  a  contest.  In  no  election  throughout  the 
kingdom  do  I  believe  that  a  more  notable  triumph,  or  a  more 
stunning  defeat,  for  the  great  landed  interest  can  occur.  For 
in  this  towiv — so  dependent  on  agriculture — we  are  opposed  by 
a  low  and  sordid  manufacturer,  of  the  most  revolutionary  notions, 
who  has,  moreover,  the  audacity  to  force  his  own  nephew — that 
very  boy  whom  I  chastised  for  impertinence  on  your  village 
green — son  of  a  common  carpenter — actually  the  audacity,  I 
say,  to  attempt  to  farce  this  peasant  of  a  nephew,  as  well  as 
himself,  into  the  representation  of  Lansmere,  against  the  Earl's 
interest,  against  your  distinguished  brother — of  myself  I  say 
nothing.  You  should -hear  the  language  in  which  these  two  men 
indulge  against  all  your  family !  If  we  are  beaten  by  such  per- 
sons in  a  borough  supposed  to  be  so  loyal  as  Lansmere,  every 
one  with  a  stake  in  the  country  may  tremble  at  such  a  prognostic 


372  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

of  the  ruin  that  must  await  not  only  our  old  English  Constitu- 
tion, but  the  existence  of  property  itself.  I  need  not  say  that 
on  such  an  occasion  I  cannot  spare  myself.  Mr.  Egerton  is  ill 
too.  All  the  fatigue  of  the  canvass  devolves  on  me.  I  feel,  my 
dear  and  revered  friend,  that  I  am  a  genuine  Hazeldean,  fight- 
ing your  battle ;  and  that  thought  carries  me  through  all.  I 
cannot,  therefore,  come  to  you  till  the  election  is  over;  and 
meanwhile  you,  and  my  dear  Mrs.  Hazeldean,  must  be  anxious 
to  know  more  about  the  affair  that  so  preyed  on  both  your 
hearts,  than  I  have  yet  informed  you,  or  can  well  trust  to  a 
letter.  Be  assured,  however,  that  the  worst  is  over;  the  lady 
has  gone  abroad.  I  earnestly  entreated  Frank  (who  showed 
me  Mrs,  Hazeldean's  most  pathetic  letter  to  him)  to  hasten  at 
once  to  the  Hall  and  relieve  your  minds.  Unfortunately  he 
would  not  be  ruled  by  me,  but  talked  of  going  abroad,  too — 
not,  I  trust  (nay,  I  feel  assured),  in  pursuit  of  Madame  di  Negra; 
but  still,  in  short — I  should  be  so  glad  to  see  you,  and  talk  over 
the  whole.  Could  you  not  come  hither  ? — pray  do.  :And  now, 
at  the  risk  of  your  thinking  that  in  this  I  am  only  consulting  my 
own  interest  (but  no— your  noble  English  heart  will  never  so 
misjudge  me !),  I  will  add,  with  homely  frankness,  that  if  you 
could  accommodate  me  immediately  with  the  loan  you  not 
long  since  so  generously  offered,  you  would  save  those  lands 
onee  in  my  family  from  passing  away  from  us  forever.  A  city 
alderman — one  Jobson — is  meanly  taking  advantage  of  Thorn- 
hill's  necessities,  and  driving  a  hard  bargain  for  those  lands. 
He  has  fixed  the  — th  inst.  for  Thornhill's  answer,  and  Levy  (who 
is  here  assisting  Mr.  Egerton's  election)  informs  me  that  Thorn- 
hill  will  accept  his  offjer,  unless  I  am  provided  with  ^£10,000 
beforehand;,  the  other  ,£10,000,  to  complete  the  advance  re- 
quired, Levy  will  lend  me.  Do  not  be  surprised  at  the  usurer's 
liberality;  he  knows  that  I  am  about  shortly  to  marry  a  very 
great  heiress  (you  will  be  pleased  when  you  learn  whom,  and 
will  then  be  able  to  account  for  my  indifference  to  Miss  Stickto- 
rights),  and  her  dower  will  amply  serve  to  repay  his  loan  and 
your  own,  if  I  may  trust  to  your  generous  affection  for  the  grand- 
son of  a  Hazeldean !  I  have  the  less  scruple  in  this  appeal  to 
you,  for  I  know  how  it  would  grieve  you  that  a  Jobson,  who 
perhaps  nqver  knew  a  grandmother,  should  foist  your  own  kins- 
man from  the  lands  of  his  fathers.  Of  one  thing  I  am  con- 
vinced— we  squires,  and  sons  of  squires,  must  make  common 
cause  against  those  great  moneyed  capitalists,  or  they  will  buy 
us  all  out  in  a  few  generations.  The  old  race  of  country  gentle- 
men is  already  much  diminished  by  the  grasping  cupidity  of 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  375 

such  leviathans;  and  if  the  race  be  once  extinct,  what  will  be- 
come of  the  boast  and  strength  of  England ! 

"Yours,  my  dear  Mr.  Hazeldean,  with  most  affectionate  and 
grateful  respect,  RANDAL  LESLIE." 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

NOTHING  to  Leonard  as  yet  could  be  more  distasteful  or  op- 
pressive than  his  share  in  this  memorable  election.  In  the  first 
place,  it  chafed  the  secret  sores  of  his  heart  to  be  compelled  to 
resume  the  name  of -Fair-field,  which  was  a  tacit  disavowal  of  his 
birth.  It  had  been  such  delight  to  him  that  the  same  letters 
which  formed  the  name  of  Nora  should  weave  also  that  name 
of  Oran,  to  which  he  had  given  distinction,  which  he  had  asso- 
ciated with  all  his  nobler  toils,  and  all  his  hopes  of  enduring 
fame — a  mystic  link  between  his  own  career  and  his  mother's 
obscurer  genius.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  it  were  rendering  to  her 
the  honors  accorded  to  himself — subtle  and  delicate  fancy  of 
the  affections,  of  which  only  poets  would  be  capable,  but  which 
others  than  poets  may  perhaps  comprehend  !  That  earlier  name 
of  Fairfield  was  connected  in  his  memory  with  all  the  ruder 
employments,  the  meaner  trials  of  his  boyhood  ; — the  name  of 
Oran,  with  poetry  and  fame.  It  was  his  title  in  the  ideal  world, 
amongst  all  fair  shapes  and  spirits.  In  reviving  the  old  appella- 
tion, the  practical  world,  with  its  bitterness  and  strife,  returned 
to  him  as  at  the  utterance  of  a  spell.  But  in  coming  to  Lansmere 
he  had  no  choice.  To  say  nothing  of  Dick,  and  Dick's  parents, 
with  whom  his  secret  would  not  be  safe,  Randal  Leslie  knew  that 
he  had  gone  by  the  name  of  Fairfield — knew  his  supposed  parent- 
age, and  would  be  sure  to  proclaim  them.  How  account  for  the 
later  name  without  setting  curiosity  to  decipher  the  anagram  it 
involved,  and  perhaps  guiding  suspicions  to  his  birth  from  Nora, 
to  the  injury  of  her  memory,  yet  preserved  from  stain  ? 

His  feelings  as  connected  with  Nora — sharpened  and  deepened 
as  they  all  had  been  by  his  discovery  of  her  painful  narrative — 
were  embittered  still  more  by  coming  in  contact  with  her  parents. 
Old  John  was  in  the  same  helpless  state  of  mind  and  body  as 
before — neither  worse  nor  better  ;  but  waking  up  at  intervals  with 
vivid  gleams  of  interest  in  the  election  at  the  wave  of  a  blue 
banner — at  the  cry  of  "  Blue  forever !  "  It  was  the  old  broken- 
down  charger,  who,  dozing  in  the  meadows,  starts  at  the  roll  of 
the  drum.  No  persuasion  Dick  could  employ  would  induce  his 
father  to  promise  to  vote  even  one  Yellow.  You  might  as  well 
have  expected  the  old  Roman,  with  his  monomaniac  cry  against 


374  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

Carthage,  to  have  voted  for  choosing  Carthaginians  for  consuls. 
But  poor  John,  nevertheless,  was  not  only  very  civil,  but  very 
humble  to  Dick — "very  happy  to  oblige  the  gentleman." 

"Your  own  son!"  bawled  Dick;  "and  here  is  your  own 
grandson." 

"Very  happy  to  serve  you  both;  but  you  see  you  are  the 
wrong  color." 

Then  as  he  gazed  at  Leonard,  the  old  man  approached  him 
with  trembling  knees,  stroked  his  hair,  looked  into  his  face  pite- 
ously.  "  Be  thee  my  grandson  ?"  he  faltered.  "  Wife,  wife,  Nora 
had  no  son,;  had  she  ?  My  memory  begins  to  fail-  me,  sir  ;  pray 
excuse  it;  but  you  have  a  look  about  the  eyes  that — "  Old 
John  began  to. weep,  and  his  wife  led  him  away. 

"Don't  come  again,'*  she  said  to  Leonard,  harshly,  when  she 
returned.  "  He'll  not  sleep  all  night  now."  And,  then,  observing 
that  the  tears  stood  in  Leonard's  eyes,  she  addedj  in  softened 
tones — "  I  am  glad  to  see  you  well  and  thriving,  and  to  hear  that 
you  have  been  of  great  service  to  my  son  Richard,  whoisacredit 
and  an  honor,  to  the  .family,  though  poor  John  cannot  vote  for 
him  or  for  you  against  his  conscience  ;.and  he  should  not  be 
asked,  "she  added,  firing  up;  "and  it  is  a  sin  to  ask  it,  and  he  is  so 
old,  and  no  one  to  defend  him  but  me.  But  defend  him  I  will 
while  I  have  life  !  " 

The  poet  recognized  woman's  : brave,  loving,  wife-like  heart 
here,  and  would  have  embraced  the  stern  grandmother,  if  she 
had  not  drawn  back  from  him  ;  and,  as  she  turned  toward  the 
room  to  which  she  had  led  her  husband,  shesaid  over  her  shoulder— ~ 

"I'm  not  so  unkind  as  I  seem,  boy ;  but  it  is  better  for  you, 
and  for  all,  that  you  should  not  come  to  this  house  again — 
better  that  you  had  not  come  into  the  town." 

"Fie,  mother!"  said  Dick,  seeing  that  Leonard,  bending  his 
head,  silently  walked  from  the  room.    "You  should  be  prouder 
of  your  grandson  than  you  are  of  me." 
f" Prouder  of  him  who  may  shame  us  all  yet?" 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

But  Mrs.  Avenel  shook  her  head  and  vanished. 

"Nevermind  her,  poor  old  soul, "said  Dick,  as'he  joined  Leonard 
at  the  threshold;  "she  always  had  her  tempers.  And  since  there  is 
no  vote  to  be  got  in  this  house,  and  one  can't  set  a  caucus  on  one's 
own  father — at  least  in  this  extraordinary  rotten  and  prejudiced 
o.lcl  country,  which  is  quite  in  its  dotage — we'll  not  come  here 
to  be  snubbed  any  more.  Bless  their  old  hearts,  nevertheless  !  " 

Leonard's  acute  sensibility  in  all  that  concerned  his  birth, 
deeply. wounded  by  Mrs.  Avenel's  allusions,  which  he  compre^  - 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  375 

hended  better  than  his  uncle  did,  was  also  kept  on  the  edge  by 
the  suspense  to  which  he  was  condemned  by  Harley's  continued 
silence  as  to  the  papers  confided  to  that  nobleman.  It  seemed  to 
Leonard  almost  unaccountable  that  Harley  should  have  read 
those  papers — be  in  the  same  town  with  himself — and  yet  volun- 
teer no  communication.  At  length  he  wrote  a  few  lines  to  Lord 
L'Estrange,  bringing  the.  matter  that  concerned  him  so  deeply 
before  Harley's  recollection,  and  suggesting  his  own  interest  in 
any  information  that  could  supply  the  gaps  and  omissions  of  the 
desultory  fragments.  Harley,  in  replying  to  this  note,  said,  with 
apparent  reason, "  that  it  would  require  a  long  personal  interview 
to  discuss  the  subject  referred  to,  and  that  such  an  interview,  in 
the  thick  of  the  contest  between  himself  and  a  candidate  opposed 
to  the  Lansmere  part}',  would  be  sure  to  get  wind,  be  ascribed 
to  political  intrigues,  be  impossible  otherwise  to  explain- — and 
embarrass  all  the  interests  confided  to  their  respective  charge. 
That  for  the  rest  he  had  not  been  unmindful  of  Leonard's  anxiety, 
which  must  now  mainly  be  to  see  justice  done  to  the  dead  parent, 
and  learn  the  name,  station,  and  character  of  the  parent  yet 
surviving.  And  in  this  Harley  trusted  to  assist  him  as  soon  as  the 
close  of  the  poll  would  present  a  suitable  occasion."  The  letter 
was  unlike  Harley's  former  cordial  tone  ;  it  was  hard  and  dry. 
Leonard  respected  L'Estrange  too  much  to  own  to  himself  that 
it  was  unfeeling.  With  all  his  rich  generosity  of  nature,  he  sought 
excuses-for  what  he  declined  to  blame.  Perhaps  something  in 
Helen's  manner  or  words  had  led:Harley  to  suspect  that  she  still 
cherished  too  tender  -an  interest  in  the  companion  of  her  child- 
hood ;  perhaps  under  this  coldness  of  expression  there  lurked 
the  burning  anguish  of  jealousy.  And,  oh,  Leonard  so  well  under- 
stood, and  could  so  nobly  compassionate,  even  in  his  prosperous 
rival,  that  torture  of  the  most  agonizing  of  human  passions,  in 
which  all  our  reasonings  follow  the  distorted  writhings  of  our  pain. 
And  Leonard  himself,  amidst  his  other  causes  of  disquiet,  was 
at  once  so  gnawed  and  sohumbled  by  his  own  jealousy.  Helen, 
he  knew,  was  still  under  the  same  roof  as  Harley.  They,  the 
betrothed,  could  see  each  other  dajly,  hourly.  He  would  soon 
hear  of  their  marriage.  She  would  be  borne  afar  from  the  very 
sphere  of  his  existence — carried  into  a  loftier  region — accessible 
only  to  his  dreams.  And  yet  to  be  jealou^of  one  to  whom  both 
Helen  and  himself  were  under  such  obligations,  debased  him  in 
his  own  esteem — jealousy  here  was  so  like  ingratitude.  But  for 
Harley,  what  could  have. become  of  Helen,  left  to  his  boyish 
charge  ? — he  who  had  himself  been  compelled,  in  despair,  to  think 
of  sending  her  from  his  side,  to  be  reared  into  smileless  youth  iji 


376  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

his  mother's  humble  cottage,  while  he  faced  famine  alone,  gazing 
on  the  terrible  river,  from  the  bridge  by  which  he  had  once 
begged  for  very  alms — begged  of  that  Audley  Egerton,  to  whom 
he  was  now  opposed  as  an  equal; — or  flying  from  the  fiend  that 
glared  at  him  under  the  lids  of  the  haunting  Chattertpn.  No, 
jealousy  here  was  more  than  agony — it  was  degradation — it  was 
crime!  But,  ah!  if  Helen  were  happy  in  these  splendid  nup- 
tials! Was  he  sure  even  of  that  consolation?  Bitter  was  the 
thought  either  way — that  she  should  wholly  forget  him,  in  hap- 
piness from  which  he  stood  excluded  as  a  thing  of  sin — or  sin- 
fully herself  remember,  and  be  wretched! 

With  that  healthful  strength  of  will  which  is  more  often  pro- 
portioned to  the  susceptibility  of  feeling  than  the  world  suppo- 
ses, the  young  man  at  last  wrenched  himself  for  a  while  from  the 
iron  that  had  entered  his  soul,  and  forced  his  thoughts  to  seek 
relief  in  the  very  objects  from  which  they  otherwise  would  have 
the  most  loathingly  recoiled.  He  aroused  his  imagination  to 
befriend  his  reason ;  he  strove  to  divine  some  motive  not  explained 
by  Harley,  not  to  be  referred  to  the  mere  defeat,  by  counter- 
scheme,  of  the  scheming  Randal — nor  even  to  be  solved,  by  any 
service  to  Audley  Egerton,  which  Harley  might  evolve  from  the 
complicated  meshes  of  the  election;— some  motive  that  could 
more  interest  his  own  heart  in  the  con  test,  and  connect  itself  with 
Harley's  promised  aid  in  clearing  up  the  mystery  of  his  parent- 
age. Nora's  memoir  had  clearly  hinted  that  his  father  was  of 
rank  and  station  far  beyond  her  own.  She  had  thrown  the  glow 
of  her  glorious  fancies  over  the  ambition  and  the  destined  career 
of  the  lover  in  whom  she  had  merged  her  ambition  as  poetess, 
and  her  career  as  woman.  Possibly  the  father  might  be  more 
disposed  to  own  and  to  welcome  the  son,  if  the  son  could  achieve 
an  opening,  and  give  promise  of  worth,  in  that  grand  public  life 
in  which  alone  reputation  takes  precedence  of  rank.  Possibly, 
too,  if  the  son  thus  succeeded,  and  became  one  whom  a  proud 
father  could  with  pride  acknowledge,  possibly  he  might  not  only 
secure  a  father's  welcome,  but  vindicate  a  mother's  name.  This 
marriage,  which  Nora  darkly  hinted  she  had  been  led  to  believe 
was  fraudulent,  might,  after  all,  have  been  legal- — the  ceremony 
concealed,  even  till  now,  by  worldly  shame  at  disparity  of  rank. 
But  if  the  son  could  make  good  his  own  footing— there  where 
rank  itself  owned  its  chiefs  in  talent— that  shame  might  vanish. 
These  suppositions  were  not  improbable;  nor  were  they  uncon- 
genial to  Leonard's  experience  of  Harley's  delicate  benignity 
of  purpose.  Here,  too,  the  image  of  Helen  allied  itself  with  those 
of  his  parents,  to  support  his  courage  and  influence  his  new  am- 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  377 

bition.  True,  that  she  was  lost  to  him  for  ever.  No  worldly 
success,  no  political  honors,  could  now  restore  her  to  his  side. 
But  she  might  hear  him  named  with  respect  in  those  circles  in 
which  alone  she  would  hereafter  move,  and  in  which  parliamen- 
tary reputation  ranks  higher  than  literary  fame.  And  perhaps, 
in  future  years,  when  love,  retaining  its  tenderness,  was  purified 
from  its  passion,  they  might  thus  meet  as  friends.  He  might, 
without  a  pang,  take  her  children  on  his  knees,  and  say,  perhaps 
in  their  old  age,  when  he  had  climbed  to  a  social  equality  even 
with  her  high-born  lord,  "It  was  the  hope  to  regain  the  privilege 
bestowed  on  her  childhood,  that  strengthened  me  to  seek  dis- 
tinction when  you  and  happiness  forsook  my  youth.  Thus  re- 
garded, the  election,  which  had  before  seemed  to  him  so  poor 
and  vulgar  an  exhibition  of  vehement  passions  for  petty  objects, 
with  its  trumpery  of  banners,  and  its  discord  of  trumpets,  sud- 
denly grew  into  vivid  interest,  and  assumed  dignity  and  impor- 
tance. It  is  ever  thus  with  all  mortal  strife.  In  proportion  as  it 
possesses,  or  is  void  of,  the  diviner  something  that  quickens  the 
pulse  of  the  heart,  and  elevates  the  wing  of  the  imagination,  it 
presents  a  mockery  to  the  philosopher,  or  an  inspiration  to  the 
bard.  Feel  that  something,  and  no  contest  is  mean!  Feel  it  not, 
and  like  Byron,  you  may  class  with  the  slaughter  of  Cannae  that 
field  which,  at  Waterloo,  restored  the  landmarks  of  nations;  or 
may  jeer  with  Juvenal  at  the  dust  of  Hannibal,  because  he  sought 
to  deliver  Carthage  from  ruin,  and  free  a  world  from  Rome. 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

ONCE  then,  grappling  manfully  with  the  task  he  had  under- 
taken, and  constraining  himself  to  look  on  what  Riccabocca 
would  have  called  "the  southern  side  of  things,"  whatever  there 
was  really  great  in  principle  or  honorable  to  human  nature,  deep 
below  the  sordid  details  and  pitiful  interests  apparent  on  the  face 
of  the  agitated  current,  came  clear  to  his  vision.  The  ardor  of 
those  around  him  began  to  be  contagious;  the  generous  devo- 
tion to  some  cause,  apart  from  self,  which  pervades  an  election, 
and  to  which  the  poorest  voter  will  often  render  sacrifices  that 
may  be  called  sublime — the  warm  personal  affection  which  com- 
munity of  zeal  creates  for  the  defender  of  beloved  opinions — all 
concurred  to  dispel  that  indifference  to  party  politics,  and  coun- 
teract that  disgust  of  their  baser  leaven,  which  the  young  poet 
had  first  conceived.  He  even  began  to  look  with  complacency, 
for  itself,  on  a  career  of  toil  and  honors  strange  to  his  habitual 
labors  and  intellectual  ambition.  He  threw  the  poetry  of  idea 


378  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

within  him  (as  poets  ever  do)  into  the  prose  of  action  to  which 
he  was  hurried  forward.  He  no  longer  opposed  Dick  Avenel 
when  that  gentleman  represented  how  detrimental  it  would  be  to 
his  business  at  Screwstown  if  he  devoted  to  his  country  the  time 
and  the  acumen  required  by  his  mill  and  its  steam-engine;  and 
how  desirable  it  would  be,  on  all  accounts,  that  Leonard  Fair- 
field  should  become  the  parliamentary  representative  of  theAve- 
nels.  "If,  therefore,"  said  Dick,  "two  of  us. cannot  come  in, 
and  one  must  retire,  leave  it  to  me  to  arrange  with  the  commit- 
tee that  you  shall  be  the  one  to  persist.  Oh,  never  fear  but  what 
all  scruples  of  honor  shall  be  satisfied.  I  would  not,  for. the  sake 
of  the  Avenels,  have  a  word  said  against  their  representative." 

"But,"  answered  Leonard,  "if  I  grant  this,  I  fear  that  you  have 
some  intention  of  suffering  the  votes  that  your  resignation  would 
release,  to  favor  Leslie  at  the  expense  of  Egerton." 

"  What  the  deuce  is  Egerton  to  you  ?" 

"Nothing,  except  through  my  gratitude  to  his  friend,  Lord 
L'Estrange." 

".Pooh!  I  will  tell  you  a  secret.  Levy  informs  me  privately 
that  L'Estrange  will  be  well  satisfied  if  the  choice  of  Lansmere 
fall  upon  Leslie  instead  of  Egerton;  and  I  think  I  convinced 
my  lord — for  I  saw  him  in  London — that  Egerton  would  hftve 
no  chance,  though  Leslie  might." 

"I  must  think  that  Lord  L'Estrange  would  resist  to  the  utmost 
any  attempt  to  prefer  Leslie— whom  he  despises — to  Egerton, 
whom  he  honors.  And,  so  thinking,  I  too  would  resist  it,  as  you 
may  judge  by  the  speeches  which  have  so  provoked  your  dis- 
pleasure." 

"  Let^us  cut-short  a  yarn  of  talk  which,  when  it  comes  talikings 
and  dislikings, might  last  to  almighty  crack;  rilaskyoutodonoth- 
ingthatLordL'Estrange  does  not  sanction.  Will  that  satisfy  you?" 

"  Certainly,  provided  I  am  assured  .of  the  sanction." 

And  now,  the  important  day  preceding  the  poll,  the  day  in  which 
the  candidates  were  to  be  formally  nominated,  and  meet  each  other 
in  all  the  ceremony  of  declared  rivalship,  dawned  at  last.  The 
town-hall  was  the  place  selected  for  the  occasion;  and  before  sun- 
rise, all  the  streets  were  resonant  with  music,  and  gay  with  banners. 

Audley  Egerton  felt  that  he,  could  not — without  incurring 
some  just  sarcasm  on  his  dread  to  face  the  constituency  he  had 
formerly  represented,  and  by  the  malcontents  of  which  he  had 
been  burned  in  effigy— absent  himself  from  the  town-hall,  as  he 
had  done  from  balcony  and  hostel.  Painful  as  it  was  to  confront 
Nora's  brother,  and  wrestle  in  public  against  all  the  seqret  memo- 
ries that  knit  the  strife  of  the  present  contest  with  the  anguish 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  379 

.   . 

that  recalled  the  first — still  the  thing  must  be  done;  and  it  was  the 
English  habit  of  his  life  to  face  with  courage  whatever  hehad  to  do. 

•  • 
CHAPTER  XXIV. 

't'HE  chiefs  of  the  Blue  party  went  in  state  from  Lansmere 
Park  ;  the  two  candidates  in  open  carriages,  each  attended  with 
his  proposer  and  seconder.  Other  carriages  were  devoted  to 
Harley  and  Levy,  and  the  principal  members  of  the  committee. 
Riccaboccawas  seized  with  a  fit  of  melancholy  or  cynicism,  and 
declined  to  join  the  procession.  But  just  before  they  started,  as 
all  were  assembling  without  :the  front  door,  the  postman  arrived 
with  his  welcome  bag.  There  were  letters  for  Harley,  some  for 
Levy,  many  for  Egerton,  one  for  Randal  Leslie. 

Levy,  soon  hurrying  over  his  own  correspondence,  looked,  in 
the  familiar  freedom  wherewith  he  usually  treated  his  particular 
friends,  over  Randal's  shoulder. 

"From  the  Squire?"  said  he.  "Ah,  he  has  written  at  last! 
What  made  him  delay  so  long?  Hope  he  relieves  your  mind?" 

''Yes, "cried  Randal,  giving  way  to  a  joy  that  rarely  lighted  up 
hisclose  and  secret  countenance — "yes,  he. does  not  writefrom 
Hazeldean — not  there  when  my  letter  arrived — in  London — 
could  not  rest  at  the  Hall— the  place  reminded  him  too  much  of 
Frank — went  again  to  town,  on  the  receipt  .of  my  first  letter 
concerning  the  rupture  of  the  marriage,  to  see  after  his  son,  and 
take  up  some  money  to  pay  off  \^\°>  post-obit.  Read  what  he  says  : — 
'So,  while  I  was  about  a  mortgage — (never  did  I  guess  that  I 
should  be  the  man  to  encumber  the  Hazeldean  estate) — I  thought 
I  might  as  well  add  ^20,000  as  ^10,000  to  the  total.  Why  should 
you  be  indebted  at  all  to  that  Baron  Levy?  Don't  have  dealings 
with  money-lenders.  Your  grandmother  was  a  Hazeldean  !  and 
fromaHazeldeanyou  shall  have  the  whole  sum  required  in  advance 
for  those  Rood  lands — good  light  soil  some  of  them.  As  to  repay- 
ment, we'll  talk  of  that  later.  If  Frank  and  I  come  together 
again,  as  we  did  of  old,  why,  my  estates  will  be  his  some  day ; 
and  he'll  not  grudge  the  mortgage,  so  fond  as  he  always  was  of 
you  ;  and  if  we  don't  come  together,  what  do  I  care  for  hundreds 
or  thousands, either  more  or  less?  So  I  shall  be  down  at  Lans- 
mere the  day  after  to-morrow,  just  in  the  thick  of  your  polling. 
Beat  the  manufacturer,  my  boy,  and  stick  up  for  the  land.  Tell 
Levy  to  have  all  ready.  I  shall  bring  the  money  down  in  good 
bank-notes,  and  a  brace  of  pistols  in  my  coat-pocket  to  take  care 
of  them,  in  case  robbers  get  scent  of  the  notes  and  attack  me  on 
the  road,  as  they  did  my  grandfather  sixty  years  ago  come  next 


380  MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

Michaelmas.  A  Lansmere  election  puts  one  in  mind  of  pistols. 
I  once  fought  a  duel  with  an  officer  in  his  Majesty's  service,  R.  N., 
and  had  a  ball  lodged  in  my  right  shoulder,  on  account  of  an 
election  at  Lansmere  ;  but  I  have  forgiven  Audley  his  share  in 
that  transaction.  Remember  me  to  him  kindly.  Don't  get  into 
a  duel  yourself ;  but  I  suppose  manufacturers  don't  fight; — 
not  that  I  blame  them  for  that— far  from  it.' " 

The  letter  then  ran  on  to  express  surprise,  and  hazard  con- 
jecture, as  to  the  wealthy  marriage  which  Randal  had  announced 
as  a  pleasing  surprise  to  the  Squire. 

"Well, "said  Levy,  returning  the  letter,  "you  must  have  writ- 
ten as  cleverly  as  you  tall;,  or  the  Squire  is  a  booby  indeed." 

Randal  smiled,  pocketed  the  letter,  and  responding  to  the 
impatient  call  of  his  proposer,  sprang  lightly  into  the  carriage. 

Harley,  too,  seemed  pleased  with  the  letters  delivered  to  him- 
self, and  now  joined  Levy,  as  the  candidates  drove  slowly  off. 

"  Has  not  Mr.  Leslie  received  from  the  Squire  an  answer  to 
that  letter  of  which  you  informed  me?" 

"  Yes,  my  lord  ;  the  Squire  will  be  here  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow  ?  Thank  you  for  apprising  me  ;  his  rooms  shall 
be  prepared." 

"  I  suppose  he  will  only  stay  to  see  Leslie  and  myself,  and 
pay  the  money." 

"Aha!     Pay  the  money.     Is  it  so,  then  ?" 

"  Twice  the  sum,  and,  it  seems,  as  a  gift,  which  Leslie  only 
asked  as  a  loan.  Really,  my  lord,  Mr.  Leslie  is  a  very  clever 
man  ;  and  though  I  am  at  your  commands,  1  should  not  like  to 
injure  him.  With  such  matrimonial  prospects,  he  could  be  a  very 
powerful  enemy ;  and  if  he  succeeded  in  Parliament,  still  more  so." 

"  Baron,  these  gentlemen  are  waiting  for  you.     I  will  follow 

by  myself." 

• 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

IN  the  centre  of  the  raised  platform  in  the  town-hall  sat  the 
Mayor.  On  either  hand  of  that  dignitary  now  appeared  the  can- 
didates of  the  respective  parties.  To  his  right,  Audley  Egerton 
and  Leslie;  to  his  left,  Dick  Avenel  and  Leonard.  The  place 
was  as  full  as  it  could  hold.  Rows  of  grimy  faces  peeped  in, 
even  from  the  upper  windows  outside  the  building.  The  con- 
test was  one  that  created  intense  interest,  not  only  from  public 
principles,  but  local  passions.  Dick  Avenel,  the  son  of  a'small 
tradesman,  standing  against  the  Right  Honorable  Audley  Eger- 
ton, the  choice  of  the  powerful  Lansmere  aristocratic  party- 
Standing  too,  with  his  nephew  by  his  side— taking,  as  he  himself 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  381 

was  wont  to  say,  "  the  tarnation  Blue  Bull  by  both  its  oligarchical 
horns!  "  There  was  a  pluck  and  gallantry  in  the  very  impudence 
of  the  attempt  to  convert  the  important  borough — for  one  mem- 
ber of  which  a  great  Earl  had  hitherto  striven,  "with  labor  dire 
and  weary  woe," — into  two  family  seats  for  the  house  of  Avenel 
and  the  triumph  of  the  Capelocracy. 

This  alone  would  have  excitedallthe  spare  passions  of  a  coun- 
try borough;  but,  besides  this,  there  was  the  curiosity  that  at- 
tached to  the  long-deferred  public  appearance  of  a  candidate  so 
renowned  as  the  ex-minister — a  man  whosecareerhad  commenced 
with  his  success  at  Lansmere,  and  who  now,  amid  the  popular 
tempest  that  scattered  his  colleagues,  sought  to  refit  his  vessel 
in  the  same  harbor  from  which  it  had  first  put  forth.  New  gen- 
erations had  grown  up  since  the  name  of  Audley  Egerton  had 
first  fluttered  the  dovecots  in  that  Corioli.  The  questions  that 
had  then  seemed  so  important  were,  for  the  most  part,  settled 
and  at  rest.  But  those  present  who  remembered  Egerton  in  the 
former  days,  were  struck  to  see  how  the  same  characteristics  of 
bearing  and  aspect  which  had  distinguished  his  early  youth  re- 
vived their  interest  in  the  mature  and  celebrated  man.  As  he 
stood  up  for  a  few  moments,  before  he  took  his  seat  beside  the 
Mayor,  glancing  over  the  assembly,  with  its  uproar  of  cheers  and 
hisses,  there  was  the  same  stately  erectness  of  form  and  stead- 
fastness of  look — the  same  indefinable  and  mysterious  dignity,  of 
externals  that  imposed  respect,  confirmed  esteem,  or  stilled  dis- 
like. The  hisses  involuntarily  ceased. 

The  preliminary  proceedings  over,  the  proposers  and  second- 
ers commenced  their  office. 

Audley  was  proposed,  of  course,  by  the  crack  man  of  the 
party — a  gentleman  who  lived  on  his  means  in  a  white  house  in 
the  High  Street — had  received  a  University  education,  and  was 
a  cadet  of  a  "County  Family."  This  gentleman  spoke  much 
about  the  Constitution,  something  about  Greece  and  Rome — 
compared  Egerton  with  William  Pitt,  also  with  Aristides  ;  and 
sat  down,  after  an  oration  esteemed  classical  by  the  few,  and 
pronounced  prosy  by  the  many.  Audley's  seconder,  aburly  and 
important  maltster,  struck  a  bolder  key.  He  dwelt  largely  upon 
the  necessity  of  being  represented  by  gentlemen  of  wealth  and 
rank,  and  not  by  "upstarts  and  adventurers"  (cheers  and  groans). 
Looking  at  the  candidates  on  the  other  side,  it  was  an  insult  to 
the  respectability  of  Lansmere  to  suppose  its  constituents  could 
elect  a  man  who  had  no  pretensions  whatever  to  their  notice, 
except  that  he  had  once  been  a  little  boy  in  the  town,  in  which 
his  father  kept  a  shop — and  a  very  noisy,  turbulent)  dirty  little 


382  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

boy  he  was! "  Dick  smoothed  his  spotless  shirt-front,  and  looked 
daggers,  while  the  Blues  laughed  heartily,  and  the  Yellows  cried 
"Shame!"  "As  for  the  other  candidate  on  the  same  side,  he 
(the  maltster)  had  nothing  to  say  against  him.  He  was,  no  doubt, 
seduced  into  presumption  by  his  uncle  and  his  own  inexperience. 
It  was  said  that  that  candidate,  Mr.  Fairfield,  was  an  author 
and  a  poet;  if  so,  he  was  unknown  to  fame,  for  no  bookseller  in 
the  town-had  ever  even  heard' of  Mr.  Fairfield's  works.  Then  it 
was  replied,  Mr.  Fairfield  had  written  under  another  name. 
What  Avoiild  that  prove?  Either  that  he  w#s  ashamed  of  his 
name,  or  that  the  works  did  him  no  credit.  For  his  part,  he 
(the  maltster)  was  an  Englishman;  he  did  not  like  anonymous 
scribblers;  there  was  something  not  right  in  whatever  was  con- 
cealed. A  man  should  never  be  afraid  to  put  his  name  to  what 
he  wrote.  But,  grant  that  Mr.  Fairfield  was  a  great  author  and 
a  great  poet,  what  the  borough  of  Lansmere  wanted  was,  not  a 
member  who  would  pass  his  time  in  writing  sonnets  to  Peggy  or 
Moggy,  but  a  practical  man  of  business — a  statesman— such  a 
man  as  Mr.  Audley  Egerton— a  gentleman  of  ancient  birth,  high 
standing,  and  princely  fortune.  The  member  for  such  a  place 
as  Lansmere  should  have  a  proper  degree  of  wealth."  ("  Hear, 
hear!"  from  the  Hundred  and  Fifty  Hesitators,  who  all  stood  in 
a  row  at  the  bottom  of  the  hall;  and  "  Gammon!  ""  Stuff  !"  from 
some  revolutionary,  but  incorruptible  Yellows).  Still  the  allu- 
siort  to  Egefton's  private  fortune  had  considerable  effect  with 
the  bulk  of  the  audience,  and  the  maltster  was  much  cheered 
ort  concluding.  Mr.  Avenel's  proposer  and  seconder— the  one 
a  large  grocer,  the  other  the  proprietor  of  a  new  shop  for  tick- 
eted prints,  shawls,  blankets,  and  counterpanes  (a  man  who,  as 
he  boasted,  dealt  with  the  People  for  ready  money,  and  no  mis- 
take— at  least  none  that  he  ever  rectified),  next  followed.  Both 
said  much  the  same  thing.  Mr.  Avenelhad  made  his  fortune  by 
honest  industry- — was  a  fellow-townsman—must  know  the  inter- 
ests of  the  town  better  than  strangers — upright  public  princi- 
ples— never  fawn  on'govef  nments — would  see  that  the  people  had 
their  rights,  and  cut  down  army,  navy,  and  all  other  jobs  of  a 
corrupt  aristocracy,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  Randal  Leslie's  proposer,  a 
captain  on  half-pay,  undertook  a  long  defence  of  the  army  and 
navy,  from  the  unpatriotic  aspersions  of  the  preceding  speakers; 
which  defence  diverted  him  from  the  due  praise  of  Randal,  until 
cries  of  "Cut  it  short"  recalled  him  to  that  subject;  and  then 
the  topics  he  selected  for  eulogium  were  "amiability  of  charac- 
ter, so  conspicuous  in  the  urbane  manners  of  his  young  friend  " ; — 
"coincidence  in  the  opinions  of  that  illustrious  statesman  with 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  383 

whom  he  was  conjoined"; — "early  tuition  in  the  best  princi- 
ples— only  fault,  youth — and  that  was  a  fault  which  would  dimin- 
ish every  day."  Randal's  seconder  was  a  bluff  yeoman,  an  out- 
voter of  weight  with  the  agricultural  electors.  He  was  too  straight- 
forward by  half — adverted  to  Audley  Egerton's  early  desertion 
of  questions  espoused  by  the  landed  interest — "  hoped  he  had  had 
enough  of  large  towns;  and  he  (the  yeoman)  was  ready  to  forgive 
and  forget,  but  trusted  that  there  would  be  no  chance  of  burn- 
ing their  member  again  in  effigy.  As  to  the  young  gentleman, 
whose  nomination  he  had  the  pleasure  to  second — did  not  know 
much  about  him;  but  the  Leslies  were  an  old  family  in  the  neigh- 
boring county,  and  Mr.  Leslie  said  he  was  nearly  related  to  Squire 
Hazeldean — as  good  a  man  as  ever  stood  upon  shoe  leather. 
He  (the  yeoman)  liked  a  good  breed  in  sheep  and  bullocks;  and 
a  good  breed  in  men  he  supposed  was  the  same  thing.  He  (the 
yeoman)  was  not  for  abuses — he  was  for  King  and  Constitution. 
He  should  have  no  objection,  for  instance,  to  have  tithes  lowered, 
and  the  malt-tax  repealed — not  the  least  objection.  Mr.  Leslie 
seemed  to  him  a  likely  young  chap,  and  uncommon  well-spoken; 
and,  on  the  whole,  for  aught  he  (the  yeoman)  could  see,  would 
do  quite  as  well  in  Parliament  as  nine-tenths  of  the  gentlemen 
sent  there."  The  yeoman  sat  down,  little  cheered  by  the 
Blues — much  by  the  Yellows — and  with  a  dim  consciousness  that 
somehow  or  other  he  had  rather  damaged  than  not  the  cause;  of 
the  party  he  had  been  chosen  to  advocate.  Leonard  was  not 
particularly  fortunate  in  his  proposer — a  youngish  gentleman — 
who,  having  tried  various  callings,  with  signal  unsuccess,  had 
come  into  a  small  independence,  and  set  up  for  a  literary  char- 
acter. This  gentleman  undertook  the  defence, of  poets,  as  the 
half-pay  captain  had  undertaken  that  of  the  army  and  navy;  and 
after  a  dozen  sentences,  spoken  through  the  nose,  about  the 
"  moonlight  of  existence,"  and  "the  oasis  in  the  desert,"  sud- 
denly broke  down,  to  the  satisfaction  of  his  impatient  listeners. 
This  failure  was,  however,  redeemed  by  Leonard's  seconder — 
a  master  tailor — a  practised  speaker  and  an  earnest  thinking 
roan — sincerely  liking,  and  warmly  admiring,  Leonard  Fairfield. 
His  opinions  were  delivered  with  brief  simplicity  and  accompa- 
nied by  .expressions  of  trust  in  Leonard's  talents  and  honesty, 
that  were  effective  because  expressed  with  feeling. 

These  preparatory  orations  over,  a  dead  silence  succeeded,  and 
Audley  Egerton  arose. 

At  the  first  few  sentences,  all  felt  they  were  in  the  presence 
of  one  accustomed  to  command  attention,  and  to  give  to  opin- 
ions the  weight  of  recognized  authority.  The  slowness  of  the 


384  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

measured  accents,  the  composure  of  the  manly  aspect,  the  deco- 
rum of  the  simple  gestures — all  bespoke  and  all  became  the  Minis- 
ter of  a  great  empire,  who  had  less  agitated  assemblies  by  impas- 
sioned eloquence,  than  compelled  their  silent  respect  to  the  views 
of  sagacity  and  experience.  But  what  might  have  been  formal 
and  didactic  in  another,  was  relieved  in  Egerton  by  that  air,  tone, 
bearing  of  a  gentleman,  which  have  a  charm  for  the  most  plebeian 
audience.  He  had  eminently  those  attributes  in  private  life;  but 
they  became  far  more  conspicuous  whenever  he  had  to  appear  in 
public.  The  "  senatorius  decor  "  seemed  a  phrase  coined  for  him. 
Audley  commenced  with  notice  of  his  adversaries  in  that  lan- 
guage of  high  courtesy  which  is  so  becoming  to  superior  station, 
and  which  augurs  better  for  victory  than  the  most  pointed  dia- 
tribes of  hostile  declamation.  Inclining  his  head  toward  Avenel, 
he  expressed  regret  that  he  should  be  opposed  by  a  gentleman 
whose  birth  naturally  endeared  him  to  the  town,  of  which  he  was 
a  distinguished  native,  and  whose  honorable  ambition  was  >in  it- 
self a  proof  of  the  admirable  nature  of  that  Constitution,  which 
admitted  the  lowliest  to  rise  to  its  distinctions,  while  it  compelled 
'the  loftiest  to  labor  and  compete  for  those  honors  which  were 
the  most  coveted,  because  they  were  derived  from  the  trust  of 
their  countrymen,  and  dignified  by  the  duties  which  the  sense 
of  responsibility  entailed.  He  paid  a  passing  but  generous  com- 
pliment to  the  reputed  abilities  of  Leonard  Fairfield;  and,  allud- 
ing with  appropriate  grace  to  the  interest  he  had  ever  taken  in 
the  success  of  youth  striving  for  place  in  the  van  of  the  new  gen- 
eration that  marched  on  to  replace  the  old,  he  implied  that  he 
did  not  consider  Leonard  as  opposed  to  himself,  but  rather  as 
an  emulous  competitor  for  a  worthy  prize  with  his  "own  young 
and  valued  friend,  Mr.  Randal  Leslie."  "They  are  happy  at  their 
years  ! "  said  the  statesman,  with  a  certain  pathos.  "  In  the  future 
they  see  nothing  to  fear,  in  the  past  they  have  nothing  to  defend. 
It  is  not  so  with  me."  And  then,  passing  on  to  the  vague  insinu- 
ations or  bolder  charges  against  himself  and  his  policy  proffered 
by  the  preceding  speakers,  Audley  gathered  himself  up,  and 
paused;  for  his  eye  here  rested  on  the  Reporters  seated  round 
the  table  just  below  him;  and  here  cognized  faces  not  unfamil- 
iar to  his  recollection  when  metropolitan  assemblies  had  hung 
on  the  words  which  fell  from  lips  then  privileged  to  advise  a 
king.  And  involuntarily  it  occurred  to  the  ex-minister  to  escape 
altogether  from  this  contracted  audience — this  election,  with  all 
its  associations  of  pain — and  address  himself  wholly  to  that  vast 
and  invisible  Public,  to  which  those  Reporters  would  transmit 
his  ideas.  At  this  thought  his  whole  manner  gradually  changed. 


VARIETIES   ifr    riiStGLlSH    LIFE.  385 

His  eye  became  fixed  on  the  farthest  verge  of  the  crowd;  his 
tones  grew  more  solemn  in  their  deep  and  sonorous  swell.  He 
began  to  review  and  to  vindicate  his  whole  political  life.  He 
spoke  of  the  measures  he  had  aided  to  pass — of  his  part  in  the 
laws  which  now  ruled  the  land.  He  touched  lightly,  but  with 
pride,  on  the  services  he  had  rendered  to  the  opinions  he  had 
represented.  He  alluded  to  his  neglect  of  his  own  private  for- 
tunes; but  in  what  detail,  however  minute,  in  the  public  business 
committed  to  his  charge,  could  even  an  enemy  accuse  him  of 
neglect  ?  The  allusion  was  no  doubt  intended  to  prepare  the 
public  for  the  news,  that  the  wealth  of  Audley  Egerton  was  gone. 
Finally,  he  came  to  the  questions  that  then  agitated  the  day;  and 
made  a  general  but  masterly  exposition  of  the  policy  which,  under 
the  changes  he  foresaw,  he  should  recommend  his  party  to  adopt. 

Spoken  to  the  motley  assembly  in  that  town-hall,  Audley's 
speech  extended  to  a  circle  of  interests  too  wide  for  their  sym- 
pathy. But  that  assembly  he  heeded  not— he  forgot  it.  The  re- 
porters understood  him,  as  their  flying  pens  followed  words 
which  they  presumed  neither  to  correct  nor  to  abridge.  Audley's 
speech  was  addressed  to  the  nation;  the  speech  of  a  man  in  whom 
the  nation  yet  recognized  a  chief — desiring  to  clear  all  misrep- 
resentation from  his  past  career — calculating,  if  life  were  spared 
to  him,  on  destinies  higher  than  he  had  yet  fulfilled — issuing  a 
manifesto  of  principles  to  be  carried  later  into  power,  and  plant- 
ing a  banner  round  which  the  divided  sections  of  a  broken  host 
might  yet  rally  for  battle  and  for  conquest.  Or  perhaps,  in  the 
deeps  of  his  heart  (not  even  comprehended  by  reporters,  nor  to 
be  divined  by  the  public),  the  uncertainty  of  life  was  more  felt 
than  the  hope  of  ambition;  and  the  statesman  desired  to  leave 
behind  him  one  full  vindication  of  t\\a.\.public  integrity  and  honor, 
on  which,  at  least,  his  conscience  acknowledged  not  a  stain. 
"  For  more  than  twenty  years,  said  Audley,  in  conclusion,  "  I 
have  known  no  day  in  which  I  have  not  lived  for  my  country.  I 
may  at  times  have  opposed  the  wish  of  the  People— I  may  op- 
pose it  now — but,  so  far  as  I  can  form  a  judgment,  only  because 
1  prefer  their  welfare  to  their  wish.  And  if — as  I  believe — there 
have  been  occasions  on  which,  as  one  amongst  men  more  re- 
nowned, I  have  amended  the  laws' of  England— confirmed  her 
safety,  extended  her  commerce,  upheld  her  honor — I  leave  the 
rest  to  the  censure  of  my  enemies,  and  (his  voice  trembled)  to 
the  charity  of  my  friends." 

Before  the  cheers  that  greeted  the  close  of  this  speech  were 
over,  Richard  Avenel  arose.  What  is  called  "  the  more  respect- 
able part"  of  an  audience — viz.,  the  better  educated  and  better 


386  MY    NOVEL  ;    6R, 

,<plad,  even  on  the  Yellow  side  of  the  question — winced  a  little 
for  the  credit  .of  their  native  borough,  when  they  contemplated 
the  candidate  pitted  against  the  Great  Commoner,  whose  lofty 
presence  still  filled  the  eye,  and  whose  majestic  tones  yet  sounded 
in  the  ear.  But  the  vast  majority  on  both  sides,  Blue  and  Yellow, 
hailed  the  rise  of  Dick  Avenel   as  a  relief  to  what,  while  it  had 
awed  their  attention,  had  rather  strained  their  faculties.     The 
Yellows  cheered,  and  the  Blues  groaned;  there  was  a  tumultuous 
din  of  voices,  and  a  reel  to  and  fro  of  the  whole  excited  mass  of 
unwashed  faces  and  brawny  shoulders.    But  Dick  had  as  much 
pluck  as  Audley  himself;  and,  by  degrees,  his  pluck  and  his 
handsome  features,  and  the  curiosity  to  hear  what  he  had  to  say, 
obtained  him  a  hearing;  and  that  hearing,  Dick  having   once 
got,  he  contrived  to  keep.  His  self-confidence  was  backed  by  a 
grudge  against  Egerton,  that  attained  to  the  elevation  of  malig- 
nity. He  had  armed  himself  for  this  occasion  with  an  arsenal  of 
quotations  from  Audley 's  speeches,  taken  out  of  Hansard's  De- 
bates; and,  garbling  these  texts  in   the  unfairest  and  most  in- 
genious manner,  he  .contrived  to  split  consistency  into  such  frag- 
ments of  inconsistency — to  cut  so  many  harmless  sentences  into 
such  unpopular,  arbitrary,  tyrannical  segments  of  doctrine — that 
he  made  a  very  pretty  case  against  the  enlightened  and  incor- 
ruptible Egerton,  as  shuffler  and  trimmer,  defender  of  jobs,  and 
eulogist  of  Manchester  massacres,  etc.,  etc.    And  all  told  the 
more  because  it  seemed  courted  and  provoked  by  the  ex-minis- 
ter's elaborate  vindication' of  himself.     Having  thus,  as  he  de- 
clared, "  triumphantly  convicted  the  Right  Honorable  Gentle- 
man out  of  his  own  mouth,"  Dick  considered  himself  at  liberty 
to  diverge  into  \yhat  he  termed  "the  just  indignation  of  a  free- 
bom  Briton";  in  other  words,  into  every  variety  of  abuse  which 
bad  taste  could  supply  to  acrimonious  feeling.  But  he  did  it  so 
roundly  and  dauntlessly,  in  such  true  hustings  style,  that  for  the 
moment  at  least,  he  carried  the  bulk  of  the  crowd  along  with  him 
sufficiently  to  bear  down  all  the  resentful  murmurs  of  the  Blue 
Committeemen,  and  the  abashed  shakes  of  the  head  with  which 
the  more  aristocratic  and  well-bred  among  the  Yellows  signified 
to  each  other  that  they  were  heartily  ashamed  of  their  candidate. 
Dick  concluded  with  an  emphatic  declaration  that  the  Right 
Honorable  Gentleman's  day  was  gone  by;  that  the  people  had 
been  pillaged  and  plundered  enough  by  pompous  red-tapists, 
who  only  thought  of  their  salaries,  and  never  went  to  their  offices 
except  to.  waste  the  pen,  ink,  and  paper  which  they  did  not  pay 
for;  that  the  Right  Honorable  Gentleman  had  boasted  that  he 
had  served  his  country  for  tv    •  (        ars.  Served  his  country  ! — 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  387 

he  should  have  said,  served  her  out!  (Much  laughter.)  Pretty 
mess  his  country  was  in  now.  In  short,  for  twenty  years  the 
Right  Honorable  Gentleman  had  put  his  handsintohiscountry's 
pockets. — "And  I  ask  you,"  bawled  Dick,  "  whether  any  of  you 
are  a  bit  the  better  for  alt  that  he  has  taken  out  of  them  !  "  The 
Hundred  and  Fifty  Hesitators  shook  their  heads.  "  Noa,  that 
we  ben't !  "  cried  the  Hundred  and  Fifty  dolorously.  "  You  hear 
THE  PEOPLE  !  "  said  Dick,  turning  majestically  to  Egerton,  who, 
with  his  arms  folded  on  his  breast,  and  his  upper  lip  slightly 
curved,  sat  like  "  Atlas  unrenioved" — "You  hear  THE  PEOPLE! 
They  condemn  you  and  the  whole  set  of  you.  I  repeat  here  what 
I  once  vowed  on  a  less  public  occasion — 'As  sure  as  my  name 
is  Richard  Avenel,  you  shall  smart  for'— (Dick  hesitated) — 
smart  for  your  contempt  of  the  just  rights,  honest  claims,  and 
enlightened  aspirations  of  your  indignant  countrymen.  The 
schoolmaster  is  abroad,  and  the  British  Lion  is  aroused  !  " 

Dick  sat  down.  The  curve  of  contempt  had  passed  from 
Egerton's  lip; — at  the  name  of  Avenel,  thus  harshly  spoken,  he 
had  suddenly  shaded  his  face  with  his  hand. 

But  Randal  Leslie  next  arose,  and  Audley  slowly  raised  his 
eyes,  and  looked  toward  his/r<?/^/with  an  expression  of  kindly 
interest.  What  better  dtbut  could  there  be  for  a  young  man 
warmly  attached  to  an  eminent  patron,  who  had  been  coarsely 
assailed — for  a  political  aspirant  vindicating  the  principles  which 
that  patron  represented?  The  Blues,  .palpitating  with  indignant 
excitement,  all  prepared  to  cheer  every  sentence  that  could 
embody  their  sense  of  outrage;'  evefi  the  meanest  amongst  the 
Yellows,  now  that  Dick  had  concluded,  dimly  aware  that  their 
orator  had  laid  himself  terribly  open,  and  richly  deserved  (more 
especially  from  the  friend  of  Audley  Egerton)  whatever  punish- 
ing retort  could  vibrate  from'  the  heart  of  a  man  to  the  tongue 
of  an  orator.  A  better  opportunity  for  an  honest  young  debutant 
could  not  exist;— a  more  disagreeable,  annoying,  perplexing, 
unmanageable  opportunity  for  Randal  Leslie,  the  malice  of  the 
Fates  could  not  have  contrived.  How  could  he  attack  Dick 
Avenel  ? — he  who  counted  upon  Dick  Avenel  to  win  his  election  ? 
How  could  he  exasperate  the  Yellows,  when  Dick's  solemn  in- 
junction had  been — "  Say  nothing  to  make  the  Yellows  not  vote 
for  you  !  "  How  could  he  identify  himself  with  Egertoh's  policy, 
when  it  was  his  own  policy  to  make  his  opponents  believe  him 
an  unprejudiced,  sensible  youth,  who  would  come  all  right  and 
all  Yellow  one  of  these  days?  Demosthenes  himself  would  have 
had  a  sore  throat,  worse  than  when  he  swallowed  the  golden 
cup  of  Harpalus,  had  Demosthenes  been  placed  in  so  cursed  a 


388  MY   NOVEL  ;    OR, 

fix.  Therefore  Randal  Leslie  may  well  be  excused  if  he  stam- 
mered and  boggled — -if  he  was  appalled  by  a  cheer  when  he  said 
a  word  in  vindication  of  Egerton — and  looked  cringing  and 
pitiful  when  he  sneaked  out  a  counter  civility  to  Dick.  The 
Blues  were  sadly  disappointed — damped;  the  Yellows  smirked 
and  took  heart.  Audley  Egerton's  brows  darkened.  Harley,  who 
was  on  the  platform,  half  seen  behind  the  front  row,  a  quiet 
listener,  bent  over  and  whispered  dryly  to  Audley — "  You  should 
have  given  a  lesson  beforehand  to  your  clever  young  friend. 
His  affection  for  you  overpowers  him  !  " 

Audley  made  no  rejoinder,  but  tore  a  leaf  out  of  his  pocket- 
book,  and  wrote,  in  pencil,  these  words—"  Say  that  you  may 
well  feel  embarrassed  how  to  reply  to  Mr.  Avenel,  because  I 
had  especially  requested  you  not  to  be.  provoked  to  one  angry 
expression  .against  a  gentleman  whose  father  and  brother-in- 
law  gave  the  majority  of  two  by  which  I  gained  my  first  seat  in 
Parliament; — then  plunge  at  once  into  general  politics."  He 
placed  this  paper  in  Randal's  hand,  just  as  that  unhappy  young 
man  was  on  the  point  of  a  thorough  break-down.  Randal 
paused,  took  breath,  read  the  words  attentively,  and  amidst  a 
general  titter;  his  presence  of  mind  returned  to  him — he  saw  a 
way  out  of  the  scrape — collected  himself — suddenly  raised  his 
head— and  in  tones  unexpectedly  firm  and  fluent,  enlarged  on 
the  text  afforded  to  him — enlarged  so  well  that  he  took  the 
audience  by  surprise — pleased  the  Blues  by  an  evidence  of 
Audley's  generosity — and  touched  the  Yellows  by  so  affec- 
tionate a  deference  to  the  family  of  their  two  candidates. 
Then  the  speaker  was  enablqd  to  come  at  once  to  the  topics 
on  which  he  had  elaborately  prepared  himself,  and  delivered 
a  set  harangue — ;.very  artfully  put  together — temporizing,  it 
is  true,  and  trimming,  but  full  of  what  would  have  been  called 
admirable  tact  and  discretion  in  an  old  stager  who  did  not 
want  to  commit  himself  to  anybody  or  to  anything.  On  the 
whole,  the  display  became  creditable,  at  least  as  an  evidence 
of  thoughtful  reserve,  rare  in  a  man  so  young — too  refining  and 
scholastic  for  oratory,  but  a  very  good  essay — upon  both  sides 
of  the  question.  Randal  wiped  his  pale. forehead,  and  sat  down, 
cheered,  especially  by  the  lawyers  present,  and  self-contented. 
It  was.  now  Leonard's  turn  to  speak.  Keenly  nervous,  as  men 
of  the  literary  temperament  are — constitutionally  shy,  his  voice 
trembled  as  he  began.  Bu.t  he  trusted,  unconsciously,  less  to 
his  intellect  than  his  warm  heart  and  noble  temper  and  the 
warm  heart  prompted  his  words  and  the  noble  temper  gradually 
dignified  tys  manner.  He  took  advantage  of  the  sentences 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  389 

which  Audley  had  put  into  Randal's  mouth,  in  order  to  efface 
the  impression  made  by  his  uncle's  rude  assault.  "  Would  that 
the  Right  Honorable  gentleman  had  himself  made  that  gener- 
ous and  affecting  allusion  to  the  services  which  he  had  deigned 
to  remember,  for,  in  that  case,  he  (Leonard)  was  confident  that 
Mr.  Avenel  would  have  lost  all  the  bitterness  which  political 
contest  was  apt  to  engender  in  proportion  to  the  earnestness 
with  which  political  opinions  were  entertained.  Happy  it  was 
when  some  such  milder  sentiment  as  that  which  Mr.  Egerton 
had  instructed  Mr.  Leslie  to  convey,  preceded  the  sharp  en- 
counter, and  reminded  antagonists,  as  Mr.  Leslie  had  so  em- 
phatically done,  that  every  shield  had  two  sides,  and  that  it  was 
possible  to  maintain  the  one  side  to  be  golden,  without  denying 
the  truth  of  the  champion  who  asserted  the  other  side  to  be 
silver."  Then,  without  appearing  to  throw  over  his  uncle,  the 
young  speaker  contrived  to  insinuate  an  apology  on  his  uncle's 
behalf,  with  such  exquisite  grace  and  good  feeling,  that  he  was 
loudly  cheered  by  both  parties;  and  even  Dick  did  not  venture 
to  utter  the  dissent  which  struggled  to  his  lips. 

But  if  Leonard  dealt  thus  respectfully  with  Egerton,  he  had 
no  such  inducements  to  spare  Randal  Leslie.  With  the  intui- 
tive penetration  of  minds  accustomed  to  analyze  character  and 
investigate  human  nature,  he  detected  the  varnished  insincerity 
of  Randal's  artful  address.  His  color  rose — his  voice  swelled—- 
his fancy  began  to  play,  and  his  wit  to  sparkle — when  he  came 
to  take  to  pieces  his  younger  antagonist's  rhetorical  mosaic. 
He  exposed  the  falsehood  of  its  affected  moderation — he  tore 
into  shreds  the  veil  of  words,  with  their  motley  woof  of  yellow 
and  blue — and  showed  that  not  a  single  conviction  could  be 
discovered  behind  it.  "  Mr.  Leslie's  speech,"  said  he,  "  puts 
me  in  mind  of  a  ferry-boat;  it  seems  made  for  no  purpose  but 
to  go  from  one  side  to  the  other."  The  simile  hit  the  truth  so 
exactly,  that  it  was  received  with  a  roar  of  laughter;  even  Eger- 
ton smiled.  "  For  myself,"  concluded  Leonard,  as  he  summed 
up  his  unsparing  analysis,  "  I  am  new  to  party  warfare;  yet  if  I 
were  not  opposing  Mr.  Leslie  as  a  candidate  for  your  suffrages, 
if  I  were  but  an  elector — belonging,  as  I  do,  to  the  people  by 
my  condition  and  my  labors — I  should  feel  that  he  is  one  of 
those  politicians  in  whom  the  welfare,  the  honor,  the  moral 
elevation  of  the  people,  find  no  fitting  representative." 

Leonard  sat  down  amidst  great  applause,  and  after  a  speech 
that  raised  the  Yellows  in  their  own  estimation,  and  materially 
damaged  Randal  Leslie  in  the  eyes  of  the  Blues.  Randal  felt 
this,  with  a  writhing  of  the  heart,  though  a  sneer  on  the  lips, 


390  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

He  glanced  furtively  toward  Dick  Avenel,  on  whom,  after  all, 
his  election,  in  spite  of  the  Blues,  might  depend.  Dick  answered 
the  furtive  glance  by  an  encouraging  wink.  Randal  turned  to 
Egerton,  and  whispered  to  him — "  How  I  wish  I  had  had  more 
practice  in  speaking,  so  that  I  could  have  done  you  more  justice!" 

"  Thank  you,  Leslie;  Mr.  Fairfreld  has  supplied  any  omission 
of  yours,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned.  And  you  should  excuse 
him  for  his  attack  on  yourself,  because  it  may  serve  to  convince 
you  where  your  fault  as  a  speaker  lies." 

"  Where  ?  "  asked  Leslie,  with  jealous  sullenness. 

"  In  not  believing  a  single  word  that  you  say,"  answered  Eger- 
ton, very  dryly;  and  then  turning  away,  he  said  aloud  to  his 
proposer,  and  with  a  slight  sigh,  "  Mr.  Avenel  maybe  proud  of 
his  nephew  !  I  wish  that- young  man  were  on  our  side;  I  could 
train  him  into  a  great  debater." 

And  now  the  proceedings  were  about  to  terminate  with  a  show 
of  hands,  when  a  tall  brawny  elector  in  the  middle  of  the  hall 
suddenly  arose,  and  said  he  had  some  questions  to  put.  A  thrill 
ran  through  the  assembly,  for  this  elector  was  the  demagogue 
of  the  Yellows— a  fellow  whom  it  was  impossible  to  put  down — 
a  capital  speaker,  with  lungs  of  brass.  "  I  shall  be  very  short," 
said  the  demagogue.  And  therewith,  under  the  shape  of  ques- 
tions to  the  two  Blue  candidates,  he  commenced  a  most  furious 
onslaught  on  the  Earl  of  Lansmere,  and  the  Earl's  son,  Lord 
L'Estrange,  accusing  the  last  of  the  grossest  intimidation  and 
corruptions,  and  citing  instances  thereof  as  exhibited  toward 
various  electors  in  Fish  Lane  and  the  Back  Slums,  who  had  been 
turned  from  Yellow  promises  by  the  base  arts  of  Blue  aristocracy, 
represented  in  the  person  of  the  noble  lord,  whom  he  now  dared 
to  reply.  The  orator  paused,  and  Harley  suddenly  passed  into 
the  front  of  the  platform,  in  token  that  he  accepted  the  ungra- 
cious invitation.  Great  as  had  been  the  curiosity  to  hear  Aud- 
ley  Egerton,  yet  greater,  if  possible,  was  the  curiosity  to  hear 
Lord  L'Estrange.  Absent  from  the  place  for  so  many  years — 
heir  to;such  immense  possessions — with  a  vague  reputation  for 
talents  that  he  had  never  proved — strange,  indeed,  if  Blue  and 
Yellow  had  not  strained  their  ears  and  hushed  their  breaths  to 
listen.  It  is  said  that  the  poet  is  born,  and  the  orator  made^— 
a  saying  only  partially  true.  Some  men  haVe  been  made  poets, 
and  some  men  have  been  born  orators.  Most  probably  Harley 
L'Estrange  had  hitherto  never  spoken  in  public,  and  he  had  not 
now  spoken  five  minutes  before  all  the  passions  and  hunrors  of 
the  assembly  were  as  much  under  his  command  as  the  keys  of 
the  instrument  are  under  the  hands  of  the  musician.  He  had 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE\  391 

taken  from  nature  a  voice  capable  of  infinite  variety  of  modu- 
lation, a  countenance  of  the  most  flexile  play  of  expression;  and 
he  was  keenly  alive  (as  profound  humorists  are)  equally  to  the 
.ludicrous  and  the  graver  side  of  everything  presented  to  his 
vigorous  understanding.  Leonard  had  the  eloquence  of  a  poet — 
Audley  Egerton  that  of  a  parliamentary  debater.  But  Harley 
had  the  rarer  gift  of  eloquence  in  itself,  apart  from  the  matter  it 
conveys  or  adorns — that  gift  which  Demosthenes  meant  by  his 
triple  requisite  of  an  orator,  which  has  been  improperly  trans- 
lated "  action,"  but  means  in  reality  "  the  acting"  "  the  stage- 
play."  Both  Leonard  and  Audley  spoke  well,  from  the  good 
sense  which  their  speeches  contained;  but  Harley  could  have 
talked  nonsense,  and  made  it  more  effective  than  sense — even 
as  Kemble  or  Macready  could  produce  effects  from  the  trash 
talked  by  "  The  Stranger,"  which  your  merely  accomplished 
performer  would  fail  to  extract  from  the  beauties  of  Hamlet. 
The  art  of  oratory,  indeed,  is  allied  more  closely  to  that  of  the 
drama  than  to  any  other;  and  throughout  Harley's  whole  nature 
there  ran,  as  the  reader  may  have  noted  (though  quite  uncon- 
sciously to  Harley  himself),  a  tendency  toward  that  concentra- 
tion of  thought,  action,  and  circumstance,  on  a  single  purpose, 
which  makes  all  the  world  form  itself  into  a  stage,  and  gathers 
various  and  scattered  agencies  into  the  symmetry  and  compact- 
ness of  a  drama.  This  tendency,  though  it  often  produces  ef- 
fects that  appear  artificially  theatrical,  is  not  uncommon  with 
persons  the  most  genuine  and  single-minded.  It  is,  indeed,  the 
•natural  inclination  of  quick  energies  springing  from  warrniemo- 
tions.  Hence -the  very  history  of  nations  in  their  fresh,  vigor- 
ous, half-civilized  youth,  always  shapes  itself  into  dramatic  forms; 
while,  as  the  exercise  of  sober  reason  expands  with  civilization, 
to  the  injury  of  the  livelier  faculties  and  more  intuitive  impulses, 
people  look  to  the  dramatic  form  of  expression,  whether  in 
thought  or  in  action,  as  if  it  were  the  antidote  to  truth,  instead 
of  being  its  abstract  and  essence. 

But  to  return  from  this  long  and  somewhat  metaphysical  digres- 
sion, whatever  might  be  thecausewhy  Harley  L'Estrange  spoke 
so  wonderfully  well,  there  could  be  no  "doubt  that  wonderfully 
well  he  did  speak.  He  turned  the  demagogue  and  his  attack  into 
the  most  felicitous  ridicule,  and  yet  with  the  most  genial  good- 
humor;  described  that  virtuous  gentleman's  adventuresin  search 
of  corruption  through  the  pure  regions  of  Fish  Lane  and  the  Black 
Slums;  and  then  summed  up  the  evidences  on  which  the  dema- 
gogue had  founded  his  charge, with  a  h  umorso  caustic  and  original 
that  the  audience  were  convulsed  with  laughter.  From  laughter 


392  MY   NOVEL  }   OR, 

Harley  hurried  his  audience  almost  to  the  pathos  of  tears — for  he 
'spoke  of  the  insinuations  against  his  father,  so  that  every  son  and 
every  father  in  the  assembly  felt  moved  as  at  the  voice  of  Nature. 

A  turn  in  a  sentence,  and  a  new  emotion  seized  the  assembly. 
Harley  was  identifying  himself  with  the  Lansmere  electors.  He 
spoke. of  his  pride  in  being  a  Lansmere  man,  and  all  the  Lans- 
mere electors  suddenly  felt  proud  of  him.  He  talked  with 
familiar  kindness  of  old  friends  remembered  in  his  school-boy 
holidays,  rejoicing  to  find  so  many  alive  and  prospering.  He 
had  a  felicitous  word  to  each. 

"Dear  old  Lansmere!"  said  he,  and  the  simple  exclamation 
won  him  the  hearts  of  all.  In  fine,  when  he  paused,  as  if  to  re- 
tire, it  was  amidst  a  storm  of  acclamation.  Audley  grasped  his 
hand,  and  whispered — "  I  am  the  only  one  here  not  surprised, 
Harley.  Now  you  have  discovered  your  powers,  never  again  let 
them  slumber.  What  a  life  may  be  yours,  if  you  no  longer  waste 
it!"  Harley  extricated  his  hand,  and  his  eye  glittered.  He  made 
a  sign  that  he  had  more  to  say,  and  the  applause  was  hushed. 
"My  Right  Honorable  friend  chides  me  for  the  years  that  I  have 
wasted.  True;  my  years  have  been  wasted — no  matter  how  nor 
wherefore]  But  Ms? — how  have  they  been  spent?  in  such  devo- 
tion to  the  public,  that  those  who  know  him  not  as  I  do,  have 
said  that  he  had  not  one  feeling  left  to  spare  to  the  obscurer 
duties  and  more  limited  affections,  by  which  men  of  ordinary 
'talents  and  humble  minds  rivet  the  links  of  that  social  order 
•which-  it  is  the  august  destiny  of  statesmen— like  him  who  now 
sits  beside  me — to  cherish  and  defend.  But,  for  my  part,  I 
think  that  there  is  no  being  so  dangerous  as  the  solemn  hypo- 
crite, who,  because  he  drills  his  cold  nature  into  serving  me- 
chanically conventional  abstraction — whether  he  calls  it  'the 
Constitution'  or  'the  Public* — holds  himself  dispensed  from 
whatever,  in  the  warm  blood  of  public  life,  wins  attachment  to 
goodness  and  confidence  to  truth.  Let  others,  then,  praise  my 
Right  Honorable  friend  as  the  incorruptible  politician.  Pardon 
me  if  I  draw  his  likeness  as  the  local,  sincere  man,  who  might 
say  with  the  honest  priest, '  that  he  could  not  tell  a  lie  to  gain 
Heaven  by  it ! ' — and  with  so  fine  a  sense  of  honor,  that  he 
would  hold  it  a  lie  merely  to  conceal  the  truth."  Harley  then 
drew  a  brilliant  picture  of  the  type  of  chivalrous  honesty — of 
the  ideal  which  the  English  attach  to  the  phrase  of  "a  perfect 
gentleman,"  applying  each  sentence  to  his  Right  Honorable 
friend  with  an  emphasis  that  seemed  to  burst  from  his  heart. 
To  all  of  the  audience,  save  two,  it  was  an  eulogium  which  the 
'fervent  sincerity  of  the  eulogist  alone  saved  from  hyperbole. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  393 

But  Levy  rubbed  his  hands,  and  chuckled  inly  ;  and  Egerton 
hung  his  head,  and  moved  restlessly  on  his  seat.  Every  word 
that  Harley  uttered  lodged  an  arrow  in  Audley's  breast.  Amidst 
the  cheers  that  followed  this  admirable  sketch  of  the  "Joyal 
man,"  Harley  recognized  Leonard's  enthusiastic  voice.  He 
turned  sharply  toward  the  young  man  :  "Mr.  Fail-field  cheers 
this  description  of  integrity,  and  its  application;  let  him  imitate 
tlve  model  set  before  him,  and  he  may  live  to  hear  praise  as 
genuine  as  mine  from  some  friend  who  has  tested  his  worth  as 
I  have  tested  Mr.  Egerton's.  Mr.  Fairfield  is  a  poet:  hisclaim  to 
that  title  was  disputed  by  one  of  the  speakers  who  preceded 
me! — unjustly  disputed!  Mr.  Fairfield  is  every  inch  a  poet.  But, 
it  has  been  asked,  'Are  poets  fit  for  the  business  of  senates? 
Will  they  not  be  writing  sonnets  to  Peggy  and  Moggy,  when  you 
want  them  to  concentrate  their  divine  imagination  on  the  details 
of  a  beer  bill?'  Do  not  let  Mr.  Fairfield's  friends  be  alarmed. 
At  the  risk  of  injury  to  the  two  candidates  whose  cause  I  espouse, 
truth  compels  me  to  say,  that  poets,  when  they  stoop  to  action, 
are  not  less  prosaic  than  the  dullest  amongst  us:  they  are  swayed 
by  the  same  selfish  interests — they  are  moved  by  the  saime  petty 
passions.  It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  any  detail  in  common 
life,  whether  in  public  or  private,  can  be  too  mean  to  seduce  the 
exquisite  plmnces  of  their  fancy.  -Nay,  in  public  :life,  we  may 
trust  them  better  than  other  men;  for  vanity  is  a  kind  of  second 
conscience,  and,  as  a  poet  himself  said— 

'  Who  fears  not  to  do  Jlf,  yet  fears  the  narflfr, 
And,  free  from  conscience,  is  a  slave  to  shame.' 

In  private  life  alone  we  do  wejl  to  be  on  our  guard  against  these 
children  of  fancy,  for  they  so  'devote  to  the  Muse  all  their 
treasury  of  sentiment,  that  we  can  no  more  expect  them  to  waste 
a  thought  on  the  plain  duties  of  men,  than  we  can  expect  the 
spend  thrift,  who  dazzles  the  town, 'to  fritter  away  his  money  in  pay- 
ing his  debts.'  But  all  the  world  are  agreed  to  be  indulgent  to  the 
infirmities  of  those  who  are  their  own  deceivers  and  their  own  chas- 
tisers.  Poets  have  more  enthusiasm,  more  affection, more  heart 
than  others  ;  but  only  for  fictions  of  their  own  creating.  It  is  in 
vain  for  us  to  attach  them  to  ourselves  by  vulgar  merit,  by  com- 
monplace obligations — strive  and  sacrifice  as  we  may.  They  are 
ungrateful  to  us,  only  because  gratitude'  is  so  very  unpoetical  a 
subject.  We  lose  them  the  moment  we  attempt  to  bind.  Their  love, 

''Light  a<Jnir,  at  sight  of  human  .ties, 
Spreads  its  light  wings,  and  in  a  moment  flies.' 

They  follow  their  own  caprices — adore  their  own  delusions — 
and,  deeming  the  forms  of  humanity  too  material  for  their  fan- 


394  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

tastic  affections,  conjure  up  a  ghost,  and  are  chilled  to  death 
by  its  embrace  ! " 

Then,  suddenly  aware  that  he  was.  passing  beyond  the  com- 
prehension of  his  audience,  and  touching  upon  the  bounds  of 
his  bitter  secret  (for  here  he  was  thinking,  not  of  Leonard,  but 
of  Nora),  Harley  gave  a  new  and  more  homely  direction  to  his 
terrible  irony — turned  into  telling  ridicule  the  most  elevated 
sentiments  Leonard's  speech  had  conveyed — hastened  on  to  a 
rapid  view  of  political  questions  in  general — defended  Leslie 
with  the  same  apparent  earnestness  and  latent  satire  with  which 
he  had  eulogized  Audley— and  concluded  a  speech,  which,  for 
popular  effect,  had  never  been  equalled  in  that  hall,  amidst  a 
diapason  of  cheers  that  threatened  to  bring  dawn  the  rafters, 

In  a  few  minutes  more,  the  proceedings  were  closed — a  show 
of  hands  taken.  The  show  was  declared  by  the  Mayor,  who  was 
a  thorough  Blue,  in  favor  of  the  Right  Hon.  Audley  Egerton 
and  Randal  Leslie,  Esquire. 

Cries  of  "No,"  "Shame,"  "Partial," etc. — a  poll  demanded 
on  behalf  of  the  other  two  candidates— and  the  crowd  began  to 
pour  out  of  the  hall. 

Harley  was  the  first  who  vanished,  retreating  by  the  private 
entrance.  Egerton  followed;  Randal,  lingering,  Av<?nel  came  up 
and  shook  hands  with  him  openly,  but  whispered  privately, 
"Meet  me  to-night  in  Lansmere  Park,  in:the:  oak  copse,  about 
three  hundred  yards  f  rom'the  turnstile,  at  the  town  end  of  the  park. 
We  must  see  how  to  make  all  right.  What  a  confounded  humbug 
this  has  been !  "  • 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 

IF  the  vigor  of  Harky's  address  had  taken  by  surprise  both 
friend  and  foe,  not  one  in  that  Assembly— not  even  the  con- 
science-strickerf  Egerton' — felt  its.  effect  so  deeply  as  the  assailed 
and  startled  Leonard!  He  was  at  first  perfectly  stunned  by  sar- 
casms which  he  so  ill  deserved;  nor:was  it  till  after  the  assembly 
had  broken  up  that  Leonard  could.  even.;conjecture  the  cause 
which  had  provoked  the  taunt  and  barbed  its  dart.  Evidently 
Har-l^y  had  learned  (but  learned  only  in  order  to  misconceive 
and  to  Wrong)  Leonard's  confession  -of  love  to  Helen  Digby. 
And  now  those  implied  accusations  of  disregard  to  the  duties  of 
common  life  not  only  galled  the  young  man's  heart,  but  outraged 
his  honor.  He  felt  the  generous  indignation  of  manhood.  He 
must  see  LordL'Estrangeat  once,  and  vindicate  himself — vindi- 
cate Helen ;  for  thus  to  accuse  one,  was  tacitly  to  asperse  the  other. 

Extricating    himself  from   his   own    enthusiastic  partisans. 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  395 

Leonard  went  straight  on  foot  toward  Lansmere  House,  The 
park  palings  touched  close  upon  the  town,  with  a  small  turnstile 
for  foot-passengers.  And  as  Leonard,  availing  himself  of  this 
entrance,  had  advanced  some  hundred  yards  Or  so  through  the 
park,  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  that  very  copse  in  which  Avenel 
had  appointed  to  meet  Leslie,  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
Helen  Digby  herself. 

Helen  started,  with  a  faint  cry.  But  Leonard,  absorbed  in 
his  own  desire  to  justify  both,  hailed  the  sight,  and  did  not  pause 
to  account  for  his  appearance,  nor  to  soothe  her  agitation. 

"Miss  Digby!"  he  exclaimed,  throwing  into  his  voice  and 
manner  that  respect  which  often  so  cruelly  divides  the  past  fam- 
iliarity from  the  present  alienation — "  Miss  Digby,  I  rejpice  to 
see  you — rejoice  to  ask  your  permission  to  relieve  myself  from 
a  charge,  that  in  truth  wounds  even  you  while  levelled  but  at 
me-  Lord  L'Estrange  has  just  implied,  in  public,  that  I — I — 
who  owe  him  so  much — who  have  honored  him  so  truly,  that 
even  the  just  resentment  I  now  feel,  half  seems  to  me  the  in- 
gratitude with  which  he  charges  me — has  implied  that — ah  !  Miss 
Digby,  I  can  scarcely  command  words  to  say  what  it  so  humiliates 
me  to  have  heard.  But  you  know  how  false  is  all  accusation  that 
either  of  us  could  deceive  our  common  benefactor.  Suffer  me  to 
repeat'to  yourguar'dian,  what  I  presumed  to  say  to  you  when  we  last 
met — what  you  answered — and  state  how  I  left  your  presence." 

"Oh,  Leonard !  yes  ;  clear  yourself  in  his  eyes.  Go  !  Unjust 
that  he  is — ungenerous  Lord  L'Estrange  !  " 

"Helen  Digby ! "  cried  a  voice,  close  at  hand,  "of  whom  do 
you  speak  thus?" 

At  the  sound  of  that  voice,  Helen  and  Leonard  both  turned, 
and  beheld  Violante  standing  before  them,  her  young  beauty  ren- 
dered almost  sublime  by  the  noble  anger  that  lit  her  eyes,  glowed 
in  her  cheeks,  and  animated  her  stately  form. 

"It  is  you  who  thus  speak  of  Lord  L'Estrange  ?  You — Helen 
Digby— -you  !" 

From  behind  Violante  now  emerged  Mr.  Dale.  "Softly,  chil- 
dren," he  said  ;  and  placing  one  hand  on  Violante's  shoulder, 
he  extended  the  other  to  Leonard.  "What  is  this?  Come  hither 
to  me,  Leonard,  and  explain." 

Leonard  walked  aside  with  the  Parson,  and  in  a  few'sentences 
gave  vent  to  his  swelling  heart. 

The  Parson  shared  in  Leonard's  resentment ;  and  having  soon 
drawn  from  him  all  that  had  .passed  in  his  memorable  interview 
with  Helen,  exclaimed — 

"  Enough  !     Do  not  yet  seek  Lord  L'Estrange  yourself ;  I  am 


396  'MY  NOVEL;  6£,  "- 

going  to  see  him— I  am  here  at  his  request.  His  summons,  iri- 
deed,  was  for  to-morrow  ;  but  the  Squire  having  written  me  a 
hurried  line,  requesting  me  to  meet  him  at  Lansmere  to-mor- 
row, and  proceed  with  him  afterward  in  search  of  poor  Frank, 
I  thought  I  might  have  little  time  for  communications  with  Lord 
L'Estrange,  unless  I  forestalled  his  invitation  and  came  to-day. 
Well  that  I  did  so.  I  only  arrived  an  hour  since — found  he  was 
gone  to  the  Town  Hall— and  joined  the  young  ladies  in  the  park. 
Miss  Digby,  thinking  it  natural  that  I  might  wish  to  say  some- 
thing in  private  to  my  old  young  friend  Violante,  walked  a  few- 
paces  in  advance.  Thus,  fortunately/ 1  chanced  to  be  here,  to 
receive  your  account,  and  I  trust  to  remove  misunderstanding. 
Lord  L'Estrange  must  now  be  returned.  I  will  go  back  to  the 
house.  You,  meanwhile,  return  to  the  town,  I  beseech  you.  I 
will  come  to  you  afterward  at  your  inn.  Your  very  appearance 
in  these  grounds — even  the  brief  words  that  have  passed  between 
Helen  and  yoii-^-might  only  widen  the  breach  between  yourself 
and  your  benefactor.  I  cannot  bear  to  anticipate  this;  Go  back, 
I  entreat  you.  I  will  explain  all,  and  Lord  L'Estrange  shall 
right  you.  That  is — that  must  be  his  intention  !  " 

"fs— must  be  his  intention — when  he  has  just  so  wronged  me  !" 
"Yes,  yes,"  faltered  the  poor  Patson,  mindful  of  liis  promise 
to  L'Estrange  not  to  reveal  his  own  interview  with  that  noble- 
man, and  yet  not  knowing  otherwise  how  to  explain  or  to  soothe. 
Bii-t,  still  believing  Leonard  tb  be  Harley's  son,  remembering  all 
that  Harley  had  so  pointedly  said  of  atoriernent,  rn  apparent  re- 
morse for  crime,  Mr.  Dale  was  wholly  at  k 'loss  himself  to  under- 
stand why  Harley  should  have  thus  prefaced  atonement  by  an 
insult.  Anxious,  however,  to  prevent  a  meeting  between  Har- 
ley and  Leonard,  while  both  were  under  the  influence  of  such 
feelings' toward  each  other,  he  ma'de  an  effort  over  himself,  and 
so  well  argued  in  favor  of  his  own  diplomacy,  that  Leonard  re- 
luctantly consented  to  wait  for  Mr.J-Dale4s  report. 

"As  to  reparation  or  excuse,"  said  he,  proudly,  "it  must  rest 
with  Lord  L'Estrange.  I  ask  :it  not.  Tell  him  only  this — that 
if,  the  instant  I  heard  that  she  whom  I  loved  and  held  sacred 
for  so  many  years  was  affianced  to  him,  'I  resigned  even  the  wish 
to  call  her  mine — if  that  were  desertion  of  man's  duties,  I  am 
guilty.  If  to  have  prayed  night  and  day  that  she  who  would 
have  blessed  my  lonely  and  toilsome  life  may  give  some  charm 
to  his,  not  bestowed  by  his  wealth  and  greatness — if  thatwere  in- 
gratitude, I  am  ungrateful  ;  let  him  still  condemn  me.  I  pass 
9111  of  his  sphere — a  thing  that  h,;s  crossed  it  a  moment  and  is 
gone.  But  Helen  hemust  not  bin  n  --ispect — even  by  a  thought. 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  397 

One  word  more.  In  this  election — this  strife  for  objects  wholly 
foreign  to  all  my  habits,  unsuited  to  my  poverty,  at  war  with  as- 
pirations so  long  devoted  to  fairer  goals,  though  by  obscurer 
paths— I  obeyed  but  his  will  or  whim  ;  at  a  moment,  too,  when 
my  whole  soul  sickened  for  repose  and  solitude.  I  had  forced 
myself  at  last  to  take  interest  in  what  I  had  before  loathed.  But 
in  every  hope  for  the  future — every  stimulant  to  ambition — -Lord 
L'Kstrange's  esteem  still  stood  before  me.  Now,  what  do  I  here 
longer?  All  of  his  conduct,  save  his  contempt  for  myself,  is  an 
enigma.  And  unless  he  repeat  a  wish,  which  I  would  fain  still  re- 
gard as  a  law,  I  retire  from  the  contest  he§  has  embittered — -Ire- 
nouncetheambition  he  has  poisoned;  and, mindfulof  those  humble 
duties  which  he  implies  that  I  disdain,!  return  to  my  own  home." 

The  Parson  nodded  assent  to  each  of  these  sentences,  and 
Leonard,  passing  by  Violante  and  Helen,  with  a  salutation 
equally  distant  to  both,  retraced  his  steps  toward  the  town. 

Meanwhile  Violanteand  Helen  had  also  been  in  closeconference, 
and  that  conference  had  suddenly  endeared  each  to  the  other;  for 
Helen,  taken  by  surprise,  agitated,  overpowered,  had  revealed  to 
Violante  that  confession  of  another  attachment,  which  she  had 
made  to  Lord  L'Estrange — the  rupture  of  her  engagement  with 
the  latter.  Violante  saw  that  Harley  was  free.  Harley,  too,  had 
promised  to  free  herself.  By  a  sudden  flash  of  conviction,  recalling 
his  words,  looks,  she  felt  thatshe  was  beloved — deemed  that  honor 
alone  (while  either  was  yet  shackled)  had  forbidden  him  to  own 
that  love.  Violante  stood  a  being  transformed,"  blushing  celestial 
rosy  red  " — Heaven  at  her  heart,  joy  in  her  eyes  ; — she  loved  so 
well,  and  she  trusted  so  implicitly  !  Then  from  out  the  overflow 
of  her  own  hope  and  bliss  she  poured  forth  such  sweet  comfort 
to  Helen,  that  Helen's  arm  stole  around  her— cheek  touched 
cheek — ^they  were  as  sisters. 

At  another  moment,  Mr.  Dale  might  have  felt  some  amaze- 
ment at  the  sudden  affection  which  had  sprung  up  between  these 
young  persons  ;  for  in  his  previous  conversation  with  Violante, 
he  had,  as  he  thought,  very  artfully,  and  in  a  pleasant  vein, sounded" 
the  young  Italian  as  to  her  opinion  of  her  fair  friend's  various 
good  qualities — -and  Violante  had  rather  shrunk  from  the  title  of 
''friend";  and  though  she  had  the  magnanimity  to  speak  with 
great  praise  of  Helen,  the  praise  did  not  sound  cordial;  But  the 
good  man  was  at  this  moment  occupied  in  preparing  his  thoughts 
for  his  interview  with  Harley,— he  joined  the  two  girls  in  silence, 
and  linking  an  arm  of  each  within  his  own,  walked  slowly  to- 
ward the  house.  As  he  approached  the  terrace,  he  observed  Ric- 
cabocca  and  Randal  pacing  the  gravel  walk  side  by  side. 


398  MY  NOVEL  ;   OR, 

Violante,  pressing  his  arm,  whispered,  "  Let  us  go  round  the 
other  way  ;  I  would  speak  with  you  a  few  minutes  undisturbed." 

Mr.  Dale,  supposing  that  Violante  wished  to  dispense  with  the 
presence  of  Helen,  said  to  the  latter,  "My  dear  young  lady,  per- 
haps you  will  excuse  me  to  Dr.  Riccabocca — who  is  beckoning 
to  me,  and  no  doubt  very  much  surprised  to  see  me  here— while 
I  finish  what  I  was  saying  to  Violante  when  we  were  interrupted." 

Helen  left  them, and  Violante  led  the  Parson  through  the  shrub- 
bery, toward  a  side-door  in  another  wing  of  the  house. 

"  What  have  you  to  say  to  me  ? "  asked  Mr.  Dale,  surprised 
that  she  remained  silent. 

"  You  will  see  Lord  L'Estrange.  Be  sure  that  you  convince 
him  of  Leonard's  honor.  A  doubt  of  treachery  so  grieves  his 
noble  heart,  that  perhaps  it  may  disturb  his  judgment." 

"  You  seem  to  think  very  highly  of  the  heart  of  this  Lord  L'Es- 
trange, child  ! "  said  the  Parson,  in  some  surprise. 

Violante  blushed,  but  went  on  firmly,  and  with  serious  earnest- 
ness. "Some  words  which  he — that  is,  Lord  L'Estrange — said 
to  me  very  lately,  make  me  so  glad  that  you  are — that  you  will 
see  him  ;  for  I  know  how  good  you  are,  and  how  wise — dear,  dear 
Mr.  Dale.  He  spoke  as  one  who  had  received  some  grievous 
wrong,  which  had  abruptly  soured  all  his  views  of  life.  He  spoke 
of  retirement  -solitude !  he  on  whom  his  country  has  so  many 
claims.  I  know  not  what  he  can  mean — unless  it  be  that  his — 
his  marriage  with  Helen  Digby  is  broken  off." 

"Broken  off!     Is  that  so?" 

"  I  have  it  from  herself.  You  may  well  be  astonished  that  she 
could  even  think  of  another  after  having  known  him  ! " 

The  Parson  fixed  his  eyes  very  gravely  on  the  young  enthu- 
siast. But  though  her  cheek  glowed,  there  was  in  her  expression 
of  face  so  much  artless,  open  innocence,  that  Mr.  Dale  con- 
tented himself  with  a  slight  shake  of  the  head,  and  a  dry  re- 
mark: 

"  I  think  it  quite  natural  that  Helen  Digby  should  prefer  Leon- 
ard Fairfield.  A  good  girl,  not  misled  by  vanity  and  ambition; 
temptations  of  which  it  behoves  us  all  to  beware — nor  least, 
'  perhaps,  young  ladies  suddenly  brought  in  contact  with  wealth 
and  rank.  As  to  this  nobleman's  merits,  I  know  not  yet  whether 
to  allow  or  to  deny  them;  I  reserve  my  judgment  till  after  our 
interview.  This  is  all  you  have  to  say  to  me  ?" 

Violante  paused  a'  moment.  "I  canndt  think,"  she  said,  half- 
smiling — "I  cannot  think  that  the  change  that  has  occurred  in 
him — for  changed  he  is — that  his  obscure  hints  as  to  injury  re- 
ceived, and  justice  to  be  done,  are  caused  merely  by  his  disap- 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  399 

pointment  with  regard  to  Helen.  But  you  can  learn  that;  learn 
if  he  be  so  very  much  disappointed.  Nay,  I  think  not ! " 

She  slipped  her  slight  hand  from  the  Parson's  arm,  and  darted 
away  through  the  evergreens.  Half-concealed  amidst  the  laurels, 
she  turned  back,  and  Mr.  Dale  caught  her  eye — half  arch — half 
melancholy;  its  light  came  soft  through  a  tear. 

"I  don't  half  like  this,"  muttered  the  Parson;  "I  shall  give 
Dr.  Riccabocca  a  caution."  So  muttering,  he  pushed  open  the 
side-door,  and  rinding  a  servant,  begged  admittance  to  Lord 
L'Estrange. 

Harley  at  that  moment  was  closeted  with  Levy,  and  his  coun- 
tenance was  composed  and  fearfully  stern.  "  So,  so,  by  this  time 
to-morrow,"  said  he,  "  Mr.  Egerton  will  be  tricked  out  of  his 
election  by  Mr.  Randal  Leslie— good  !  By  this  time  to-morrow 
his  ambition  will  be  blasted  by  the  treachery  of  his  friends- — 
good  !  By  this  time  to-morrow  the  bailiffs  will  seize  his  person — 
ruined,  beggared,  pauper,  and  captive— all  because  he  has  trusted 
and  been  deceived — good!  And  if  he  blame  you,  prudent  Baron 
Levy — if  he  accuse  smooth  Mr.  Randal  Leslie — forget  not  to 
say,  '  We  were  both  but  the  blind  agents  of  your  friend  Harley 
L'Estrange.  Ask  him  why  you  are  so  miserable  a  dupe.'" 

"And  might  I  now  ask  your  lordship  for  one  word  of  expla- 
nation ?  " 

"No,  sir! — it  is  enough  that  I  have  spared  you.  But  you  were 
never  my  friend;  I  have  no  revenge  against  a  man  whose  hand 
I  never  even  touched." 

The  Baron  scowled,  but  there  was  a  power  about  his  tyrant 
that  cowed  him  into  actual  terror.  He  resumed,  after  a  pause — 

"And  though  Mr.  Leslie  is  to  be  member  for  Lansmere — 
thanks  to  you — you  still  desire  that  I  should — " 

"Do  exactly  as  I  have  said.  My  plans  now  never  vary  a 
hair's  breadth." 

The  groom  of  the  chambers  entered. 

"  My  lord,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Dale  wishes  to  know  if  you  can 
receive  him." 

"Mr.  Dale ! — he  should  have  come  to-morrow.  Say  that  I  did  not 
expect  him  to-day;  that  I  arn  unfortunately  engaged  till  dinner, 
which  will  be  earlier  than  usual.  Show  him  into  his  room;  he  will 
have  but  little  time  to  change  his  dress.  By  the  way,  Mr.  Egerton 
dines  in  his  own  apartment." 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE  leading  members  of  the  Blue  Committee  were  invited  to 
dine  at  the  Park,  and  the  hour  for  the  entertainment  was  indeed 


400  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

early,  as  there  might  be  much  need  yet  of  active  exertion  on 
the  eve  of  a  poll  in  a  contest  expected  to  be  so  close,  and  in 
which  the  inflexible  Hundred  and  Fifty  "Waiters  upon  Provi- 
dence "  still  reserved  their  very  valuable  votes. 

The  party  was  gay  and  animated,  despite  the  absence  of  And- 
ley  Egerton,  who,  on  the  plea  of  increased  indisposition,  had. 
shut  himself  up  in  his  rooms  the  instant  that  he  had  returned 
from  the  Town  Hall,  and  sent  word  to  Harley  that  he  was  too 
unwell  to  join  the  party  at  dinner. 

Randal  was  really  in  high  spirits,  despite  the  very  equivocal 
success  of -his  speech.  What  did  it  signify  if  a  speech  failed, 
provided  the  election  was  secure?  He  was  longing  for  the  ap- 
pointment with  Dick  Avenel,  :which  was  to  make  "all  right !" 
The  Squire  w;as  to  bring  the  money  for  the  purchase  of  the 
coveted  lands  the  next  morning.  Riccabocca  had  assured  him, 
again  and  again,  of  Violante's  hand.  If  ever  Randal  Leslie 
could  be  called  a  happy  man,  it  was  as  he  sat  at  that  dinner 
taking  wine  with  Mr.  Mayor  and  Mr.  Alderman,  and  looking 
across  the  gleaming  silver  plateau,  down  the  long  vista  into 
wea,lth  and  power. 

The  dinner  was  scarcely  over,  when  Lord  L'Estrange,  in  a 
brief  speech,  reminded  his  guests  of  the  work  still  before  them; 
and  after  a  toast  to  the  health  of  the  future  members  for  Lans- 
mere,  dismissed  the  Committee  to  their  labors. 

Levy  made  a  sign  to  Randal,  who  followed  the  Baron  to  his 
own  room. 

"Leslie,  your  election  is  in  some  jeopardy.  I  find  from  the 
conversation  of  those  near  me  at  dinner,  that  Egerton  has  made 
such  way  amongst  the  Blues  by  his  speech,  and  they  are  so 
afraid  of  losing  a  man  who  does  them  so  much  credit,  that  the 
Conimitteemen  not  only  talk  of  withholding  from  you  their  sec- 
ond votes  and  of  plumping  Egerton,  but  of  subscribing  privately 
amongst  themselves  to  win  over  that  coy  body  of  a  Hundred 
and  Fifty,  upon  whom  I  know  that  Avenel  counts  in  whatever 
votes  he  may  be  able  to  transfer  to  you." 

"It  would  be  very  unhandsome  in  the  Committee,  which  pre- 
tends to  act  for  both  of  us,  to  plump  Egerton, "said  Randal,  with 
consistent  anger.  "But  I  don't  think  they  can  get  those  Hundred 
and  Fifty  without  the  most  open  and  exorbitant  bribery^ — an  ex- 
pense which  Egerton  will  not  pay,  and  which  it  would  be  very 
discreditable  to  Lord  L'Estrange  or  his  father  to  countenance." 

"I  told  them  flatly,"  returned  Levy,  "  that,  as  Mr.  Egerton's 
agent,  I  would  allow  no  proceedings  that  might  vitiate  the  elec- 
tion; but  that  J  would  undertake  the  management  pf  these 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  40! 

myself;  and  I  am  going  into  the  town  in  order  to  do  so.  I  have 
also  persuaded  the  leading  Committeemen  to  reconsider  their 
determination  to  plump  Egerton;  they  have  decided  to  do  as 
L'Estrange  directs;  and  I  know  what  he  will  say.  You  may  rely 
on  me,"  continued  the  Baron,  who  spoke  with  a  dogged  serious- 
ness, unusual  to  his  cynical,  temper, "  to  obtain  for  you  the  pref- 
erence over  Audley,  if  it  be  in  my  power  to  do  so.  Meanwhile, 
you  should  really  see  Avenel  this  very  night." 

"  I  have  an  appointment  with  him  at  ten  o'clock;  and,  judg- 
ing by  his  speech  against  Egerton,  I  cannot  doubt.of  his  aid  to 
rue,  if  convinced  by  his  poll-books  that  he  is  not  able  to  return 
both  himself  and  his  impertinent  nephew.  My  speech,  however- 
sarcastically  treated  by  Mr.  Fairfield,  must  at  least  have  dis- 
posed the  Yellow  party  to  vote  rather  for  me  than  for  a  deter- 
mined opponent  like  Egerton." 

"I  hope  so;  for  your  speech  andFairfield's  answerhave  dam- 
aged you  terribly  with  the  Blues.  However,  your  main  hope  rests 
on  my  power  to  keep  those  Hundred  and  Fifty  rascals  from 
splitting  their  votes  on  Egerton,  and  to  induce  them,  by  all 
means,  short  of  bringing  myself  before  a  Committee  of  the  House 
of  Commons  for  positive  bribery— which  would  hurt  most  seri- 
ously my  present  social  position, — to  give  one  vote  to  you.  I 
shall  tell  them,  as  I  have  told  the  Committee,  that  Egerton  is 
safe,  and  \vill.pay  nothing;  but  that  you  want  thevotes,  and  that 
I — in  short,  if  they  can  be  bought  upon  tick,  I  will  buy  them. 
Avenelr  however,  can  serve  you  best  here;  for,  as  they  are  all 
Yellows  at  heart,  they  make  no  scruple  of  hinting  that  they  want 
twice  as  much  for  voting  Blue  as  they  will  take  for  voting  Yel- 
low. And  Avenel  being  a  townsman,  and  knowing  their  ways, 
could  contrive  to  gain  them,  and  yet  not  bribe." 

:RANDAL  (shaking  his  head  incredulously). —Not  bribe! 

LEW.— Ppph!     Not  bribe  so  as  to  be  found  out. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  A  servant  entered  and  pre- 
sented Mr.  Egerton's  compliments  to  Baron  Levy,  with  a  re- 
quest that  the  Baron  would  immediately  come  to  his  rooms  for 
a  few  minutes. 

"Well,"  said  Levy,  when  the  servant  had  withdrawn,"  I  must 
go  to  Egerton,  and  the  instant  I  leave  him  I  shall  repair  to  the 
town.  Perhaps  I  may  pass  the  night  there."  So  saying,  he  left 
Randal,  and  took  his  way  to  Audley 's  apartment. 

"Levy,"  said  the  statesman,  abruptly,  upon  the  entrance  of 
the  Baron,  "  have  you  betrayed  my  secret — my  first  marriage — • 
to  Lord  L'Estrange  ?  '.'-. 

"No,  Egerton;  on  my  honor,  I  have  not  betrayed  it." 


402  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"You  heard  his  speech!  Did  you  not  detect  a  fearful  irony 
under  his  praises? — or  is  it  but — but— my  conscience?"  added 
the  proud  man,  through  his  set  teeth. 

"Really,"  said  Levy,  "  Lord  L'Estrange  seemed  to  me  to  select 
for  his  praise  precisely  those  points  in  your  character  which  any 
other  of  your  friends  would  select  for  panegyric." 

"  Ay,  any  other  of  my  friends! — Wh at  friends?  "  muttered 
Egerton,  gloomily.  Then,  rousing  himself,  he  added  in  a  voice 
that  had  none  of  its  accustomed  clear  firmness  of  tone,  "  Your 
presence  here  in  this  house,  Levy,  surprised  me,  as  I  told  you 
at  the  first;  I  could  not  conceive  its  necessity.  Harley  urged 
you  to  come? — he  with  whom  you  are  no  favorite!  You  and  he 
both  said  that  your  acquaintance  with  Richard  Avenel  would 
enable  you  to  conciliate  his  opposition.  I  cannot  congratulate 
you  on  your  success." 

"  My  success  remains  to  be  proved.  The  vehemence  of  his  at- 
tack to-day  may  be  but  a  feint  to  cover  his  alliance  to-morrow." 

Audley  went  on  without  notice  of  the  interruption.  "There 
is  a  change  in  Harley — to  me  and  to  all;  a  change,  perhaps,  not 
perceptible  to  others — but  I  have  known  him  from  a  boy." 

'"  He  is  occupied  for  the  first  time  with  the  practical  business 
of  life.— That  would  account  for  a  much  greater  change  than 
you  remark." 

"Do  you  see  him  familiarly? — converse  with  him  often  ? " 

"No,  and  only  on  matters  connected  with  the  election.  Oc- 
casionally, indeed,  he  consults  me  as  to  Randal  Leslie,  in  whom, 
as  your  special  protegt,  he  takes  considerable  interest." 

"That,  too,  surprises  me.  Well,  lam  weary  of  perplexing  my- 
self.—This  place  is  hateful;  after  to-morrow  I  shall  leave  it,  and 
breathe  in  peace.  You  have  seen  the  reports  of  the  canvass;  I  have 
had  no  heart  to  inspect  them.  Is  the  election  as  safe  as  they  say  ? " 

"  If  Avenel  withdraws  his  nephew,  and  the  votes  thus  released 
split  off  to  you,  you  are  secure." 

"  And  you  think  his  nephew  will  be  withdrawn  ?  Poor  young 
man! — defeat  at  his  age,  and  with  such  talents,  is  hard  to 
bear."  Audley  sighed. 

"  I  must  leave  you  now,  if  you  have  nothing  important  to  say," 
said  the  Baron,  rising.  "I  have  much  to  do,  as  the  election  is 
yet  t6  be  won,  and — to  you  the  loss  of  it  would  be—' 

"  Ruin,  I  know.  Well,  Levy,  it  is,  on  the  whole,  to  your  advant- 
age that  I  should  not  lose.  There  may  be  more  to  get  from  me 
yet.  Arid,  judging  by  the  letters  I  received  this  morning,  my 
position  is  rendered  so  safe  by  the  absolute  necessity  of  my  party 
to  keep  me  lip,  that  the  news  of  my  pecuniary  difficulties  will 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  403 

not  affect  me  so  much  as  I  .once  feared.  Never  was  my  career 
so  free  from  obstacle — so  clear  toward  the  highest  summit  of 
ambition — never,  in  my  day  of  ostentatious  magnificence,  as  it 
is  now,  when  I  am  prepared  to  shrink  into  a  lodging,  with  a 
single  servant." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  and  I  am  the  more  anxious  to  secure 
your  election,  upon  which  this  careex  must  depend,  because — 
nay,  I  hardly  like  to  tell  you — " 

"Speak  on." 

"  I  have  been  obliged,  by  a  sudden  rush  on  all  my  resources, 
to  consign  some  of  your  bills  and  promissory  notes  to  another, 
who,  if  your  person  should  not  be  protected  from  arrest  by 
parliamentary  privilege,  might  be  harsh,  and — " 

"  Traitor  !  "  interrupted  Egerton,  fiercely,  all  the  composed 
contempt  with  which  he  usually  treated  the  usurer,  giving  way, 
"  say  no  more. — How  could  I  ever  expect  otherwise  !  You  have 
foreseen  my  defeat,  and  have  planned  my  destructipn.  Presume 
no  reply.  Sir,  begone  from  my  presence  !  " 

"  You  :will. find  that  you  have  worse  friends  than  myself,"  said 
the  Barpn,  moving  to  the  door  ;  "and  if  you  are  defeated — if 
ypur  prospects  for  life  are  destroyed — I  am  the  last  man  you'will 
thinkof  blaming.  But  I  forgive  your  anger, and  trust  that  to-mor- 
row you  will  receive  those  explanations  of  my  conduct  which  you 
are  now  in  no  temper  to  bear.  I  go  to  take  care  of  the  election." 

Left  alone,  Audley's  sudden  passion  seemed  to  forsake  him. 
He  gathered  together,  in  that  prompt  and  logical  precision  which 
the  habit  of  transacting  public  business  bestows,  all  his  thoughts, 
and  sounded  all  his  fears;  and  most  vivid  of  every  thought,  and 
most  intolerable  of  every  fear,  was  the. belief  that  the  Baron  had 
betrayed  him  to  L'Estrange. 

"I  cannot  bear  this  suspense,"  he  cried  aloud  and  abruptly. 
"I  will  see  Harley  myself.  Open  as  he  is,  the  very  sound  of  his 
voice  will  tell  me  at  once  if  I  am  a  bankrupt  even  of  human 
friendship.  If  that  friendship  be  secure — if  Harley  yet  clasp  my 
hand  with  the  same  cordial  warmth — all  other  loss  shall  not 
wring  from  my  fortitude  one  complaint." 

He  rang  the  bell :  his  valet,  who  was  waiting  in  the  ante- 
room, appeared. 

"Go  and  see  if  Lord  L'Estrange  is  engaged  ;  I  would  speak 
with  him." 

The  servant  came  back  in  less  than  two  minutes. 

"  I  find  that  my  lord  is  now  particularly  engaged,  since  he  has 
given  strict  orders  that  he  is  not  to  be  disturbed/' 

"  Engaged  ! — on  what  ? — whom  with  ? " 


404  **v  tfo  VEL  ;  OR, 

"  He  is  In  his  own  room,  sir,  with  a  clergyman,  who  arrived, 
a'nd  dined  here  to-day.  I  am  told  that  he  was  formerly  curate 
of  Lansmere." 

"  Lansmere— curate  !"    His  name — his  name  !     Not  Dale?  " 
"Yes,  sir,  that  is  the  name — the  Reverend  Mr.  Dale." 
"  Leave  me,"  said  Audley  in  a  faint  voice.     "  Dale  !  the  man 
who  suspected  Harley,  who  called  on  me  in  London,  spoke  of  a 
child — my  child — and  sent  me  to  find  but  another  grave  !     He 
closeted  with  Harley — he  ?  " 

Audley  sank  back  on  his  chair,  and  literally  gasped  for  breath. 
Few  men  in  the  world  had  a  more  established  reputation  for  the 
courage  that  dignifies  mankind,  whether  the  physical  courage 
,or  the  moral.  But :at  that  moment  it  was  not  grief,  not  remorse, 
that  paralyzed  Audley — it  was  fear.  The  brave  man  saw  before 
him,  as  a  thing  tisible  and  menacing,  the  aspect  of  his  own 
treachery — that  crime  of  a  coward  ;  and  into'cowardice  he  was 
'stricken.  What  had  he  to  dread  ?  Nothing  save  the  accusing 
face  of  an  injured  friend— nothing  but  that.  And  what  more 
terrible  ?  The  only  being,  artlidst  all  his  pomp  of  partisans,  who 
survived  to  love  him — the  only  being  for  whom  the  cold  states- 
man felt  the  happy,  living,  human  tenderness  of  private  affec- 
tion, lost  to  him  forever.  He  covered  his  face  with  both  hands, 
and  sat  in  suspense  of  something  awful,  as  a  child  sits  in  the 

dark—the  drops  on  liis  brow,  and  his  frame  trembling. 

•     •  i  •  i 

ii 
CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

MEANWHILE,  Harley  had  listened  to  Mr.  Dale's  vindication 
of  Leonard  with  cold  attentiofi. 

"  Enough,"  said  he,  at  the  close.  "Mr.  Fairfield  (for  so  we 
will  yet  call  him)  shall  see  me  to-night;  and  if  apology  be 
due  to  him,  I  will  make  it.  At  the  same  time,  it  shall  be  decided 
whether  he  continue  this  contest  or  retire.  And  now,  Mr.  Dale, 
it  was  not  to  hear  how  this  young  man  wooed,  or  shrunk  from 
wooing,  my  affianced  bride,  that  I  availed  myself  of  your 
promise  to  visit  me  at  this  house.  We  agreed  that  the  seducer 
of  Nora  Avenel  deserved  chastisement,  and  1  promised  thai 
Nora  Avenel's  son  should  find  a  father.  Both  these  assurances 
shall  be  fulfilled  to-mOrrow.  And  you,  sir,"  Continued  Harley, 
rising,  his  whole  form  gradually  enlarged  by  the  dignity  of  pas- 
sion, "who  wear  the  garb  appropriated  to  the  holiest  office  of 
Christian  charity — you  have  presumed  to  think  that,  before  the 
beard  had  darkened  my'cheek,  I  cdukl  first  betray  the  girl  who 
had  been  reared  under  this  roof,  then  abandon  her1-—  snea'k  like  a 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  46$ 

dastard  from  the  place  in  which  my  victim  came  to  die — leave  my 
own  son,  by  the  woman  thus  wronged,  without  thought  or  care, 
through  the  perilous  years  of  tempted  youth,  till  I  found  him,  by 
chance,  an  outcast  in  a  desert  more  dread  than  Hagar's — you,  sir, 
who  have  for  long  years  thus  judged  of  me,  shall  have  the  occasion 
to  direct  your  holy  anger  toward  the  rightful  head  ;  and  in  me, 
you  who  have  condemned  the  culprit,  shall  respect  the  judge  ! " 

Mr.  Dale  was  at  first  startled,  and  almost  awed,  by  this  unex- 
pected burst.  But,  accustomed  to  deal  with  the  sternest  and  the 
darkest  passions,  his  calm  sense,  and  his  habit  of  authority  over 
those  whose  souls  were  bared  to  him,  nobly  recovered  from  his 
surprise.  "  My  lord,"  said  he,"  first  with  humility,  I  bow  to  your 
rebuke,  and  :entreat  your  pardon  for  my  erring,  and,  as  you  say, 
my  uncharitable  opinions.  We,  dwellers  in  a  village,  and  obscure 
pastors  of  a  humble  flock — we,. mercifully  removed  from  tempt- 
ation, are  too  apt,  perhaps,  to  exaggerate  its  power  oter  those 
whose  lots  are  cast  in  that  great  world  which  has  so  many  gates 
ever  open  to  evil.  This  is  my  sole  'excuse,  if  I  was  misled  by 
what  appeared  to  me  strong  circumstantial  evidence.  But  forgive 
me  again  if  I  wafn  you  not  to  fall  into  an  error  perhaps  little 
lighter  than  my  own.  Your  passion,  when  you  cleared  yourself 
from  reproach,  became  you.  But  ah  !  my  lord,  when  with  that 
stern  brow  and  those  flashing  eyes,  you  launched  your  menace 
upon  another  over  whom  you  would  constitute  yourself  the 
judge,  forgetful  of  the  divine  precept,  'Judge  not,'  I  felt  that  I 
was  listening  no  longer  to  honest  self-vindication — I  felt  that  I 
was  listening  to  fierce  revenge." 

"Call  it  revenge,  or  what  you  will,"  said  Harley,  with  sullen 
firmness.  "  But  I  have  been  stung  too  deeply  not  to  sting.  Frank 
with  all,  till  the  last  few  days,  I  have  ever  been.  Frank  to  you, 
at  least,  even  now,  this  much  I  tell  .you;  I  pretend  to  no  virtue  in 
what  I  still  hold  to  be  justice;  but  no  declamations  nor  homilies 
tending  to  prove  that  justice  is  sinful,  will  move  my  resolves. 
As  man  I  have  been  outraged,  and  as  man  I  will  retaliate.  The 
way  and  the  mode — the  true  criminal  and  his  fitting  sentence — 
you  will  soon  learn,  sir.  I  have  much  to  do  to-night:  forgiveme 
if  I  adjourn  for  the  present  all  further  conference." 

"No,  no  ;  do  not  dismiss  me.  There  is  something,  in  spite 
of  your  present  language,  which  so  commands  my  interest,  I  see 
that  there  has  been  so  much  suffering  where  there  is  now  so  much 
wrath,  that  I  would  save  you  from  the  suffering  worse  than  all — 
remorse.  O  pause,  my  dear  lord,  pause  and  answer  me  but  two 
questions ;  then  I  will  leave  your  after  course  to 'yourself." 

"  Say  on,  sir,"  said  Lord  L'Estrange,  touched,  and  with  respect. 


406  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  First,  then,  analyze  your  own  feelings.  Is  this  anger  merely 
to  punish  an  offender  and  to  right  the  living? — for  who  can  pre- 
tend to  right  the  dead  ?  Or  is  there  not  some  private  hate  that 
stirs,  and  animates,  and  confuses  all?" 

Harley  remained  silent.     Mr.  Dale  renewed. 

"You  loved  this  poor  girl.  Your  language  even  now  reveals 
it.  You  speak  of  treachery;  perhaps  you  had  a  rival  who  de- 
ceived you;  I  know  not — ;guess  not,  who.  But  if  you  would 
strike  the  rival,  must  you  not  wound  the  innocent  son  ?  And, 
in  presenting  Nora's  child  to  his  father,  as  you  pledge  yourself 
to  do,  can  you  mean  some  cruel  mockery  that,  under  seeming 
kindness,  implies  some  unnatural  vengeance?" 

"  You  read  well  the  heart  of  man,"  said  Harley  ;  "  and  I  have 
owned  to  you  that  I  am  but  man.  Pass  on  ;  you  have  another 
question." 

"And  one  more  solemn  and  important.  In  my  world  of  a 
village,  revenge  is  a  common  passion  ;  it  is  the  sin  of  the  unin- 
structed.  The  savage  deems  it  noble;  but  Christ's  religion, which 
is  the  sublime  Civilizer,  emphatically  condemns  it.  Why  ?  Be- 
cause religion  ever  seeks  to  ennoble  man";  and  nothing  so  de- 
bases him  as  revenge.  Look  into  your  own  heart,  and  tell  me 
:  whether,  since  you  have  cherished  this  passion,  you  have  not  felt 
all  sense  of  right  and  wrong  confused — have  not  felt  that  what- 
ever would  before  have  seemed  to  you  mean  and  base,  appears 
now  but  just  means  to  your  heated  end.  Revenge  is  ever  a  hypo- 
crite— rage,  at  least,  strikes  with  the  naked  sword;  but  revenge, 
stealthy  and  patient,  conceals  the  weapon  of  the  assassin.  My 
lord,  your  color  changes.  What  is  your  answer  to  my  question  ? " 

"Oh,"  exclaimed  Harley,  with  a  voice  thrilling  in  its  mourn- 
ful anguish,  "it  is  not  since  I  have  cherished  the  revenge  that 
I  am  changed — -that  right  and  wrong  grow  dark  to  me — that 
hypocrisy  seems  the  atmosphere  fit  for  earth.  No  ;  it  is  since  the 
discovery  that  demands  the  vengeance.  It  is  useless,  sir,"  he 
continued,  impetuously — "  useless  to  argue  with  me.  Were  I  to 
sit  down  patient  and  impotent,  under  the  sense  of  the  wrong 
which  I  have  received,  I  should  feel,  indeed,  that  debasement 
which  you  ascribe  to  the  gratification  of  what  you  term  revenge. 
I  should  never  regain  the  self-esteem  which  the  sentiment  of 
power  now  restores  to  me — I  should  feel  as  if  the  whole  world 
could  perceive  and  jeer  at  my  meek  humiliation.  I  know  not 
why  I  have  said  so  much — why  I  have  betrayed  to  you  so  much  of 
my  secret  mind,  and  stooped  to  vindicate  my  purpose.  I  never 
meant  it.  Again  I  say,  we  must  close  this  conference."  Harley 
here  walked  to  the  door,  and  opened  it  significantly.. 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  407 

"One  word  more,  Lord  L'Estrange — but  one.  You  will  not 
hear  me.  I  am  a  comparative  stranger,  but  you  have  a  friend, a 
friend  dear  and  intimate,  now  under  the  same  roof.  Will  you  con- 
sent, at  least,  to'  take  counsel  of  Mr.  Audley  Egerton  ?  None  can 
doubt  his  friendshipforyou;  none  Can  doirbt,  that  whatever  he  ad- 
vises will  be  that  which  best  becomes  your  honor.  What, rhy  lord, 
you  hesitate? — you  feel  ashamed  to  confide  to  your  dearest  friend  a 
purpose  which  his  mind  would  condemn?  Then  I  will  seek  him — I 
will  implore  him  to  save  you  from  whatcan  but  en  tail  repentance." 

"Mr.  Dale,  I  must  forbid  you  to  see  Mr.  Egerton.  What  lias 
passed  between  us  ought  to 'be  as  sacred  to  you  as  a  priest  of 
Rome  holds  confession.  This  much,  however,  I  will  say  to  con- 
tent you  ;  I  promise  that  I  will  do  nothing  that  shall  render  me 
unworthy  of  Mr.  Audley  Egerton's  friendship,  or  which  his  fine 
senseof  honorshalljustify  him  in  blaming.  '  Letthat  satisfy  you." 

"  Ah,  my  lord,"  cried  Mr.  Dale,  pausing  irresolute  at  the  door- 
way, and  seizing  Harley's  hand,  "I  should,  indeed,  be  satisfied 
if  you  would  submit  yourself  to  higher  counsel  than  mine — than 
Mr.  Egerton's — than  man's.  Have  you  never  felt  the  efficacy 
of  prayer?" 

"My  life  has  been  wasted,"  replied  Harley,  "and  I  dare  not, 
therefore,  boast  that  I  have  found  prayer  efficacious.  But  so 
far  back  as  I  can  remember,  it  has  at  least  been  my  habit  to  pray 
to  Heaven,  night  and  morning,  until,  at  least — until — "  The 
natural'  and  obstinate  candor  of  the  man  forced  out  the  last 
words,  which  implied  reservation.  He  stopped  short. 

" Until  you  have  cherished  revenge!  You  have  not  dared 
to  pray  since  ?  Oh  !  reflect  what  evil  there  is  within  us,  when 
we  dare  not  come  before  Heaven — dare  not  pray  for  what  we 
wish.  You  are  moved — I  leave  you  to  your  own  thoughts." 

Harley  inclined  his  head,  and  the  Parson  passed  him  by  and 
left  him  alone — startled  indeed  ;  but  was  he  softened? 

As  Mr.  Dale  hurried  along  the  corridor,  much  agitated,  Vio- 
lante  stole  from  a  recess  formed  by  a  large  bay-window,  and,  link- 
ing^  her  arm  in  his,  said  anxiously,  but  timidly:  "  I  have  been 
waiting  for  you,  dear  Mr.  Dale  ;  and  so  long  !  You  have  been 
with  Lord  L'Estrange?" 

"Well." 

"  Why  do  you  not  speak  ?  You  have  left  him  comforted— 
happier?" 

"  Happier  !     No." 

"What !  "  said  Violante,  with  a  look  of  surprise,  and  a  sadness 
not  unmixed  with  petulance  in  her  quick  tone.  "What !  does 
he  then  so  grieve  that  Helen  prefers  another?" 


408  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

Despite  the  grave  emotions  that  disturbed  his  mind,  Mr.  Dale 
was  struck  by  Violante's  question,  and  the  voice  in  which  it  was 
said.  He  loved  her  tenderly.  "Child,  child,"  said  he,  "  I  am 
glad  that  Helen  has  escaped  Lord  L'Estrange.  Beware,  oh,  be- 
ware !  how  he  excite  any  gentler  interest  in  yourself.  He  is  a 
dangerous  man — more  dangerous  for  glimpses  of  a-fine  original 
nature.  He  may  well  move  the  heart  of  the  innocent  and  inex- 
perienced, for  he  has  strangely  crept  into  mine.  But  his  heart 
is  swollen  with  pride,  and  ire,  and  malice." 

"You  mistake  ;  it  is  false  !  "  cried  Violante,  impetuously,  "I 
cannot  believe  one  word  that  would  asperse  him  who  has  saved 
my  father  from  a  prison,  or  frorn  death.  You  have  not  treated 
him  gently.  He  fancies  he  has  been  wronged  by  Leonard — re- 
ceived ingratitude  from  Helen.  He  has  felt  the  sting  in  pro- 
portion to  his  own  susceptible  and  generous  heart,  and  you  have 
chided  where  you  should  have  soothed.  Poor  LordL'Estrange! 
And  you  have  left  him  still  indignant  and  unhappy ! " 

"  Foolish  girl !  I  have  left  him  meditating  sin  ;  I  have  left  him 
afraid  to  pray ;  I  have  left  him  on  the  brink  of  some  design — I 
know  not  what — but  which  involves  more  than  Leonard  in  pro- 
jects of  revenge  ;  I  have  left  him  so,  that  if  his  heart  be  really 
susceptible  and  generous,  he  will  wake  from  wrath  to  be  the 
victim  of  long  and  unavailing  remorse.  If  your  father  has  in- 
fluence over  him,  tell  Dr.  Riccabocca  what  I  say,  and  bid  him 
seek,  and  in  his  t;urn  save,  the  man  who  saved  himself.  He  has 
not  listened  to  religion — he  may  be  more  docile  to  philosophy. 
I  cannot  stay  here  longer — I  must  go  to  Leonard." 

Mr.  Dale  broke  from  Violante,  and  hurried  down  the  corri- 
dor ;  Violante  stood  on  the  same  spot,  stunned  and  breathless. 
Harley  on  the  brink  of  some  strange  sin— Harley  to  wake  the 
victim  of  remorse — Harley  to  be  saved,  as  he  had  saved  her 
father !  Her  breast  heaved — her  color  came  and  went — her  eyes 
were  raised — her  lips  murmured.,  She  advanced  with  soft  foot- 
steps up  the  corridor — she  saw  the  lights  gleaming  from  Harley 's 
ropm,  and  suddenly  they  were  darkened,  as  the  inmate  of  the 
room  shut  to  the  door,  with  angry  and  impatient  hand. 

An  outward  act  often  betrays  the  inward  mind.  .  As  Harley 
had  thus  closed  the  door,  so  he  had  sought  to  shut  his  heart  from 
the  intrusion  of  softer  and  holier  thoughts.  He  had  turned  to 
his  hearthstone,  and  stood  on  it,  resolved  and  hardened.  The 
man  who  had  loved  with  such  pertinacious  fidelity  for  so  many 
years,  could  not  at  once  part  with  hate.  A  passion  once  ad- 
mitted to  his  breast,  clung  to  it  with  such  rooted  force  !  But 
woe,  woe  to  thee,  Harley  L'Estrange,  if  to-morrow  at  this  hour 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  409 

thou  stand  at  the  hearthstone,  thy  designs  accomplished,  know- 
ing that,  in  the.  fulfilment  of  thy  blind  will,  thou  hast  met  false- 
hood with' falsehood,  and  deception  with  deceit !  What  though 
those  designs  now  seem  so  consummate,  so  just,  so  appropriate, 
so  exquisite  a  revenge — seem  to  thee  the  sole  revenge  wit  can 
plan,  and  civilized  life  allow — wilt  thou  ever  wash  from  thy 
memory  the  stain  that  will  sully  thine  honor?  Thou,  too,  pro- 
fessing friendship  still,  and  masking  perfidy  under  smiles  !  Grant 
that  the  wrong  be  great  as  thou  deem  it— be  ten  times  greater — 
the  sense  of  thy  meanness^  O  gentleman  and  soldier,  will  bring 
the  blush  to  thy  cheek  in.  the  depth  of  thy  solitude.  Thou,  who 
now  thinkest  others  unworthy  a  trustful  love,  wilt  feel  thyself 
forever  unworthy  theirs.  Thy  seclusion  will  know  not  repose. 
The  dignity  of  man  will  forsake  thee.  Thy  prpud  eye  will  quail 
from  the  gaze.  Thy  step  will  no  longer  spurn  the  earth  that 
ft  triads  on.  He  who  has  once  done  a  base  thing  is  never  again 
wholly  reconciled  to  honor.  And  woe; — thrice  woe,  if  thou  learri 
too  late  that  thou  hastjexaggerated  thy  fancied  wrong  :  that  there 
is  excuse,  where  thou  seest  none  ;  that  thy  friend  may  have  erred, 
but  that  his  error  is  venial  compared  to  thy  fancied  retribution! 

Thus,  however,  in  the  suberb  elation  of  conscious  power, 
though  lavished  on  a  miserable  object — a  terrible  example  of 
what  changes  one  evil  and  hateful  thought,  cherished  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  all  others,  can  make  in  the  noblest  nature- — stood,  on 
the  hearth  of  his  fathers,  and  on  the  abyss  of  a  sorrow  and  a 
shame,  from  which  there  could  be  no  recall,  the  determined  and 
scornful  man,. 

A  hand  is  on  the  door; — he  does  not  see  it;  alight  step  pauses— 
a  soft  eye.  gazes.  Deaf  and  blind  still  to  both. 

Violante  came  on,  gathering  courage,  arid  stood  at  the  hearth, 
by  his  side. 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

"LORD  L'EsxRANGE-noble  friend!  " 

"You  ! — and  here— Violante  ?  Is  it  I  whom  you  seek?  For 
what?  Good  heavens !  what  has  happened?  Why  are  you  so 
pale  ? — why  tremble  ? " 

"  Have  you  forgiven  Helen  ? "  asked  Violante,  beginning  with 
evasive  question,  and  her  cheek  was  pale  no  more. 

"Helen — the  poor  child  !  I  have  nothing  in  her  to  forgive, 
much  to  thank  her  for.  She  has  been  frank  and  honest." 

"And  Leonard-whom  I  remember  in  my  childhood-you 
have  forgiven  him? 


410  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"Fair mediator,"  said  Harley,  smiling,  though  coldly,  "happy 
is  the  man  who  deceives  another ;  all  plead  for  him.  And  if  the 
man  deceived  cannot  forgive,  no  one  will  sympathize  or  excuse." 

"But  Leonard  did  not  deceive  you?" 

"  Yes,  from  the  first.  It  is  a  long  tale,  and  not  to  be  told  to 
you.  But  I  cannot  forgive  him." 

"Adieu  !  my  lord.  Helen  must,  then,  still  be  very  dear  to 
you! "  Violante  turned'away.  Her  emotion  was  so  artless,  her 
very  anger  so  charming,  that  the  love,  against  which,  in  the  preva- 
lence of  his  later  and  darker  passions,  he  had  so  sternly  struggled, 
rushed  back  upon  Harley's  breast ;  but  it  came  only  in  storm. 

"  Stay,  but.talk  not  of  Helen  ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  Ah  !  if  Leon- 
ard's sole  offence  had  been  what  you  appear  to  deem  it,  do  you 
think  I  could  feel  resentment  ?  No  ;  I  should  have  gratefully 
hailed  the  hand  that  severed  a  rash  and  ungenial  tie.  I  would 
have  given  my  ward  to  her  lover  with  such  a  dower  as  it  suits 
my  wealth  to  bestow.  But  his  offence  dates  from  his  very  birth. 
To  bless  and  enrich  the  son  of  a  man  who- — Violante,  listen  to 
me.  We  may  soon  part,  and  for  ever.  Others  may  misconstrue 
my  actions ;  you,  at  least,  shall  know  from  what  just  principle 
they  spring.  There  was  a  man  whom  I  singled  out  of  the  world 
as  more  than  a  brother.  In  the  romance  of  my  boyhood  I  saw 
one  who  dazzled  my  fancy,  captivated  my  heart.  It  was  a  dream 
of  Beauty  breathed  into  walking  life.  I  loved — I  believed  my- 
self beloved.  I  confided  all  my  heart  to  this  friend — this  more 
than  brother ;  he  undertook  to  befriend  and  to  aid  my  suit.  On 
that  very  pretext  he  first  saw  this  ill-fated  girl; — saw — betrayed — 
destroyed  her; — left  me  ignorant  that  her  love,  which  I  had 
thought  mine,  had  been  lavished  so  wildly  on  another;— left  me 
to  believe  that  my  own  suit  she  had  fled,  but  in  generous  self- 
sacrifice — for  she  was  poor  and  humbly  born  ; — that — oh,  vain 
idiot  that  I  was ! — the  self-sacrifice  had  been  too  strong  for  a 
young  human  heart,  which  had  broken  in  the  struggle; — left  me 
to  corrode  my  spring  of  life  in  remorse; — clasped  my  hand  in 
mocking  comfort; — smiled  at  my  tears  of  agony — not  one  tear 
himself  for  his  own  poor  victim  !  And,  suddenly,  not  long  since, 
I  learned  allthis.  And,  in  the  father  of  Leonard  Fairfield,  you 
behold  the  man  who  has  poisoned  all  the  well-spring  of  joy  to 
me.  You  weep  !  Oh,  Violante  !— the  Past  he  has  blighted  and 
embittered — that  I  could  forgive  ;  but  the  Future  is  blasted  too. 
For,  just  ere  /this  treason  was  revealed  to  me,  I  had  begun  to 
awake  from  the  torpor  of  my  dreary  penance,  to  look  with  for- 
titude toward  the  duties  I  had  slighted— to  own  that  the  pilgrim- 
age before  me  was  not  barren.  And  then,  oh  then,  I  felt  that 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH   LIFE.  411 

all  love  was  not  buried  in  a  grave.  I  felt  that  you,  had  fate  so 
granted,  might  have  been  all  to  my  manhood  which  youth  only 
saw  through  the  delusion  of  its  golden  mists.  True,  I  was  then 
bound  to  Helen  ;  true,  that  honor  to  her  might  forbid  me  all 
hope.  But  still,  even  to  know  that  my  heart  was  not  all  ashes — 
that  I  could  love  again — that  that  glorious  power  and  privilege 
of  our  being  was  still  mine,  seemed  to  me  so  heavenly  sweet. 
But  then  this  revelation  of  falsehood  burst  on  me,  and  all  truth 
seemed  blotted  from  the  universe.  I  am  freed  from  Helen ;  ah, 
freed,  forsooth — because  not  even  rank  and  wealth,  and  benefits 
and  confiding  tenderness,  could  bind  to  me  one  human  heart ! 
Free  from  her ;  but  between  me  and  your  fresh  nature  stands 
Suspicion  as  an  Upas  tree.  Not  a  hope  that  would  pass  through 
the  tainted  air,  and  fly  to  you,  but  falls  dead  under  the  dismal 
boughs.  /  love !  Ha,  ha !  I — /,  whom  the  Past  has  taught  the 
impossibility  to  be  loved  again.  No  ;  if  those  soft  lips  mur- 
mured 'Yes'  to  the  burning  prayer  that,  had  I  been  free  but  two 
short  weeks  ago,  would  have  rushed  from  the  frank  deeps  of  my 
heart,  I  should  but  imagine  that  you  deceived  yourself — a  girl's 
first  fleeting  delusive  fancy — nothing  more  !  Were  you  my  bride, 
Violante,  I  should  but  debase  your  bright  nature  by  my  own 
curse  of  distrust.  At  each  word  of  tenderness,  my  heart  would 
say  '  How  long  will  this  last  ?— when  will  the  deception  come  ? ' 
Your  beauty,  your  gifts,  would  bring  me  but  jealous  terror;  eter- 
nally I  should  fly  from  the  Present  to  the  Future,  and  say, '  These 
hairs  will  be  gray,  while  flattering  youth  will  surround  her  in 
the  zenith  of  her  charms.'  Why  then  do  I  hate  and  curse  my 
foe?  Why  do  I  resolve  upon  revenge?  L  comprehend  it  now. 
I  knew  that  there  was  something  more  imperious  than  the  ghost 
of  the  Past  that  urged  me  on.  Gazing  on  you,  I  felt  that  it  was 
the  dim  sense  of  a  mighty  and  priceless  loss  ;  it  is  not  the  dead 
Nora — it  is  the  living  Violante.  Look  not  at  me  with  those  re- 
proachful eyes  ;  they  cannot  reverse  my  purpose  ;  they  cannot 
banish  my  suspicion  from  my  sickened  soul ;  they  cannot  create 
a  sunshine  in  the  midst  of  this  ghastly  twilight.  Go,  go  ;  leave 
me  to  the  sole  joy  that  bequeaths  no  disappointment — the  sole 
feeling  that  unites  me  to  social  man;  leave  me  to  my  revenge." 

"  Revenge  !  Oh,  cruel !  "  exclaimed  Violante,  laying  her  hand 
on  his  arm.  "  And  in  revenge,  it  is  your  own  life  that  you 
would  risk  ! " 

"  My  life,  simple  child  !  This  is  no  contest  of  life  against 
life.  Could  I  bare  to  all  the  world  my  wrongs  for  their  ribald 
laughter,  I  should  only  give  to  my  foe  the  triumph  to  pity  my 
frenzy— to  shun  the  contest;  or  grant  it,if  I  could  find  a  second — 


412  ,  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

and  then  fire  in  the  air.  And,  all  the  world  would  say  'Gener- 
ous Egerton  !- — soul  of  honor  !  " 

"Egerton,  Mr.  Egerton  !  He  cannot  be  this  foe!  It  is  not 
on  him  you  can  design  revenge  ? — you  who  spend  all  your  hours 
in  serving  his  cause — you  to  whom  he  trusts  so  fondly — you  who 
leant  yesterday  on  his  shoulder,  and  smiled  so  cheeringly  in  his 
face  ?" 

"  Did  I  ?  Hypocrisy  against  hypocrisy — snare  against  snare; 
that  is  my  revenge  ! " 

"Harley,  Harley!     Cease,  cease  !" 

The  storm  of  passion  rushed  on  unheeding. 

"  I  seem  to  promote  his  ambition,  but  to  crush  it  into  the  mire. 
I  have  delivered  him  from  the  gentler  gripe  of  an  usurer,  so  that 
he  shall  hold  at  my  option  alms  or  a  prison — " 

"  Friend,  friend  !     Hush,  hush  !  " 

"  I  have  made  the  youth  he  has  reared  and  fostered  into  treach- 
ery like  his  own  (your  father's  precious  choice — Randal  Leslie), 
mine  instrument. in  the  galling  lesson  how  ingratitude  can  sting. 
His  very  son  shall  avenge  the  mother,  and  be  led  to  his  father's 
breast  as  victor,  with  Randal  Leslie,  in  the  contest  that  deprives 
sire  and  benefactor  of  all  that  makes  life  dear  to  ambitious  ego- 
tism. And  if,  in  the  breast  of  Audley  Egerton,  there  can  yet 
lurk  one  memory  of  what  I  was  to  him  and  to  truth,  not  his  least 
punishment  will  be  the  sense  that  his  own  perfidy  had  so  changed 
the  man  whose  very  scorn  of  falsehood  has  taught  him  to  find 
in  fraud  itself  the  power  of  retribution." 

"If  this  be  not  a  terrible  dream!"  murmured  Violante,  re- 
coiling, "it  is  not  your  foe  alone  that  you  will  deprive  of  all  that 
makes  life  dear. — Act  thus — and  what,  in  the  future,  is  left  to  me?" 

"To  you?  Oh,  never  fear.  I  may  give  Randal  Leslie  a  tri- 
umph over  his  patron,  but  in  the  same  hour  I  will  unmask  his 
villany,  and  sweep  him  for  ever  from  your  path.  What  in  the 
future  is  left  to  you  ? — your  birthright  and  your  native  land  ; 
hope,  joy,  love,  felicity.  Could  it  be  possible  that  in  the  soft 
but  sunny  fancy  which  plays  round  the  heart  of  maiden  youth, 
but  still  sends  no  warmth  into  its  deeps — could  it-be  possible 
that  you  had  honored  me  with  a  gentler  thought,  it  will  pass 
away,  and  you  will  be  the  pride  and  delight  of  one  of  your  own 
years,  to  whom  the  vista  of  Time  is  haunted  by  no  chilling  spec- 
tres— one  who  can  look  upon  that  lovely  face,  and  not  turn  away 
to  mutter — 'Too  fair,  too  fair  for  me  ! " 

"Oh  agony  !  "  exclaimed  Violante,  with  sudden  passion.  "  In 
my  turn,  hear  me.  If,  as  you  promise,  I  am  released  from  the 
dreadful  thought  that  he,  at  whose  touch  I  shudder,  can  claim 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  413 

this  hand,  my  choice  is  irrevocably  made.  The  altars  which  await 
me  will  not  be  those  of  a  human  love.  But  oh,  I  implore  you — 
by  the  memories  of  your  own  life,  hitherto,  if  sorrowful,  unsul- 
lied— by  the  generous  interest  you  yet  profess  for  me,  whom  you 
will  have  twice  saved  from  a  danger  to  which  death  were  mercy — 
leave,  oh,  leave  me  the  right  to  regard  your  image  as  I  have  done 
from  the  first  dawn  of  childhood.  Leave  me  the  right  to  honor 
and  revere  it.  Let  not  an  act  accompanied  with  a  meanness — 
oh,  that  I  should  say  the  word  ! — a  meanness  and  a  cruelty  that 
give  the  lie-to  your-whole  life— make  even  a  grateful  remembrance 
of  you  an  unworthy  sin.  When  fkneel  within  the  walls  that  divide 
me  from  the  world,  oh,  let  me  think  that  I  pray  for  you  as  the 
noblest  being  that  the  world  contains!  Hear  me  !  hear  me  !  " 

"  Violante  !  "  murmured  Harley,  his  whole  frame  heaving  with 
emotion, "  bear  with  me.  Do  not  ask  of  me  the  sacrifice  of  what 
seems  to  me  the  cause  of  manhood  itself-^-to  sit  down,  meek  and 
patient,  under  a  wrong  that  debases  me,  with  the  consciousness 
that  all  my  life  I  have  been  the  miserable  dupe  to  affections  I 
deemed  so  honest — to  regrets  that  I  believed  so  holy.  Ah  !  I 
should  feel  more  mean  in  my  pardon  than  you  can  think  me  in 
revenge  !  Were  it  an  acknowledged  enemy,  I  could  open  my 
arms  to  him  at  your  bidding  ;  but  the  perfidious  friend  ! — ask  it 
not.  My  cheek  burns  at  the  thought,  as  at  the  stain  of  a  blow. 
Give  me  but  to-morrow — one  day — I  demand  no  more — wholly 
to  myself  and  to  the  past,  and  mould  me  for  the  future  as  you 
will.  Pardon,  pardon  the  ungenerous  thoughts  that  extended 
distrust  to  you.  I  retract  them  ;  they  are  gone — dispelled  before 
those  touching  words,  those  ingenuous  eyes.  At  your  feet,  Vio- 
lante, I  repent  and  I  implore.  Your  father  himself  shall  banish  your 
sordid  suitor.  Before  this  hour  to-morrow  you  will  be  free.  Oh, 
then,  then!  will  you  not  give  me  this  hand  to  guide  me  again  into 
the  paradise  of  my  youth?  Violante,  it  is  in  vain  to  wrestle  with  my- 
self— todoubt — to  reason — to  be  wisely  fearful — I  love,  I  love  you. 
I  trust  again  in  virtue  and  faith.  I  place  my  fate  in  your  keeping." 

If,  at  times,  Violante  may  appear  to  have  ventured  beyond  the 
limit  of  strict  maiden  bashfulness,  much  maybe  ascribed  to  her 
habitual  candor,  her  solitary  rearing,  and  remoteness  from  the 
world — the  very  innocence  of  her  soul,  and  the  warmth  of  heart 
which  Italy  gives  its  daughters.  But  now  that  sublimity  of  thought 
and  purpose  which  pervaded  her  nature,  and  required  only  cir- 
cumstances to  develop,  made  her  superior  to  all  the  promptings 
of  love  itself.  Dreams  realized  which  she  had  scarcely  dared 
to  own — Harley  free— ^-Harley  at  her  feet ; — all  the  woman  strug- 
gling at  her  heart,  mantling  in  her  blushes,— still  stronger  than 


414  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

love — stronger  than  the  joy  of  being  loved  again — was  the 
heroic  will— will  to  save  him — who  in  all  else  ruled  her  exisU 
ence — from  the  eternal  degradation  to  which  passion  had 
blinded  his  own  confused  and  warring  spirit. 

Leaving  one  hand  in  his  impassioned  clasp,  as  he  still  knelt 
before  her,  she  raised  on  high  the  other :  "  Ah  !  "  she  said,  scarce 
audibly — "  ah  !  if  Heaven  vouchsafe  me  the  proud  and  blissful 
privilege  to  be  allied  to  your  fate,  to  minister  to  your  happiness, 
never  should  I  know  one  fear  of  your  distrust.  No  time,  no 
change,  no  sorrow — not  even  the  loss  of  your  affection — could 
make  me  forfeit  the  right  to  remember  that  you  had  once  con- 
fided to  me  a  heart  so  noble.  "  But" — here  her  voice  rose  in 
its  tone,  and  the  glow  fled  from  her  cheek — "  But,  O  Thou  the 
Ever  Present,  hear  and  receive  the  solemn  vow.  If  to  me  he 
refuse  to  sacrifice  the  sin  that  would  debase  him,  that  sin  be  the 
barrier  between  us  evermore.  And  my  life,  devoted  to  Thy 
service,  atone  for  the  hour  in  which  he  belied  the  nature  he  re- 
ceived from  Thee.  Harley,  release  me  !  I  have  spoken  ;  firm 
as  yourself,  I  leave  the  choice  to  you." 

"  You  judge  me  harshly,"  said  Harley,  rising,  with  sullen  anger. 
"But  at  least  I  have  not  the  meanness  to  sell  what  I  hold  as  justice, 
though  the  bribe  may  include  my  last  hope  of  happiness." 

"  Meanness !  Oh  unhappy,  beloved  Harley  ! "  exclaimed  Vio- 
lante,  with  such  a  gush  of  exquisite  reproachful  tenderness,  that 
it  thrilled  him  as  the  voice  of  the  parting  guardian  angel.  "  Mean- 
ness !  But  it  is  that  from  which  I  implore  you  to  save  yourself. 
You  cannot  judge,  you  cannot  see.  You  are  dark,  dark.  Lost 
Christian  that  you  are,  what  worse  than  heathen  darkness  to 
feign  the  friendship  the  better  to  betray — to  punish  falsehood 
by  becoming  yourself  false — to  accept  the  confidence  even  of 
your  bitterest  foe,  and  then  to  sink  below  his  own  level  in  deceit  ? 
And  oh — worse,  worse  than  all — to  threaten  that  a  son— son  of  the 
woman  you  professed  tolove — shouldswelllyour  vengeance  against 
a  father.  No  !  it  was  not  you  that  said  this — it  was  the  Fiend !  " 

•"  Enough  !"  exclaimed  Harley,  startled,  conscience-stricken, 
and  rushing  into  resentment  in  order  to  escape  the  sense  of 
shame.  "  Enough  !  you  insult  the  man  you  professed  to  honor ! " 

"  I  honored  the  prototype  of  gentleness  and  valor.  I  honored 
one  who  seemed  to  me  to  clothe  with  life  every  grand  and  gener- 
ous image  that  is  born  from  the  souls  of  poets.  Destroy  that 
ideal,  and  you  destroy  the  Harley  whom  I  honored.  He  is  dead 
to  me  forever.  I  will  mourn  for  him  as  his  widow — faithful  to  his 
memory — weeping  over  the  thought  of  what  he  was."  Sobs  choked 
her  voice;  but  as  Harley,  once  more  melted,  sprang  forward  to  re- 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  41$ 

gain  her  side,  she  escaped  with  a  yet  quicker  movement,  gained 
the  door,  and  darting  down  the  corridor,  vanished  from  his  sight. 

Harley  stood  still  one  moment,  thoroughly  irresolute — nay, 
almost  subdued.  Then  sternness,  though  less  rigid  than  before, 
gradually  came  to  his  brow.  The  demon  had  stiil  its  hold  in 
the  stubborn  and  marvellous  pertinacity  with  which  the  man 
clung  to  all  that  once  struck  root  in  his  heart.  With  a  sudden 
impulse,  that  still  withheld  decision,  yet  spoke  of  sore-shaken 
purpose,  he  strode  to  his  desk,  drew  from  it  Nora's  manuscript, 
and  passed  from  his  room. 

Harley  had  meant  never  to  have  revealed  to  Audley  the  secret 
he  had  gained,  until  the  moment  when  revenge  was  consum- 
mated. He  had  contemplated  no  vain  reproach.  His  wrath 
would  have  spoken  forth  in  deeds,  and  then  a  word  would  have 
sufficed  as  the  key  to  all.  Willing,  perhaps,  to  hail  some  extenua- 
tion of  perfidy,  though  the  possibility  of  such  extenuation  he  had 
never  before  admitted,  he  determined  on  the  interview  which  he 
had  hitherto  so  obstinately  shunned,  and  went  straight  to  the 
room  in  which  Audley  Egerton  still  sat  solitary  and  fearful. 

CHAPTER    XXX. 

EGERTON  heard  the  well-known  step  advancing  near  and 
nearer  up  the  corridor — heard  the  door  open  and  reclose — and 
he  felt,  by  one  of  those  strange  and  unaccountable  instincts  which 
we  call  forebodings,  that  the  hour  he  had  dreaded  for  so  many 
secret  years  had  come  at  last.  He  nerved  his  courage,  with- 
drew his  hands  from  his  face,  and  rose  in  silence.  No  less  silent, 
Harley  stood  before  him.  The  two  men  gazed  on  each  other  ; 
you  might  have  heard  their  bre-athing. 

"  You  have  seen  Mr.  Dale  ?"  said  Egerton,  at  length.  "  You 
know — " 

"All  !"  said  Harley,  completing  the  arrested  sentence. 

Audley  drew  a  long  sigh.  "  Be  it  so  ;  but  no,  Harley  ;  you 
deceive  yourself  ;  you  cannot  know  all,  from  any  one  living,  save 
myself." 

"  My  knowledge  comes  from  the  dead, "answered  Harley,  and 
the  fatal  memoir  dropped  from  his  hand  upon  the  table.  The 
leaves  fell  with  a  dull,  low  sound,  mournful  and  faint  as  might 
be  the  tread  of  a  ghost,  if  the  tread  gave  sound.  They  fell, 
those  still  confessions  of  an  obscure,  uncomprehended  life,  amidst 
letters  and  documents  eloquent  of  the  strife  that  was  then  agitat- 
ing millions,  the  fleeting,  turbulent  fears  and  hopes  that  torture 
parties  and  perplex  a  nation  ;  the  stormy  business  of  practical 


416  MV  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

public  life,  so  remote  from  individual  love  and  individual 
sorrow. 

Egerton's  eyes  saw  them  fall.  The  room  was  but  partially 
lighted.  At  the  distance  where  he  stood,  he  did  not  recognize 
the  characters,  but  involuntarily  he  shivered,  and  involuntarily 
drew  near. 

"Hold  yet  awhile,"  said  Harley.  "I  produce  my  charge,  and 
then  I  leave  you  to  dispute  the  only  witness  that  I  bring.  Audley 
Egerton,  you  took  from  me  the  gravest  trust  that  one  man  can 
confide  to  another.  You  knew  how  I  loved  Leonora  Avenel.  I 
.was  forbidden  to  see  and  urge  my  suit ;  you  had  the  access  to 
her  presence  which  was  denied  to  myself.  I  prayed  you  to  re- 
move scruples  that  I  deemed  too  generous,  and  to  woo  her,  not 
to  dishonor,  but  to  be  my  wife.  Was  it  so  ?  Answer." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Audley,  his  hand  clenched  at  his  heart. 

"  You  saw  her  whom  I  thus  loved — her  thus  confided  to  your 
honor.  You  wooed  her  for  yourself.  Is  it  so?" 

"  Harley,  I  deny  it  not.  Cease  here.  I  accept  the  penalty; — 
I  resign  your  friendship; — I  quit  your  roof ;— I  submit  to  your 
contempt; — I  dare  not  implore  your  pardon.  Cease;  let  me  go 
hence,  and  soon  ! " — The  strong  man  gasped  for  breath. 

Harley  looked  at  him  steadfastly,  then  turned  away  his  eyes, 
and  went  on.  •"  Nay,"  said  he,  "  is  that  ALL?  You  wooed  her 
for  yourself — you  won  her.  Account  to  me  for  that  life  which 
you  wrenched  from  mine.  You  are  silent.  I  will  take  on  my- 
self your  task;  you  took  that  life  and  destroyed  it." 

"  Spare  me,  spare  me  !  " 

"  What  was  the  fate  of  her  who  seemed  so  fresh  from  heaven 
when  these  eyes  beheld  her  last  ?  A  broken  heart— a  dishonored 
name — an  early  doom — a  forgotten  gravestone." 

"  No,  no — forgotten — no  !  " 

"  Not  forgotten  !  Scarce  a  year  passed,  and  you  were  married 
to  another.  I  aided  you  to  form  those  nuptials  which  secured 
your  fortunes.  You  have  had  rank,  and  power,  and  fame.  Peers 
call  you  the  type  of  English  gentlemen.  Priests  hold  you  as  a 
model  of  Christian  honor.  Strip  the  mask,  Audley  Egerton;  let 
the  world  know  you  for  what  you  are !  " 

Egerton  raised  his  head,  and  folded  his  arms  calmly;  but  he 
said,  with  a  melancholy  humility — "I  bear  all  from  you;  it  is 
just.  Say  on." 

"  You  took  from  me  the  heart  of  Nora  Avenel.  You  abandoned 
her — you  destroyed.  And  her  memory  cast  no  shadow  over  your 
daily  sunshine;  while  over  my  thoughts— over  my  life — oh,  Eger- 
ton— Audley,  Audley — how  coul<!  you  have  deceived  me  thus?" 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  417 

Mere  the  inherent  tenderness  under  all  this  hate — the  fount  im- 
bedded under  the  hardening  stone — broke  out.  Harley  was 
ashamed  of  his  weakness,  and  hurried  on. 

"  Deceived — not  for  an  hour,  a  day,  but  through  blighted 
youth,  through  listless  manhood — you  suffered  me  to  nurse  the 
remorse  that  should  have  been  your  own; — her  life  slain,  mine 
wasted;  and  shall  neither  of  us  have  revenge?" 

"  Revenge  !     Ah,  Harley,  you.  have  had  it !  " 

"  No,  but  I  await  it !  Not  in  vain  from  the  charnel  have  come 
to  me  the  records  I  produce.  And  whom  did  fate  select  to  dis- 
cover the  wrongs  of  the  mother  ?— whom  appoint  as  her  avenger  ? 
Your  son — your  own  son;  your  abandoned,  nameless  son!" 

"Son— son!" 

"  Whom  I  delivered  from  famine,  or  from  worse;  and  who,  in 
return,  has  given  into  my  hands  the  evidence  which  proclaims  in 
you  the  perjured  friend  of  Harley  L'Estrange,  and  the  fraudu- 
lent seducer,  under  mock  marriage  forms — worse  than  all  franker 
sin — of  Leonora  Avenel." 

"  It  is  false — false  ! "  exclaimed  Egerton,  all  his  stateliness 
and  all  his  energy  restored  to  him.  "  I  forbid  you  to  speak  thus 
to  me.  I  forbid  you  by  one  word  to  sully  the  memory  of  my 
lawful  wife  !  " 

"Ah!"  said  Harley,  startled,  "ah!  false!  Prove  that,  and 
revenge  is  over  !  Thank  Heaven  ! " 

"Prove  it!  What  so  easy?  And  wherefore  have  I  delayed 
the  proof — wherefore  concealed,  but  from  tenderness  to  you — 
dread,  too— a  selfish  but  human  dread — to  lose  in  you  the  sole 
esteem  that  I  covet; — the  only  mourner  who  would  have  shed 
one  tear  over  the  stone  inscribed  with  some  lying  epitaph,  in 
which  it  will  suit  a  party  purpose  to  proclaim  the  gratitude  of  a 
nation.  Vain  hope !  I  resign  it !  But  you  spoke  of  a  son. 
Alas,  alas  !  you  are  again  deceived.  I  heard  that  I  had  a  son — 
years,  long  years  ago.  I  sought  him,  and  found  a  grave.  But  bless 
you,  Harley,  if  you  succored  one  whom  you  even  erringly  suspect 
to  be  Leonora's  child!"  He  stretched  forth  his  hands  as  he  spoke. 

"Of  your  son  we  will  speak  later,"  said  Harley,  strangely 
softened.  "  But  before  I  say  more  of  him,  let  me  ask  you  to 
explain— let  me  hope  that  you  can  extenuate  what — " 

"  You  are  right,"  interrupted  Egerton,  with  eager  quickness. 
"  You  would  know  from  my  own  lips  at  last  the  plain  tale  of  my 
own  offence  against  you.  It  isduetoboth.  Patiently  hearme  out." 

Then  Egerton  told  all;  his  own  love  for  Nora — his  struggles 
against  what  he  felt  as  treason  to  his  friend — his  sudden  dis- 
covery of  Nora's  love  for  him; — on  that  discovery,  the  overthrow 


418  MY  NOVEL  ;  6R, 

of  all  his  resolutions;  their  secret  marriage — their  separation; 
Nora's  flight,  to  which  Audley  still  assigned  but  her  groundless 
vague  suspicion  that  their  nuptials  had  not  been  legal,  and  her 
impatience  of  his  own  delay  in  acknowledging  the  rite. 

His  listener  interrupted  him  here  with  a  few  questions ;  the 
clear  and  prompt  replies  to  which  enabled  Harley  to  detect 
Levy's  plausible  perversion  of  the  facts,  and  he  vaguely  guessed 
the  cause  of  the  usurer's  falsehood,  in  the  criminal  passion 
which  the  ill-fated  bride  had  inspired. 

"  Egerton,"  said  Harley,  stifling  with  an  effort  his  own  wrath 
against  the  vile  deceiver  both  of  wife  and  husband,  "  if,  on  read- 
ing those  papers,  you  find  that  Leonora  had  more  excuse  for 
her  suspicions  and  flight  than  you  now  deem,  and  discover  perfidy 
in  one  to  whom  you  trusted  your  secret,  leave  his  punishment 
to  Heaven.  All  that  you  say  convinces  me  more  and  more  that 
we  cannot  even  see  through  the  cloud,  much  less  guide  the 
thunderbolt.  But  proceed." 

Audley  looked  surprised  and  startled,  and  his  eyes  turned 
wistfully  to  the  papers;  but  after  a  short  pause  he  continued  his 
recital.  He  came  to  Nora's  unexpected  return  to  her  father's 
house— her  death — his  conquest  of  his  own  grief,  that  he  might 
spare  Harley  the  abrupt  shock  of  learning  her  decease.  He  had 
torn  himself  from  the  dead,  in  remorseful  sympathy  with  the 
living.  He  spoke  of  Harley's  illness,  so  nearly  fatal — repeated 
Harley's  jealous  words,  "  that  he  would  rather  mourn  Nora's 
death,  than  take  comfort  from  the  thought  that  she  had  loved 
another."  He  spoke  of  his  journey  to  the  village  where  Mr. 
Dale  had  told  him  Nora's  child  was  placed —  "  and,  hearing  that 
child  and  mother  were  alike  gone,  whom  now  could  I  right  by 
acknowledging  a  bond  that  I  feared  would  so  wring  your  heart  ? " 
Audley  again  paused  a  moment,  and  resumed  in  short,  nervous, 
impressive  sentences.  This  cold,  austere  man  of  the  world  for 
the  first  time  bared  his  heart— unconscious,  perhaps,  that  he  did 
so — unconscious  that  he  revealed  how  deeply,  amidst  state  cares 
and  public  distinctions,  he  had  felt  the  absence  of  affections — 
how  mechanical  was  that  outer  circle  in  the  folds  of  life  which 
is  called  "  a  career  " — how  valueless  wealth  had  grown — none 
to  inherit  it.  Of  his  gnawing  and  progressive  disease  alone  he 
did  not  speak;  he  was  too  proud  and  too  masculine  to  appeal 
to  pity  for  physical  ills.  He  reminded  Harley  how  often,  how 
engerly,  year  after  year,  month  after  month,  he  had  urged  his 
friend  to  rouse  himself  from  mournful  dreams,  devote  his  native 
powers  to  his  country,  or  seek  the  surer  felicity  of  domestic  ties. 
••  Selfish  in  these  attempts  I  might  be,"  said  Egerton;  "it  was 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  419 

only  if  I  saw  you  restored  to  happiness  that  I  could  believe  you 
could  calmly  hear  my  explanation  of  the  past,  and  on  the  floor 
of  some  happy  home  grant  me  your  forgiveness.  I  longed  to 
confess,  and  I  dared  not.  Often  have  the  words  rushed  to  my 
lips — as  often  some  chance  sentence  from  you  repelled  me.  In 
a  word,  with  you  were  so  entwined  all  thoughts  and  affections 
of  my  youth — even  those  that  haunted  the  grave  of  Nora — that 
I  could  not  bear  to  resign  your  friendship,  and,  surrounded  by 
the  esteem  and  honor  of  a  world  I  cared  not  for,  to  meet  the 
contempt  of  your  reproachful  eye." 

Amidst  all  that  Audley  said — amidst  all  that  admitted  of  no 
excuse — two  predominant  sentiments  stoodclear,in  unmistakable 
and  touching  pathos.  Remorseful  regret  for  the  lost  Nora — and 
self-accusing,  earnest,  almost  feminine  tenderness  for  the  friend 
he  had  deceived.  Thus,  as  he  continued  to  speak,  Harley  more 
and  more  forgot  even  the  remembrance  of  his  own  guilty  and 
terrible  interval  of  hate;  the  gulf  that  had  so  darkly  yawned 
between  the  two  closed  up,  leaving  them  still  standing,  side  by 
side,  as  in  their  school-boy  days.  But  he  remained  silent,  listen- 
ing— shading  his  face  from  Audley,  and  as  if  under  some  soft 
but  enthralling  spell,  till  Egerton  thus  closed — 

"And  now,  Harley,  all  is  told.     You  spoke  of  revenge?" 

"Revenge!"  muttered  Harley,  starting. 

"And  believe  me,"  continued  Egerton,  "were  revenge  in  your 
power,  I  should  rejoice  at  it  as  an  atonement.  To  receive  an  in- 
jury in  return  for  that  which,  first  from  youthful  passion,  and  af  ter- 
ward  from  the  infirmity  of  purpose  that  concealed  the  wrong  I  have 
inflicted  upon  you — why,  that  would  soothe  my  conscience,  and 
raise  my  lost  self-esteem.  The  sole  revenge  you  can  bestow  takes 
the  form  which  most  humiliates  me, — to  revenge,  is  to  pardon." 

Harley  groaned;  and  still  hiding  his  face  with  one  hand, 
stretched  forth  the  other,  but  rather  with  the  air  of  one  who 
entreats  than  who  accords  forgiveness.  Audley  took  and 
pressed  the  hand  thus  extended. 

"And  now,  Harley,  farewell.  With  the  dawn  I  leave  this 
house.  I  cannot  now  accept  your  aid  in  this  election.  Levy 
shall  announce  my  resignation.  Randal  Leslie,  if  you  please  it, 
may  be  returned  in  my  stead.  He  has  abilities  which,  under 
safe  guidance,  may  serve  his  country  ;  and  I  have  no  right  to 
reject,  from  vain  pride,  whatever  will  promote  the  career  of  one 
whom  I  undertook,  and  have  failed,  to  serve." 

"Ay,  ay,"  muttered  Harley;  "think  not  of  Randal  Leslie;  think 
but  of  your  son." 

"  My  son!     But  are  you  sure  that  he  still  lives?    You  smile  ; 


420  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

you — you — oh,  Harley — I  took  from  you  the  mother, — give  to  me 
the  son ;  break  my  heart  with  gratitude.  Your  revenge  is  found ! " 

Lord  L'Estrange  rose  with  a  sudden  start — gazed  on  Audley 
for  a  moment — irresolute,  not  from  resentment,  but  from  shame. 
At  that  moment  he  was  the  man  humbled;  he  was  the  man  who 
feared  reproach,  and  who  needed  pardon.  Audley,  not  divining 
what  was  thus  passing  in  Harley's  breast,  turned  away. 

''You  think  that  I  ask  too  much;  and  yet  all  that  I  can  give 
to  the  child  of  my  love,  and  the  heir  of  my  name,  is  the  worth- 
less blessing  of  a  ruined  man.  Harley,  I  say  no  more.  I  dare 
not  add,  'You  too  loved  his  mother!  and  with  a  deeper,  nobler 
love  than  mine.'  "  He  stopped  short,  and  Harley  flung  himself 
on  his  breast. 

"  Me— me — pardon  me,  Audley!  Your  offence  has  been  slight 
to  mine.  You  have  told  me  your  offence;  never  can  I  name  to 
you  my  own.  Rejoice  that  we  have  both  to  exchange  forgive- 
ness, and  in  that  exchange  we  are  equal  still,  Audley — brothers 
still.  Lookup — lookup;  think  that  we  are  boys  now  as  we  were 
once, — boys  who  have  had  their  wild  quarrel — and  who,  the  mo- 
ment it  is  over,  feel  dearer  to  each  other  than  before." 

"Oh,  Harley,  this  is  revenge!  It  strikes  home,''  murmured 
Egerton, — and  tears  gushed  fast  from  eyes  that  could  have  gazed 
unwinking  on  the  rack.  The  clock  struck;  Harley  sprang  forward. 

"  I  have  time  yet,"  he  cried;  "much  to  do  and  to  undo.  You 
are  saved  from  the  grasp  of  Levy, — your  election  will  be  won, — 
your  fortunes  in  much  may  be  restored, — you  have  before  you 
honors  not  yet  achieved, — your  career,  as  yet,  is  scarce  begun, — 
your  son  will  embrace  you  to-morrow.  Let  me  go — your  hand 
again!  Ah,  Audley,  we  shall  be  so  happy  yet !  " 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

"  THERE  is  a  hitch,"  said  Dick,  pithily,  when  Randal  joined 
him  in  the  oak  copse  at  ten  o'clock.  "  Life  is  full  of  hitches." 

RANDAL. — The  art  of  life  is  to  smooth  them  away.  What 
hitch  is  this,  my  dear  Avenel  ? 

DICK. — Leonard  has  taken  huff  at  certain  expressions  of  Lord 
L'Estrange's  at  the  nomination  to-day,  and  talks  of  retiring  from 
the  contest. 

RANDAL  (with  secret  glee). — But  his  resignation  would 
smooth  a  hitch — not  create  one.  The  votes  promised  to  him 
would  thus  be  freed,  and  go  to — 

DICK.— The  Right  Honorable  Red-Tapist, 

RANDAL, — Are  you  serious  ? 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  42  r 

DlCK. — As  an  undertaker!  The  fact  is,  there  are  two  parties 
among  the  Yellows,  as  there  are  in  the  Church — High  Yellow  and 
Low  Yellow.  Leonard  has  made  great  way  with  the  High  Yel- 
lows, and  has  more  influence  with  them  than  I ;  and  the  High  Yel- 
lows infinitely  prefer  Egerton  to  yourself.  They  say,  'Politics 
apart,  he  would  be  an  honor  to  the  borough.'  Leonard  is  of  the 
same  opinion;  and  if  he  retires,  I  don't  think  I  could  coax  either 
him  or  the  Highflyers  to  make  you  any  the  better  by  his  resignation. 

RANDAL. — But  surely  your  nephew's  sense  of  gratitude  to  you 
would  induce  him  not  to  go  against  your  wishes? 

DICK. — Unluckily,  the  gratitude  is  all  the  other  way.  It  is  I 
who  am  under  obligations  to  him— not  he  to  me.  As  for  Lord 
L'Estrange,  I  can't  make  head  or  tail  of  his  real  intentions;  and 
why  he  should  have  attacked  Leonard  in  that  way,  puzzles  me 
more  than  all,  for  he  wished  Leonard  to  stand.  And  Levy  has 
privately  informed  me  that,  in  spite  of  my  lord's  friendship  for 
the  Right  Honorable,  you  are  the  man  he  desires  to  secure. 

RANDAL. — He  has  certainly  shown  that  desire  throughout 
the  whole  canvass. 

DICK. — I  suspect  that  the  borough-mongers  have  got  a  seat 
for  Egerton  elsewhere;  or,  perhaps,  should  his  party  come  in 
again,  he  is  to  be  pitchforked  into  the  Upper  House. 

RANDAL  (smiling). — Ah,  Avenel,  you  are  so  shrewd;  you  see 
through  everything.  I  will  also  add,  that  Egerton  wants  some 
short  respite  from  public  life  in  order  to  nurse  his  health  and 
attend  to  his  affairs,  otherwise  I  could  not  even  contemplate  the 
chance  of  the  electors  preferring  me  to  him,  without  a  pang. 

DICK. — Pang! — stuff— considerable.  The  oak  trees  don't  hear 
us!  You  want  to  come  into  Parliament,  and  no  mistake.  If  I 
am  the  man  to  retire— as  I  always  proposed,  and  had  got  Leon- 
ard to  agree  to,  before  this  confounded  speech  of  L'Estrange's — 
come  into  Parliament  you  will,  for  the  Low  Yellows  I  can  twist 
round  my  finger,  provided  the  High  Yellows  will  not  interfere; 
in  short,  I  could  transfer  to  you  votes  promised  to  me,  but  I  can't 
answer  for  those  promised  to  Leonard.  Levy  tells  me  you  are 
to  marry  a  rich  girl,  and  will  have  lots  of  money;  so,  of  course, 
you  will  pay  my  expenses  if  you  come  in  through  my  votes. 

RANDAL. — My  dear  Avenel,  certainly  I  will. 

DICK. — And  I  have  two  private  bills  I  want  to  smuggle  through 
Parliament. 

RANDAL. — They  shall  be  smuggled,  rely  on  it.  Mr.  Fairfield 
being  on  one  side  of  the  House,  and  I  on  the  other,  we  two  could 
prevent  all  unpleasant  opposition.  Private  bills  are  easily  man- 
aged— with  that  t?£t  which  I  flatter  myself  I  possess. 


422  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

DICK. — And  when  the  bills  are  through  the  House,  and  you 
have  had  time  to  look  about  you,  I  dare  say  you  will  see  that 
no  man  dare  go  against  Public  Opinion,  unless  he  wants  to  knock 
his  own  head  against  a  stone  wall;  and  that  Public  Opinion  is 
decidedly  Yellow. 

RANDAL  (with  candor). — I  cannot  deny  that  Public  Opinion 
is  Yellow;  and  at  my  age  it  is  natural  that  I  should  not  commit 
myself  to  the  policy  of  a  former  generation.  Blue  is  fast  wear- 
ing out.  But  to  return  to  Mr.  Fairfield — you  do  not  speak  as  if 
you  had  no  hope  of  keeping  him  straight  to  what  I  understand  to 
be  his  agreement  with  yourself.  Surely  his  honor  is  engaged  to  it. 

DICK. — I  don't  know  as  to  honor;  but  he  has  now  taken  a 
fancy  to  public  life,  at  least  so  he  said  no  later  than  this  morn- 
ing before  we  went  into  the  hall;  and  I  trust  that  matters  will 
come  right.  Indeed,  I  left  him  with  Parson  Dale,  who  promised 
me  that  he  would  use  all  his  best  exertions  to  reconcile  Leonard 
and  my  lord,  and  that  Leonard  should  do  nothing  hastily. 

RANDAL. — But  why  should  Mr.  Fairfield  retire  because  Lord 
L'Estrange  wounds  his  feelings?  I  am  sure  Mr.  Fairfield  has 
wounded  mine,  but  that  does  not  make  me  think  of  retiring. 

DICK. — Oh,  Leonard  is  a  poet,  and  poets  are  quite  as  crotch- 
ety as  L'Estrange  said  they  were.  And  Leonard  is  under  obli- 
gations to  Lord  L'Estrange,  and  thought  that  Lord  L'Estrange 
was  pleased  by  his  standing ;  whereas,  now — in  short,  it  is  all 
Greek  to  me,  except  that  Leonard  has  mounted  his  high  horse, 
and  if  that  throws  him,  I  am  afraid  it  will  throw  you.  But  still  I 
have  great  confidence  in  Parson  Dale — a  good  fellow,  who  has 
much  influence  with  Leonard.  And  though  1  thought  it  right  to  be 
above-board,  and  let  you  know  where  the  danger  lies,  yet  one  thing 
I  can  promise — if  I  resign,  you  shall  come  in ;  so  shake  hands  on  it. 

RANDAL. — My  dear  Avenel!     And  your  wish  is  to  resign  ? 

DICK. — Certainly.  I  should  do  so  a  little  time  after  noon,  con- 
triving to  be  below  Leonard  on  the  poll.  You  know  Emanuel 
Trout,  the  captairi  of  the  Hundred  and  Fifty  "  Waiters  on  Provi- 
dence," as  they  are  called? 

RANDAL. — To  be  sure  I  do. 

DICK. — When  Emanuel  Trout  comes  into  the  booth,  you  will 
know  how  the  election  turns.  As  he  votes,  all  the  Hundred  and 
Fifty  will  vote.  Now  I  must  go  back.  Good-night.  You'll  notfor- 
get  that  my  expenses  are  to  be  paid.  Point  of  honor.  Still,  if  they 
arem?/paid,the  election  can  be  upset — petition  for  bribery  and  cor- 
ruption ;  and  if  they<z>rpaid,whyLansmeremaybeyoiirseatforlife. 

RANDAL. — Your  expenses  shall  be  paid  the  moment  mymar- 
jiage  gives  me  the  means  to  pay  them — and  that  must  be  very  soon. 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  423 

DICK. — So  Levy  says.     And  my  little  jobs — the  private  bills  ? 

RANDAL. — Consider  the  bills  passed  and  the  jobs  done. 

DICK. — And  one  must  not  forget  one's  country.  One  must 
do  the  best  one  can  for  one's  principles.  Egerton  is  infernally 
Blue.  You  allow  Public  Opinion — is — 

RANDAL. — Yellow.     Not  a  doubt  of  it. 

UICK. — Good-night.     Ha — ha — humbug,  eh  ? 

RANDAL. — Humbug  !  Between  men  like  us — oh  no.  Good- 
night, my  dear  friend — I  rely  on  you. 

I)ICK. — Yes  ;  but  mind  ;  I  promise  nothing  if  Leonard  Fair- 
field  does  not  stand. 

RANDAL. — He  must  stand  ;  keep  him  to  it.  Your  affairs — 
your  business — your  mill —  : 

DICK. — Very  true.  He  must  stand.  I  have  great  faith  in  Par- 
son Dale. 

Randal  glided  back  through  the  park.  When  he  came  on  the 
terrace,  he  suddenly  encountered  Lord  L'Estrange.  "I  have 
just  been  privately  into  the  town,  my  dear  lord,  and  heard  a 
strange  rumor,  that  Mr.  Fairfield  was  so  annoyed  by  some  re- 
marks in  your  lordship's  admirable  speech,  that  he  talks  of  re- 
tiring from  the  contest.  That  would  give  a  new  feature  to  the 
election,  and  perplex  all  our  calculations.  And  I  fear,  in  that 
case,  there  might  be  some  secret  coalition  between  Avenel's 
friends  and  our  Committee,  whom,  I  am  told,  I  displeased  by  the 
moderate  speech  which  your  lordship  so  eloquently  defend- 
ed— a  coalition  by  which  Avenel  would  come  in  with  Mr.  Eger- 
ton; whereas,  if  we  all  four  stand,  Mr.  Egerton,  I  presume, will  be 
quite  safe  ;  and  I  certainly  think  I  have  an  excellent  chance." 

LORD  L'ESTRANGE. — So  Mr.  Fairfield  will  retire  in  conse- 
quence of  my  remarks  !  I  am  going  into  the  town,  and  I  intend 
to  apologize  for  those  remarks,  and  retract  them. 

RANDAL  (joyously). — Noble  ! 

Lord  L'Estrange  looked  at  Leslie's  face,  upon  which  the  stars 
gleamed  palely.  "  Mr.  Egerton  has  thought  more  of  your  success 
than  of  his  own,"  said  he,  gravely,  and  hurried  on. 

Randal  continued  on  the  terrace.  Perhaps  Harley'slast  words 
gave  him  a  twinge  of  compunction.  His  head  sunk  musingly  on 
his  breast,  and  he  paced  to  and  fro  the  long  gravel  walk,  sum- 
moning up  all  his  intellect  to  resist  every  temptation  to  what 
could  injure  his  self-interest. 

"  Skulking  knave  ! "  muttered  Harley.  "  At  least  there  will  be 
nothing  to  repent,  if  I  can  do  justice  on  him.  That  is  not  re- 
venge. Come,  that  must  be  fair  retribution.  Besides,  how  else 
can  I  deliver  Violante?" — He  laughed  gaily,  his  heart  was  so 


424  MY   &OVEL  ;   OR, 

light ;  and  his  foot  bounded  on  as  fleet  as  the  deer  that  he  startled 
amongst  the  fern. 

A  few  yards  from  the  turnstile  he  overtook  Richard  Avenel, 
disguised  in  a  rough  great-coat  and  spectacles.  Nevertheless 
Harley's  eye  detected  the  Yellow  candidate  at  the  first  glance. 
He  caught  Dick  familiarly  by  the  arm.  "  Well  met — I  was  going 
to  you.  We  have  the  election  to  settle." 

"  On  the  terms  I  mentioned  to  your  lordship  ? "  said  Dick, 
startled.  "  I  will  agree  to  return  one  of  your  candidates  ;  but  it 
must  not  be  Audley  Egerton."  Harley  whispered  close  to 
Avenel's  ear. 

Avenel  uttered  an  exclamation  of  amazement.  The  two  gentle- 
men walked  on  rapidly,  and  conversing  with  great  eagerness. 

"Certainly,"  said  Avenel,  at  length  stopping  short,  "one 
would  do  a  gi'eat  deal  to  serve  a  family  connection — and  a  con- 
nection that  does  a  man  so  much  credit ;  and  how  can  one  go 
against  one's  own  brother-in-law  ? — a  gentleman  of  such  high 
standing — pull  up  the  whole  family  !  How  pleased  Mrs.  Richard 
Avenel  will  be!  Why  the  devil  did  not  I  know  it  before? 
And  poor — dear — dear  Nora.  Ah,  that  she  were  living !  "  Dick's 
voice  trembled. 

"  Her  name  will  be  righted  ;  and  I  will  explain  how  it  wasmy 
fault  that  Egerton  did  not  before  acknowledge  his  marriage,  and 
claim  you  as  a  brother.  Come,  then,  it  is  all  fixed  and  settled." 

"  No,  my  lord  ;  I  am  pledged  the  other  way.  I  don't  see  how 
I  can  get  off  my  word— to  Randal  Leslie.  I'm  not  over-nice, 
nor  what  is  called  Quixotic,  but  still  my  word  is  given,  that  if 
I  retire  from  the  election,  I  will  do  my  best  to  return  Leslie 
instead  of  Egerton." 

"  I  know  that  through  Baron  Levy.  But  if  your  nephew  re- 
tires?" 

"Oh,  that  would  solve  all  difficulties.  But  the  poor  boy  has 
now  a  wish  to  come  into  Parliament;  and  he  has  done  me  a 
service  in  the  hour  of  need." 

"  Leave  it  to  me.  And  as  to  Randal  Leslie,  he  shall  have  an 
occasion  himself  to  acquit  you  and  redeem  himself  ;  and  happy, 
indeed,  will  it  be  for  him  if  he  has  yet  one  spark  of  gratitude,  or 
one  particle  of  honor." 

The  two  continued  to  converse  for  a  few  moments — Dick 
seeming  to  forget  the  election  itself,  and  ask  questions  of  more 
interest  to  his  heart,  which  Harley  answered  so,  that  Dick  wrung 
L'Estrange's  hand  with  great  emotion — and  muttered,  "  My 
poor  mother  !  I  understand  now  \vhv  she  would  never  talk  to 
me  of  Nora.  When  may  I  tell  "her  the' truth  ?" 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  425 

"To-morrow  evening,  after  the  election;  Egerton  shall  em- 
brace you  all." 

Dick  started,  and  saying — "See  Leonard  as  soon  as  you  can — 
there  is  no  time  to  lose,"  plunged  into  a  lane  that  led  toward 
the  obscurer  recesses  of  the  town.  Harley  continued  his  way 
with  the  same  light  elastic  tread  which  (lost  during  his  abnega- 
tion of  his  own  nature)  was  now  restored  to  the  foot,  that  seemed 
loth  to  leave  a  print  upon  the  mire. 

At  the  commencement  of  the  High  Street  he  encountered  Mr. 
Dale  and  Fairfield,  walking  slowly,  arm  in  arm. 

HARLEY. — Leonard,  I  was  coming  to  you.  Give  me  your 
hand.  Forget  for  the  present  the  words  that  justly  stung  and 
offended  you.  I  will  do  more  than  apologize — I  will  repair  the 
wrong.  Excuse  me,  Mr.  Dale — I  have  one  word  to  say  in  private 
to  Leonard. — He  drew  Fairfield  aside. 

"  Avenel  tells  me  that  if  you  were  to  retire  from  this  contest 
it  would  be  a  sacrifice  of  inclination.  It  is  so  ?" 

"My  lord,  I  have  sorrows  that  I  would  fain  forget;  and, 
though  I  at  first  shrunk  from  the  strife  in  which  I  have  been  since 
engaged,  yet  now  a  literary  career  seems  to  me  to  have  lost  its 
old  charm  ;  and  I  find  that,  in  public  life,  there  is  a  distraction 
to  the  thoughts  which  embitter  solitude,  that  books  fail  to  be- 
stow. Therefore,  if  you  still  wish  me  to  continue  this  contest, 
though  I  know  not  your  motive,  it  will  not  be  as  it  was  to  begin 
it — a  reluctant  and  a  painful  obedience  to  your  request." 

"I  understand.  It  was  a  sacrifice  of  inclination  to  begin  the 
contest — it  would  be  now  a  sacrifice  of  inclination  to  withdraw  !" 

"  Honestly — yes,  my  lord." 

;  "I  rejoice  to  hear  it,  for  I  ask  that  sacrifice;  a  sacrifice  which 
you  will  recall  hereafter  with  delight  and  pride  ;  a  sacrifice 
sweeter,  if  I  read  your  nature  aright — oh,  sweeter  far,  than  all 
which  commonplace  ambition  could  bestow  !  And  when  you 
learn  why  I  make  this  demand,  you  will  say,  'This,  indeed,  is 
reparation  for  the  words  that  wounded  my  affections,  and 
wronged  my  heart.'  ' 

"  My  lord,  my  lord  !  "  exclaimed  Leonard,  "  the  injury  is  re- 
paired already.  You  give  me  back  your  esteem,  when  you  so  well 
anticipate  my  answer.  Your  esteem! — lifesmiles  again.  I  can  re- 
turn to  my  more  legitimate  career  without  a  sigh.  I  have  no  need 
of  distraction  from  thought  now.  You  will  believe  that,  whatever 
my  past  presumption,  I  can  pray  sincerely  for  your  happiness." 

"  Poet !  you  adorn  your  career  ;  you  fulfil  your  mission,  even 
•At  this  moment ;  you  beautify  the  world  ;  you  give  to  the'harsh 
form  of  Duty  the  cestus  of  the  Graces,"  said  Harley,  trying  to 


426  MY    NOVEL  |    Oft, 

force  a  smile  to  his  quivering  lips.  "But  we  must  hasten  back  to 
the  prose  of  existence.  I  accept  your  sacrifice.  As  for  the  time 
and  mode  I  must  select,  in  order  to  insure  its  result,  I  will  ask  you 
to  abide  by  such  instructions  as  I  shall  have  occasion  to  convey 
through  your  uncle.  Till  then,  no  word  of  your  intentions — not 
even  to  Mr.  Dale.  Forgive  me  if  I  would  rather  secure  Mr. 
Egerton's  election  than  yours.  Let  that  explanation  suffice  for 
the  present.  What  think  you,  by  the  way,  of  Audley  Egerton  ?" 

"I  thought  when  I  heard  him  speak,  and  when  he  closed  with 
those  touching  words — implying  that  he  left  all  of  his  life  not 
devoted  to  his  country,  '  to  the  charity  of  his  friends  ' — how 
proudly,  even  as  his  opponent,  I  could  have  clasped  his  hand ; 
and  if  he  had  wronged  me  in  private  life,  I  should  have  thought 
it  ingratitude  to  the  country  he  had  so  served,  to  remember 
the  offence." 

Harley  turned  away  abruptly,  and  joined  Mr.  Dale. 

"  Leave  Leonard  to  go  home  by  himself ;  you  see  that  I  have 
healed  whatever  wounds  I  inflicted  on  him." 

PARSON. — And,  your  better  nature  thus  awakened,  I  trust,  my 
dear  lord,  that  you  have  altogether  abandoned  the  idea  of — 

HARLEY. — Revenge  ? — No.  And  if  you  do  not  approve  that  re- 
venge to-morrow,  I  will  never  rest  till  I  have  seen  you — a  bishop! 

MR.  DALE  (much  shocked). — My  lo.rd,  for  shame  ! 

HARLEY  (seriously,) — My  levity  is  but  lip-deep,  my  dear  Mr. 
Dale.  But  sometimes  the  froth  on  the  wave  shows  the  change 
in  the  tide. 

The  Parson  looked  at  him  earnestly,  and  then  seized  him  by 
both  hands  with  holy  gladness  and  affection. 

"  Return  to  the  park,  now,"  said  Harley,  smiling,  "  and  tell 
Violante,  if  it  be  not  too  late  to  see  her,  that  she  was  even  more 
eloquent  than  you." 

Lord  L'Estrange  bounded  forward. 

Mr.  Dale  walked  back  through  the  park  toLansmere  House. 
On  the  terrace  he  found  Randal,  who  was  still  pacing  to  and  fro, 
sometimes  in  the  starlight,  sometimes  in  the  shadow. 

Leslie  looked  up,  and  seeing  Mr.  Dale,  the  close  astuteness  of 
his  aspect  returned  ;  and  stepping  out  of  the  starlight  deep  into 
the  shadow,  he  said — 

"  I  was  sorry  to  learn  that  Mr.  Fairfield  had  been  so  hurt  by 
Lord  L'Estrange's  severe  allusions.  Pity  that  political  differences 
should  interfere  with  private  friendships  ;  but  I  hear  that  you 
have  been  to  Mr.  Fairfield — and  doubtless,  as  the  peacemaker. 
Perhaps  you  met  Lord  L'Estrange  by  the  way?  He  promised 
nie  that  he  would  apologize  and  retract." 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH    LIFE.  4^7 

"Good  young  man,"  said  the  unsuspecting  Parson,  "he  has 
done  so." 

"  And  Mr.  LeonardJFairfield  will  therefore,  I  presume,  continue 
the  contest?" 

"Contest — ah,  this  election  !  I  suppose  so,  of  course.  But  I 
grieve  that  he  should  stand  against  you,  who  seem  to  be  disposed 
toward  him  so  kindly." 

"Oh, "said  Randal,  with  a  benevolent  smile,  "we  have  fought 
before,  you  know,  and  I  beat  him  then.  I  may  do  so  again  ! " 

And  he  walked  into  the  house,  arm-in-arm  with  the  Parson. 
Mr.  Dale  sought  Violante — Leslie  retired  to  his  own  room,  and 
felt  his  election  was  secured. 

Lord  L'Estrange  had  gained  the  thick  of  the  streets — passing 
groups  of  roaring  enthusiasts — Blue  and  Yellow — now  met  with  a 
cheer — now  followed  by  a  groan.  Just  by  a  public-house  that 
formed  the  angle  of  a  lane  with  the  High  Street,  and  which  was 
all  a-blaze  with  light,  and  all  alive  with  clamor,  he  beheld  the 
graceful  Baron  leaning  against  the  threshold,  smoking  his  cigar, 
too  refined  to  associate  its  divine  vapor  with  the  wreaths  of  shag 
within,  and  chatting  agreeably  with  a  knot  of  females,  who  were 
either  attracted  by  the  general  excitement,  or  waiting  to  see  hus- 
band, brother,  father,  or  son,  who  were  now  joining  in  the  chorus 
of  "Blue  for  ever!"  that  rang  from  tap-room  to  attic  of  the 
illumined  hostelry.  Levy,  seeing  Lord  L'Estrange,  withdrew  his 
cigar  from  his  lips  and  hastened  to  join  him.  "  All  the  Hundred 
and  Fifty  are  in  there,"  said  the  Baron,  with  a  backward  signifi- 
cant jerk  of  his  thumb  toward  the  inn.  ''I  have  seen  them  all 
privately,  in  tens  at  a  time;  and  I  have  been  telling  the  ladies 
without,  that  it  will  be  best  for  the  interest  of  their  family  to  go 
home,  and  let  us  lock  up  the  Hundred  and  Fifty  safe  from  the  Yel- 
lows,till  we  bring  them  to  the  poll.  But  I  am  afraid, "continued  Levy, 
"  that  the  rascals  are  not  to  be  relied  upon  unless  I  actually  pay 
them  beforehand;  and  that  would  be  disreputable,immoral— and, 
what  is  more,  it  would  upset  the  election.  Besides,  if  they  are  paid 
beforehand,  query,  is  it  quite  sure  how  they  will  vote  afterward  ? " 

"  Mr.  Avenel,  I  dare  say,  can  manage  them,"  said  Harley. 
"  Pray  do  nothing  immoral,  and  nothing  that  will  upset  the 
election.  I  think  you  might  as  well  go  home." 

"  Home  !  No,  pardon  me,  my  lord  ;  there  must  be  some  head 
to  direct  the  Committee,  and  keep  our  captains  at  their  posts 
upon  the  doubtful  electors.  A  great  deal  of  mischief  may  be  done 
between  this  and  the  morrow  ;  and  I  would  sit  up  all  night — ay, 
six  nights  a  week  for  the  next  three  months — to  prevent  any 
awkward  mistake  by  which  Audley  Egerton  can  be  returned." 


428  MY   NOVEL;   OR, 

"His  return  would  really  grieve  you  so  much?"  said  Harley. 

''You  may  judge  of  that  by  the  zeal  with  which  I  enter  into 
all  your  designs." 

Here  there  was  a  sudden  and  wondrously  loud  shout  from 
another  inn — a  Yellow  inn,  far  down  the  lane,  not  so  luminous  as 
the  Blue  hostelry;  on  the  contrary,  looking  rather  dark  and  sinis- 
ter, more  like  a  place  of  conspirators  or  felons  than  honest  inde- 
pendent electors, — "Avenel  for  ever! — Avenel  and  the  Yellows! " 

"  Excuse  me,  my  lord,  I  must  go  back  and  watch  over  my 
black  sheep,  if  I  would  have  them  blue ! "  said  Levy ;  and  he 
retreated  toward  the  threshold.  But  at  that  shout  of  "Avenel 
for  ever ! "  as  if  at  a  signal,  various  electors  of  the  redoubted 
Hundred  and  Fifty  rushed  from  the  Blue  hostelry,  sweeping 
past,  and  hurrying  down  the  lane  to  the  dark  little  Yellow  inn, 
followed  by  the  female  stragglers,  as  small  birds  follow  an  owl. 
It  was  not,  however,  very  easy  to  get  into  that  Yellow  inn.  Yel- 
low Reformers,  eminent  for  their  zeal  on  behalf  of  purity  of 
election,  were  stationed  outside  the  door,  and  only  strained  in 
one  candidate  for  admittance  at  a  time.  "After  all,"  thought  the 
Baron,  as  he  passed  into  the  principal  room  of  the  Blue  tavern, 
and  proposed  the  national  song  of  "Rule  Britannia" — "after  all, 
Avenel  hates  Egerton  as  much  as  I  do,  and  both  sides  work  to 
the  same  end."  And  thrumming  on  the  table,  he  joined,  with  a 
fine  bass,  in  the  famous  line, 

"  For  Britons  never  will  be  slaves  ! " 

In  the  interim,  Harley  had  disappeared  within  the  "Lansmere 
Arms,"  which  was  the  headquarters  of  the  Blue  Committee. 
Not,  however,  mounting  to  the  room  in  which  a  few  of  the  more 
indefatigable  were  continuing  their  labors,  receiving  reports  from 
scouts,  giving  orders,  laying  wagers,  and  very  muzzy  with  British 
principles  and  spirits,  Harley  called  aside  the  landlord,  and  in- 
quired if  the  stranger,  for  whom  rooms  had  been  prepared,  was 
.  yet  arrived.  An  affirmative  answer  was  given,  and  Harley  fol- 
lowed the  host  up  a  private  stair,  to  a  part  of  the  house  remote 
from  the  rooms  devoted  to  the  purposes  of  the  election.  He 
remained  with  this  stranger  about  half  an  hour,  and  then  walked 
into  the  Committee-room,  got  rid  of  the  more  excited,  conferred 
with  the  more  sober,  issued  a  few  brief  directions  to  such  of  the 
leaders  as  he  felt  he  could  most  rely  upon,  and  returned  home 
'•as  rapidly  as  he  had  quitted  it. 

Dawn  was  gray  in  the  skies  when  Harley  sought  his  own  cham- 
ber. To  gain  it,  he  passed  by  the  door  of  Violante's.  His  heart 
'suffused  with  grateful  ineffable  tenderness,  he  paused  and  kissed 
the  threshold.  When  he  stood  within  his  room  (the  same  that 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  429 

he  had  occupied  in  his  early  youth),  he  felt  as  if  the  load  of  years 
were  lifted  from  his  bosom.  The  joyous,  divine  elasticity  of 
spirit,  that  in  the  morning  of  life  springs  toward  the  Future  as  a 
bird  soars  into  heaven,  pervaded  his  whole  sense  of  being.  A 
Greek  poet  implies,  that  the  height  of  bliss  is  the  sudden  relief 
of  pain  ;  there  is  a  nobler  bliss  still — the  rapture  of  the  con- 
science at  the  sudden  release  from  a  guilty  thought.  By  the  bed- 
side at  which  he  had  knelt  in  boyhood,  Harley  paused  to  kneel 
once  more.  The  luxury  of  prayer,  interrupted  since  he  had 
nourished  schemes  of  which  his  passions  had  blinded  him  to  the 
sin,  but  which,  nevertheless,  he  dared  not  confess  to  the  All- 
Merciful,  was  restored  to  him.  And  yet,  as  he  bowed  his  knee, 
the  elation  of  spirits  he  had  before  felt  forsook  him.  The  sense 
of  the  danger  his  soul  had  escaped — the  full  knowledge  of  the 
guilt  to  which  the  fiend  had  tempted — came  dread  before  his 
clearing  vision  ;  he  shuddered  in  horror  of  himself.  And  he 
who  but  a  few  hours  before  had  deemed  it  so  impossible  to  par- 
don his  fellow-man,  now  felt  as  if  years  of  useful  and  beneficent 
deeds  could  alone  purify  his  own  repentant  soul  from  the  memory 
of  one  hateful  passion. 

CHAPTER   XXXII. 

BUT  while  Harley  had  thus  occupied  the  hours  of  night  with 
cares  for  the  living,  Audley  Egerton  had  been  in  commune  with 
the  dead.  He  had  taken  from  the  pile  of  papers  amidst  which 
it  had  fallen,  the  record  of  Nora's  silenced  heart.  With  a  sad 
wonder  he  saw  how  he  had  once  been  loved.  What  had  all 
which  successful  ambition  had  bestowed  on  the  lonely  statesman 
to  compensate  for  the  glorious  empire  he  had  lost — such  realms 
of  lovely  fancy;  such  worlds  of  exquisite  emotion;  that  infinite 
which  lies  within  the  divine  sphere  that  unites  spiritual  genius 
with  human  love  ?  His  own  positive  and  earthly  nature  attained, 
for  the  first  time,  and  as  if  for  its  own  punishment,  the  compre- 
hension of  that  loftier  and  more  ethereal  visitant  from  the 
heavens,  who  had  once  looked  with  a  seraph's  smile  through  the 
prison-bars  of  his  iron  life — that  celestial  refinement  of  affection, 
that  exuberance  of  feeling  which  warms  into  such  varieties  of 
beautiful  idea,  under  the  breath  of  the  earth-beautifier,  Imagi- 
nation;— all  from  which,  when  it  was  all  his  own,  he  had  turned 
half  weary  and  impatient,  and  termed  the  exaggerations  of  a 
visionary  romance — now  that  the  world  had  lost  them  evermore, 
he  interpreted  aright  as  truths.  Truths  they  were,  although  illu- 
sions. Even  as  the  philosopher  tells  us  that  the  splendor  of 


430  MY   NOVEL  ;    Oft, 

colors  which  deck  the  universe  is  not  on  the  surface  whereoti 
we  think  to  behold  it,  but  in  our  own  vision;  yet,  take  the  colors 
from  the  universe,  and  what  philosophy  can  assure  us  that  the 
universe  has  sustained  no  loss? 

But  when  Atidley  came  to  that  passage  in  the  fragment  which, 
though  but  imperfectly,  explained  the  true  cause  of  Nora's  flight; 
—when  he  saw  how  Levy,  for  what  purpose  he  was  unable  to  con- 
jecture, had  suggested  to  his  bride  the  doubts  that  had  offended 
him — asserted  the  marriage  to  be  a  fraud — drawn  from  Audley's 
own  brief  resentful  letters  to  Nora,  proof  of  the  assertion — mis- 
led so  naturally  the  young  wife's  scanty  experience  of  actual 
life,  and  maddened  one  so  sensitively  pure  into  the  conviction 
of  dishonor — his  brow  darkened,  and  his  hand  clenched.  He 
rose  and  went  at  once  to  Levy's  room.  He  found  it  deserted — 
inquired — learned  that  Levy  was  gone  forth,  and  had  left  word 
he  might  not  be  home  for  the  night.  Fortunate,  perhaps,  for 
Audley — fortunate  for  the  Baron — that  they  did  not  then  meet. 
Revenge,  in  spite  of  his  friend's  admonition,  might  at  that  hour 
have  been  as  potent  an  influence  on  Egerton  a&  it  had  been  on 
Harley,  and  not,  as  with  the  latter,  to  be  turned  aside. 

Audley  came  back  to  his  room  and  finished  the  tragic  record. 
He  traced  the  tremor  of  that  beloved  hand  through  the  last  tor- 
tures of  doubt  and  despair  ;— he  saw  where  the  hot  tears  had 
fallen  ; — he  saw  where  the  hand  had  paused,  the  very  sentence 
not  concluded; — mentally  he  accompanied  his  fated  bride  in  the 
dismal  journey  to  her  maiden  home,  and  beheld  her  before  him 
as  he  had  last  seen,  more  beautiful  even  in  death  than  the  face 
of  living  women  had  ever  since  appeared  to  him;— and  as  he 
bent  over  the  last  words,  the  blank  that  they  left  on  the  leaf, 
stretching  pale  beyond  the  quiver  of  the  characters  and  the  blister 
of  the  tears — pale  and  blank  as  the  void  which  departed  love 
leaves  behind  it — he  felt  his  heart  suddenly  stand  still,  its  course 
arrested  as  the  record  closed.  It  beat  again,  bu t  feebly— so  feebly! 
His  breath  became  labor  and  pain,  his  sight  grew  dizzy.  But  the 
constitutional  firmness  and  fortitude  of  the  man  clung  to  him  in 
the  stubborn  mechanism  of  habit — his  will  yet  fought,  against  his 
disease — life  rallied  as  the  light  flickers  up  in  the  waning  taper. 

The  next  morning,  when  Harley  came  into  his  friend's  room, 
Egerton  was  asleep.  But  the  sleep  seemed  much  disturbed;  the 
breathing  was  hard  and  difficult;  the  bedclothes  were  partially 
thrown  off,  as  if  in  the  tossing  of  disturbed  dreams;. the' sinewy, 
strong  arm,  the  bapoad^.at'hletic  breast,  were  partly  bare.  Strange 
that  so  deadly  a  disease  within  should  leave  the  frame  .such  ap- 
parent power  that,  to  the  ordinary  eye,  the  sleeping  sufferer 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  43! 

seemed  a  model  of  healthful  vigor.  One  hand  was  thrust  with 
uneasy  straining  over  the  pillows — it  had  its  hold  on  the  fatal 
papers ;  a  portion  of  the  leaves  was  visible ;  and  where  the 
characters  had  been  blurred  by  Nora's  tears,  were  the  traces, 
yet  moist,  of  tears  perhaps  more  bitter. 

Harley  felt  deeply  affected  ;  and  while  he  still  stood  by  the 
bed,  Egerton  sighed  heavily  and  woke.  He  stared  round  him, 
as  if  perplexed  and  confused — till  his  eyes  resting  on  Harley, 
he  smiled  and  said — 

"  So  early !  Ah — I  remember,  it  is  the  day  for  our  great 
boat-race.  We  shall  have  the  current  against  us ;  but  you  and 
I  together — when  did  we  ever  lose  ? " 

Audley's  mind  was  wandering ;  it  had  gone  back  to  the  old 
Eton  days.  But  Harley  thought  that  he  spoke  in  metaphorical 
allusion  to  the  present  more  important  contest. 

"  True,  my  Audley — you  and  I  together — when  did  we  ever 
lose?  But  will  you  rise?  I  wish  you  would  be  at  the  polling- 
place  to  shake  hands  with  your  voters  as  they  come  up.  By 
four  o'clock,  you  will  be  released,  and  the  election  won." 

"  The  election!  How! — what!  "  said  Egerton,  recovering  him- 
self. "I  recollect  now.  Yes — I  accept  this  last  kindness  from 
you.  I  always  said  I  would  die  in  harness.  Public  life — I  have 
no  other.  Ah,  I  dream  again  !  Oh,  Harley  ! — my  son — my  son!  " 

"You  shall  see  him  after  four  o'clock.  You  will  be  proud  of 
each  other.  But  make  haste  and  dress.  Shall  I  ring  the  bell  for 
your  servant  ? " 

"Do,"  said  Egerton,  briefly, '  and  sinking  back.  Harley 
quitted  the  room,  and  joined  Randal  and  some  of  the  more 
important  members  of  the  Blue  Committee,  who  were  already 
hurrying  over  their  breakfast. 

All  were  anxious  and  nervous  except  Harley,  who  dipped  his 
dry  toast  into  his  coffee,  according  to  his  ordinary  abstemious 
Italian  habit,  with  serene  composure.  Randal  in  vain  tried  for 
an  equal  tranquillity.  But  though  sure  of  his  election,  there 
would  necessarily  follow  a  scene  trying  to  the  nerve  of  his  hy- 
pocrisy. He  would  have  to  affect  profound  chagrin  in  the  midst 
of  vile  joy;  have  to  act  the  part  of  decorous  high-minded  sorrow, 
that  by  some  untoward  chance — some  unaccountable  cross-split- 
ting, Randal  Leslie's  gain  should  be  Audley  Egerton's  loss.  Be- 
sides, he  was  flurried  in  the  expectation  of  seeing  the  Squire,  and 
of  appropriating  the  money  which  was  to  secure  the  dearest  ob- 
ject of  his  ambition.  Breakfast  was  soon  despatched.  The  Com- 
mitteemen, bustling  for  their  hats,  and  looking  at  their  watches, 
gave  the  signal  for  departure;  yet  no  Squire  Hazeldean  had  made 


432  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

his  appearance.  Harley,  stepping  from  the  window  upon  the 
terrace,  beckoned  to  Randal,  who  took  his  hat  and  followed. 

"  Mr.  Leslie,"  said  Harley,  leaning  against  the  balustrade,  and 
carelessly  patting  Nero's  rough  honest  head,  "you  remember 
that  you  were  good  enough  to  volunteer  to  me  the  explanation 
of  certain  circumstances  in  connection  with  the  Count  di  Pes- 
chiera,  which  you  gave  to  the  Duke  di  Serrano ;  and  I  replied 
that  my  thoughts  were  at  present  engaged  on  the  election,  but 
as  soon  as  that  was  over,  I  should  be  very  willing  to  listen  to 
any  communications  affecting  yourself  and  my  old  friend  the 
Duke,  with  which  you  might  be  pleased  to  favor  me." 

This  address  took  Randal  by  surprise,  and  did  not  tend  to 
calm  his  nerves.  However,  he  replied  readily  : 

"  Upon  that,  as  upon  any  other  matter  that  may  influence  the 
judgment  you  form  of  me,  I  shall  be  but  too  eager  to  remove  a 
single  doubt  that,  in  your  eyes,  can  rest  upon  my  honor." 

"  You  speak  exceedingly  well,  Mr.  Leslie  ;  no  man  can  express 
himself  more  handsomely;  and  I  will  claim  your  promise  with 
the  less  scruple,  because  the  Duke  is  powerfully  affected  by  the 
reluctance  of  his  daughter  to  ratify  the  engagement  that  binds 
his  honor,  in  case  your  own  is  indisputably  cleared.  I  may 
boast  of  some  influence  over  the  young  lady,  since  I  assisted  to 
save  her  from  the  infamous  plot  of  Peschiera  ;  and  the  Duke 
urges  me  to  receive  your  explanation,  in  the  belief  that,  if  it 
satisfy  me,  as  it  has  satisfied  him,  I  may  conciliate  his  child  in 
favor  of  the  addresses  of  a  suitor  who  would  have  hazarded  his 
very  life  against  so  redoubted  a  duellist  as  Peschiera." 

"  Lord  L'Estrange,"  replied  Randal,  bowing,  "  I  shall  indeed 
owe  you  much  if  you  can  remove  that  reluctance  on  the  part 
of  my  betrothed  bride,  which  alone  clouds  my  happiness,  and 
which  would  at  once  put  an  end  to  my  suit,  did  I  not  ascribe  it 
to  an  imperfect  knowledge  of  myself,  which  I  shall  devote  my 
life  to  improve  into  confidence  and  affection." 

"  No  man  can  speak  more  handsomely,"  reiterated  Harley,  as 
if  with  profound  admiration  ;  and  indeed  he  did  eye  Randal  as 
we  eye  some  rare  curiosity.  "  I  am  happy  to  inform  you,  too," 
continued  L'Estrange,  "that  if  your  marriage  with  the  Duke  di 
Serrano's  daughter  take  place — " 

"///"  echoed  Randal. 

"  I  beg  pardon  for  making  any  hypothesis  of  what  you  claim 
the  right  to  esteem  a  certainty — I  correct  my  expression  :  when 
your  marriage  with  that  young  lady  takes  place,  you  will  at  least 
escape  the  rock  on  which  many  young  men  of  ardent  affections 
have  split  at  the  onset  of  the  grand  voyage.  You  will  form  nq 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  433 

imprudent  connection.  In  a  word,  I  received  yesterday  a  de- 
spatch from  Vienna,  which  contains  the  full  pardon  and  formal 
restoration  of  Alphonso,  Duke  di  Serrano.  And  I  may  add,  that 
the  Austrian  government  (sometimes  misunderstood  in  this  coun- 
try) is  bound  by  the  laws  it  administers,  andean  in  no  way  dictate 
to  the  Duke,  once  restored,  as  to  the  choice  of  his  son-in-law,  or 
as  to  the  heritage  that  may  devolve  on  his  child." 

"And  does  the  Duke  yet  know  of  his  recall  ?"  exclaimed 
Randal,  his  cheek  flushed  and  his  eye  sparkling. 

"  No.  I  reserve  that  good  news,  with  other  matters,  till  after 
the  election  is  over.  But  Egerton  keeps  us  waiting  sadly.  Ah, 
here  comes  his  valet." 

Audley's  servant  approached.  "Mr.  Egerton  feels  himself 
rather  more  poorly  than  usual,  my  lord  ;  he  begs  you  will  ex- 
cuse his  going  with  you  into  the  town  at  present.  He  will  come 
later  if  his  presence  is  necessary." 

"  No.  Pray  tell  him  to  rest  and  nurse  himself.  I  should 
have  liked  him  to  witness  his  own  triumph — that  is  all.  Say  I 
will  represent  him  at  the  polling-place.  Gentlemen,  are  you 
ready  ?  We  will  go  on." 

The  polling-booth  was  erected  in  the  centre  of  the  market- 
place. The  voting  had  already  commenced  ;  and  Mr.  Avenel 
and  Leonard  were  already  at  their  posts,  in  order  to  salute  and 
thank  the  voters  in  their  cause  who  passed  before  them.  Ran-, 
dal  and  L'Estrange  entered  the  booth  amidst  loud  hurrahs,  and 
to  the  national  air  of  "  See,  the  Conquering  Hero  Comes."  The 
voters  denied  in  quick  succession.  Those  who  voted  entirely 
according  to  principle  or  color — which  came  to  much  the  same 
thing — and  were  therefore  above  what  is  termed  "management," 
flocked  in  first,  voting  straightforwardly  for  both  Blues  or  both 
Yellows.  At  the  end  of  the  first  half-hour,  the  Yellows  were 
about  ten  ahead  of  the  Blues.  Then  sundry  split  votes  began 
to  perplex  conjecture  as  to  the  result  ;  and  Randal,  at  the  end 
of  the  first  hour,  had  fifteen  majority  over  Audley  Egerton,  two 
over  Dick  Avenel — Leonard  Fairfield  heading  the  poll  by  five. 
Randal  owed  his  place  in  the  lists  to  the  voters  that  Harley's 
personal  efforts  had  procured  for  him  ;  and  he  was  well  pleased 
to  see  that  Lord  L'Estrange  had  not  withdrawn  from  him  a 
single  promise  so  obtained.  This  augured  well  for  Harley's 
ready  belief  in  his  appointed  "  explanations."  In  short,  the 
whole  election  seemed  going  just  as  he  had  calculated.  But  by 
twelve  o'clock,  there  were  some  changes  in  the  relative  position  of 
the  candidates.  Dick  Avenel  had  gradually  gained  ground — 
passing  Randal,  passing  even  Leonard,  He  stood  at  the  head  of 


434  My  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

the  poll  by  a  majority  of  ten.     Randal  came  next.     Audley  was 
twenty  behind  Randal,  and  Leonard  four  behind  Audley. 

More  than  half  the  constituency  had  polled,  but  none  of  the 
Committee  on  either  side,  nor  one  of  the  redoubted  corps  of  a 
Hundred  and  Fifty. 

The  poll  now  slackened  sensibly.  Randal,  looking  round,  and 
longing  for  an  opportunity  to  ask  Dick  whether  he  really  meant 
to  return  himself  instead  of  his  nephew,  saw  that  Harley  had 
disappeared  ;  and  presently  a  note  was  brought  to  him  request- 
ing his  presence  in  the  Committee-room.  Thither  he  hastened. 

As  he  forced  his  way  through  the  bystanders  in  the  lobby, 
toward  the  threshold  of  the  room,  Levy  caught  hold  of  him  and 
whispered — "They  begin  to  fear  for  Egerton.  They  want  a 
compromise  in  order  to  secure  him.  They  will  propose  to  you 
to  resign,  if  Avenel  will  withdraw  Leonard.  Don't  be  entrapped. 
L'Estrange  may  put  the  question  to  you  ;  but — a  word  in  your 
ear — he  would  be  glad  enough  to  throw  over  Egerton.  Rely 
upon  this,  and  stand  firm." 

Randal  made  no  answer,  but,  the  crowd  giving  way  for  him, 
entered  the  room.  Levy  followed.  The  doors  were  instantly 
closed.  All  the  Blue  Committee  were  assembled.  They  looked 
heated,  anxious,  eager.  Lord  L'Estrange,  alone  calm  and  cool, 
stood  at  the  head  of  the  long  table.  Despite  his  composure, 
Harley's,  brow  was  thoughtful.  "Yes,"  said  he  to  himself,  "I 
will  give  this  young  man  the  fair  occasion  to  prove  gratitude  to  his 
benefactor;  and  if  he  here  acquit  himself,  I  will  spare  him  at  least 
public  exposure  of  his  deceit  to  others.  So  young,  he  must  have 
some  good  in  him — at  least  toward  the  man  to  whom  he  owes  all." 

"  Mr.  Leslie,"  said  L'Estrange,  aloud,  "  you  see  the  state  of 
the  poll.  Our  Committee  believe  that,  if  you  continue  to  stand, 
Egerto-n  must  be  beaten.  They  fear  that,  Leonard  Fairfield 
having  little  chance,  the  Yellows  will  not  waste  their  second  votes 
on  him,  but  will  transfer  them  to  you, in  order  to  keep  out  Eger- 
ton. If  you  retire,  Egerton  will  be  safe.  There  is  reason  to  sup- 
pose that  Leonard  would,  in  that  case,  also  be  withdrawn." 

"You  can  hope  and  fear  nothing  more  from  Egerton,"  whis- 
pered Levy.  "  He  is  utterly  ruined  ;  and,  if  he  lose,  will  sleep 
in  a  prison.  The  bailiffs  are  waiting  for  him." 

Randal  was  still  silent,  and  at  that  silence  an  indignant  mur- 
mur ran  through  the  more  influential  members  of  the  Commit- 
tee. For,  though  Audley  was  not  personally  very  popular,  still 
a  candidate  so  eminent  was  necessarily  their  first  object,  and 
they  would  seem  very  small  to  the  Yellows  if  their  great  man 
defeated  by  the  candidate  introduced  to  aid  him — a  youth 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  435 

unknown.  Vanity  and  patriotism  both  swelled  that  murmur. 
"You  see,  young  sir,"  cried  a  rich,  blunt  master-butcher,  "  that 
it  was  an  honorable  understanding  that  Mr.  Egerton  was  to  be 
safe.  You  had  no  claim  on  us,  except  as  fighting  second  to  him. 
And  we  are  all  astonished  that  you  don't  say  at  once, '  Save  Eger- 
ton, of  course.'  Excuse  my  freedom,  sir.  No  time  for  palaver." 

"  Lord  L'Estrange,"  said  Randal,  turning  mildly  from  the 
butcher,  "do  you,  as  the  first  here  in  rank  and  influence,  and  as 
Mr.  Egerton's  especial  friend,  call  upon  me  to  sacrifice  my  elec- 
tion, and  what  appear  to  be  the  inclinations  of  the  majority  of 
the  constituents,  in  order  to  obtain  what  is,  after  all,  a  doubt- 
ful chance  of  returning  Mr.  Egerton  in  my  room  ?" 

"  I  do  not  call  upon  you,  Mr.  Leslie.  It  is  a  matter  of  feeling 
or  of  honor,  which  a  gentleman  can  very  well  decide  for  himself." 

"  Was  any  such  compact  made  between  your  lordship  and 
myself,  when  you  first  gave  me  your  interest  and  canvassed  for 
me  in  person  ?" 

"  Certainly  not.  Gentlemen,  be  silent.  No  such  compact 
was  mentioned  by  me." 

"  Neither  was  it  by  Mr.  Egerton.  Whatever  might  be  the 
understanding  spoken  of  by  the  respected  elector  who  addressed 
me,  I  was  no  party  to  it.  I  am  persuaded  that  Mr.  Egerton  is 
the  last  person  who  would  wish  to  owe  his  election  to  a  trick 
upon  the  electors  in  the  midst  of  the  polling,  and  to  what  the 
world  would  consider  a  very  unhandsome  treatment  of  myself, 
upon  whom  all  the  toil  of  the  canvass  has  devolved." 

Again  the  murmur  rose  ;  but  Randal  had  an  air  so  deter- 
mined, that  it  quelled  resentment,  and  obtained  a  continued, 
though  most  chilling  and  half-contemptuous  hearing. 

"  Nevertheless,"  resumed  Randal,  "  I  would  at  once  retire,  were 
I  not  under  the  firm  persuasion  that  I  shall  convince  all  present, 
who  now  seem  to  condemn  me,  that  I  act  precisely  according  to 
Mr.  Egerton's  own  private  inclinations.  That  gentleman,  in  fact, 
has  never  been  amongst  you — has  not  canvassed  in  person — has 
taken  no  trouble,  beyond  a  speech,  that  was  evidently  meant  to  be 
but  a  general  defence  of  his  past  political  career.  What  does 
this  mean  ?  Simply  that  his  standing  has  been  merely  a  form, 
to  comply  with  the  wish  of  his  party,  against  his  Own  desire." 

The  Committeemen  looked  at  each  other  amazed  and  doubtful. 
Randal  saw  he  had  gained  an  advantage;  he  pursued  it  with  a 
tact  and  an  ability  which  showed  that,  in  spite  of  his  mere  ora- 
torical deficiencies,  he  had  in  him  the  elements  of  a  dexterous 
debater.  "I  will  be  plain  with  you,  gentlemen.  My  character, 
my  desire  to  stand  well  with  you  all,  oblige  me  to  be  so.  Mr. 


436  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

Egerton  does  not  wish  to  come  into  -Parliament  at  present.  His 
health  is  much  broken;  his  private  affairs  need  all  his  time  and 
attention.  I  am,  I  may  say,  as  a  son  to  him.  He  is  most  anxious 
•for  my  success ;  Lord  L'Estrange  told  me  but  last  night,  very 
truly,  'more  anxious  for  my  success  than  his  own.'  Nothing 
could  please  him  more  than  to  think  I  were  serving  in  Parlia- 
ment, however  humbly,  those  great  interests  which  neither  health 
nor  leisure  will,  in  this  momentous  crisis,  allow  himself  to  defend 
with  his  wonted  energy.  Later,  indeed,  no  doubt,  he  will  seek 
return  to  an  arena  in  which  he  is  so  distinguished,  and  when  the 
popular  excitement,  which  produces  the  popular  injustice  of  the 
day,  is  over,  what  constituency  will  not  be  proud  to  return  such 
a  man  ?  In  support  and  proof  of  what  I  have  thus  said,  I  now 
appeal  to  Mr.  Egerton 's  own  agent — a  gentleman  who,  in  spite 
of  his  vast  fortune  and  the  rank  he  holds  in  society,  has  con- 
sented to  act  gratuitously  on  behalf  of  that  great  statesman. 
I  ask  you  then,  respectfully,  Baron  Levy — is  not  Mr.  Egerton's 
health  much  broken,  and  in  need  of  rest  ?" 

"  It  is,"  said  Levy. 

"  And  do  not  his  affairs  necessitate  his  serious  and  undivided 
attention  ?" 

"  They  do,  indeed,"  quoth  the  Baron.  "  Gentlemen,  I  have 
nothing  to  urge  in  behalf  of  my  distinguished  friend  as  against 
the  statement  of  his  adopted  son,  Mr.  Leslie." 

"  Then  all  I  can  say,"  cried  the  butcher,  striking  his  huge  fist 
on  the  table,  "is,  that  Mr.  Egerton  has  behaved  d — d  unhand- 
some to  us,  and  we  shall  be  the  laughing-stock  of  the  borough." 

"  Softly,  softly,"  said  Harley.  "There  is  a  knock  at  the  door 
behind.  Excuse  me." 

Harley  quitted  the  room,  but  only  for  a  minute  or  two.  On 
his  return  he  addressed  himself  to  Randal. 

"  Are  we  then  to  understand,  Mr.  Leslie,  that  your  intention 
is  not  to  resign  ?" 

"  Unless  your  lordship  actually  urge  me  to  the  contrary,  I 
should  say,  '  Let  the  election  go  on,  and  all  take  our  chance.' 
This  seems  to  me  the  fair,  manly,  ENGLISH  (great  emphasis  on 
the  last  adjective),  honorable  course." 

"Be  it  so,"  replied  Harley;  "  'let  all  take  their  chance.'  Mr. 
Leslie,  we  will  no  longer  detain  you.  Go  back  to  the  polling- 
place — one  of  the  candidates  should  be  present;  and  you,  Baron 
Levy,  be  good  enough  to  go  also,  and  return  thanks  to  those 
who  may  yet  vote  for  Mr.  Egerton." 

Levy  bowed,  and  wen  taut  arm-in-arm  with  Randal. 
1  "Capital,  capital/'said  the  Baron.  "You  have  a  wonderful  head." 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  437 

"  I  did  not  like  L'Estrange's  look,  nevertheless.  But  he  can't 
hurt  me  now;  the  votes  he  got  for  me  instead  of  for  Egerton  have 
already  polled.  The  Committee,  indeed,  may  refuse  to  vote  for 
me;  but  then  there  is  Avenel's  body  of  reserve.  Yes,  the  elec- 
tion is  virtually  over.  When  we  get  back,  Hazeldean  will  have 
arrived  with  the  money  for  the  purchase  of  my  ancestral  prop- 
erty;— Dr.  Riccabocca  is  already  restored  to  the  estates  and 
titles  of  Serrano; — what  do  I  care  farther  for  Lord  L'Estrange? 
Still,  I  do  not  like  his  look." 

"  Pooh,  you  have  done  just  what  he  wished.  I  am  forbidden 
to  say  more.  Here  we  are  at  the  booth.  A  new  placard  since 
we  left.  How  are  the  numbers  ?  Avenel  forty  ahead  of  you  ; 
you  thirty  above  Egerton;  and  Leonard  Fairfield  still  last  on 
the  poll.  But  where  are  Avenel  and  Fairfield?" 

Both  these  candidates  had  disappeared,  perhaps  gone  to  their 
own  Committee-room. 

Meanwhile,  as  soon  as  the  doors  had  closed  on  Randal  and 
the  Baron,  in  the  midst  of  the  angry  hubbub  succeeding  to  their 
departure,  Lord  L'Estrange  sprang  upon  the  table.  The  action 
and  his  look  stilled  every  sound. 

4<  Gentlemen,  it  is  in  our  hands  to  return  one  of  our  candi- 
dates, and  to  make  our  own  choice  between  the  two.  You  have 
heard  Mr.  Leslie  and  Baron  Levy.  To  their  statement  I  make 
but  this  reply — Mr.  Egerton  is  needed  by  the  country;  and  what- 
ever his  health  or  his  affairs,  he  is  ready  to  respond  to  that  call. 
If  he  has  not  canvassed — if  he  does  not  appear  before  you  at 
this  moment,  the  services  of  more  than  twenty  years  plead  for 
him  in  his  stead.  Which,  then,  of  the  two  candidates  do  you 
choose  as  your  member — a  renowned  statesman,  or  a  beardless 
boy?  Both  have  ambition  and  ability  ; — the  one  has  identified 
those  qualities  with  the  history  of  a  country,  and  (as  it  is  now 
alleged  to  his  prejudice)  with  a  devotion  that  has  broken  a 
vigorous  frame  and  injured  a  princely  fortune.  The  other 
evinces  his  ambition  by  inviting  you  to  prefer  him  to  his  bene- 
factor; and  proves  his  ability  by  the  excuses  he  makes  for  in- 
gratitude. Choose  between  the  two — an  Egerton  or  a  Leslie." 

"  Egerton  for  ever !  "  cried  the  whole  assembly,  as  with  a  single 
voice,  followed  by  a  hiss  for  Leslie. 

"But,"  said  a  grave  and  prudent  Committeeman,  "have  we 
really  the  choice? — Does  not  that  rest  with  the  Yellows  ?  Is 
not  your  lordship  too  sanguine  ?  " 

"  Open  that  door  behind  ;  a  deputation  from  our  opponents 
waits  in  the  room  on  the  other  side  of  the  passage.  Admit  them." 

The  Committee  were  hushed  in  breathless  silence  while  Har- 


438  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

ley's  order  was  obeyed.  And  soon,  to  their  great  surprise,  Leonard 
Fairfield  himself,  attended  by  six  of  the  principal  members  of 
the  Yellow  party,  entered  the  room. 

LORD  L'EsxRANGE. — You  have  a  proposition  to  make  to  us, 
Mr.  Fairfield,  on  behalf  of  yourself  and  Mr.  Avenel,  and  with 
the  approval  of  your  Committee  ? 

LEONARD  (advancing  to  the  table). — I  have.  We  are  con-' 
vinced  that  neither  party  can  carry  both  its  candidates.  Mr. 
Avenel  is  safe.  The  only  question  is,  which  of  the  two  candi- 
dates on  your  side  it  best  becomes  the  honor  of  this  constitu- 
ency to  select.  My  resignation,  which  I  am  about  to  tender, 
will  free  sufficient  votes  to  give  the  triumph  either  to  Mr.  Eger- 
ton  or  Mr.  Leslie. 

"  Egerton  for  ever  !"  cried  once  more  the  excited  Blues. 

"Yes — Egerton  for  ever !"  said  Leonard  with  aglow  upon 
his  cheek.  "  We  may  differ  from  his  politics,  but  who  can  tell  us 
those  of  Mr.  Leslie  ?  We  may  differ  from  the  politician,  but  who 
would  not  feel  proud  of  the  senator?  A  great  and  incalculable 
advantage  is  bestowed  on  that  constituency  which  returns  to 
Parliament  a  distinguished  man.  His  distinction  ennobles  the 
place  he  represents — it  sustains  public  spirit — it  augments  the 
manly  interest  in  all  that  affects  the  nation.  Every  time  his 
voice  hushes  the  assembled  Parliament,  it  reminds  us  of  our 
common  country;  and  even  the  discussion  amongst  his  constit- 
uents which  his  voice  provokes — clears  their  perceptions  of  the 
public  interest,  and  enlightens  themselves,  from  the  intellect 
which  commands  their  interest,  and  compels  their  attention. 
Egerton,  then,  for  ever  !  If  our  party  must  subscribe  to  there- 
turn  of  one  opponent,  let  all  unite  to  select  the  worthiest.  My 
Lord  L'Estrange,  when  I  quit  this  room,  it  will  be  to  announce 
my  resignation,  and  to  solicit  those  who  have  promised  me  their 
votes  to  transfer  them  to  Mr.  Audley  Egerton." 

Amidst  the  uproarious  huzzas  which  followed  this  speech, 
Leonard  drew  near  to  Harley  :  "  My  lord,  I  have  obeyed  your 
wishes,  as  conveyed  to  me  by  my  uncle,  who  is  now  engaged  at 
this  moment  elsewhere  in  carrying  them  into  effect." 

"  Leonard,"  said  Harley,  in  the  same  undertone,  "you  have 
insured  to  Audley  Egerton  what  you  alone  could  do — the  tri- 
umph over  a  perfidious  dependant — the  continuance  of  the  sole 
career  in  which  he  has  hitherto  found  solace  or  the  zest  of  life. 
He  must  thank  you  with  his  own  lips.  Come  to  the  Park  after 
the  close  of  the  poll.  There  and  then  shall  the  explanations 
yet  needful  to  both  be  given  and  received." 

Here  Harley  bowed  to   the  n  :--Mnbly  and  raised  his  voice  : 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  439 

"Gentlemen,  yesterday,  at  the  nomination  of  the  candidates,  I 
uttered  remarks  that  have  justly  pained  Mr.  Fairfield.  In  your 
presence  I  wholly  retract  and  frankly  apologize  for  them.  In  your 
presence  I  entreat  his  forgiveness,  and  say,  that  if  he  will  ac- 
cord me  his  friendship,  I  will  place  him  in  my  esteem  and  affec- 
tion side  by  side  with  the  statesman  he  has  given  to  his  country." 

Leonard  grasped  the  hand  extended  to  him  with  both  his  own, 
and  then,  overcome  by  his  emotions,  hurried  from  the  room  ; 
while  Blues  and  Yellows  exchanged  greetings,  rejoiced  in  the 
compromise  that  Would  dispel  all  party  irritation,  secure  the 
peace  of  the  borough,  and  allow  quiet  men,  who  had  detested 
each  other  the  day  before,  and  vowed  reciprocal  injuries  to 
trade  and  custom,  the  indulgence  of  all  amiable  and  fraternal 
feelings — until  the  next  general  election. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  polling  had  gone  on  slowly  as  before, 
but  still  to  the  advantage  of  Randal.  "  Not  two-thirds  of  the 
constituency  will  poll,"  murmured  Levy,  looking  at  his  watch. 
"  The  thing  is  decided.  Aha,  Audley  Egerton  !  you  who  once 
tortured  me  with  the  unspeakable  jealousy  that  bequeaths  such 
implacable  hate — you  who  scorned  my  society,  and  called  me 
'scoundrel' — disdainful  of  the  very  power  your,  folly  placed 
within  my  hands^-aha,  your  time  is  up ! — and  the  spirit  that 
administered  to  your  own  destruction  strides  within  the  circle 
to  seize  its  prey." 

"You  shall  have  my  first  frank,  Levy,"  said  Randal,- "to  en- 
close your  letter  to  Mr.  Thornhill's  solicitor.  This  affair  of  the 
election  is  over;  we  must  now  look  to  what  else  rests  on  our  hands." 

"  What  the  devil  is  that  placard  ?  "  cried  Levy,  turning  pale. 

Randal  looked,  and  right  up  the  market-place,  followed  by  an 
immense  throng,  moved,  high  over  the  heads  of  all,  a  Yellow 
Board  that  seemed  marching  through  the  air  comet-like : — 

Two  o'clock  p.  m. 
RESIGNATION  OF  FAIRFIELD  ! 

VOTE    FOR 

AVENEL  AND  EGERTON ! 

(Signed)  TIMOTHY  ALLJACK. 

Yellow  Committee  Room. 

"  What  infernal  treachery  is  this  ?  "  cried  Randal,  livid  with 
honest  indignation. 

"Wait  a  moment;  there  is  Avenel !  "  exclaimed  Levy;  and  at 
the  head  of  another  procession  that  emerged  from  the  obscurer 
lanes  of  the  town,  walked,  with  grave  majesty,  the  surviving 
Yellow  candidate.  Dick  disappeared  for  a  moment  within  a 


44°  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

grocer's  shop  in  the  broadest  part  of  the  place,  and  then  culmi- 
nated, at  the  height  of  a  balcony  on  the  first  story,  just  above  an 
enormous  yellow  canister,  significant  of  the  profession  and  the 
politics  of  the  householder.  No  sooner  did  Dick,  hat  in  hand, 
appear  on  this  rostrum,  than  the  two  processions  halted  below, 
bands  ceased,  flags  drooped  round  their  staves,  crowds  rushed 
within  hearing,  and  even  the  poll-clerks  sprang  from  the  booth. 
Randal  and  Levy  themselves  pressed  into  the  throng.  Dick  on 
the  balcony  was  the  Dtus  ex  Machind, 

"Freemen  and  electors  !  "  said  Dick,  with  his  most  sonorous 
accents — "  finding  that  the  public  opinion  of  this  independent 
and  enlightened  constituency  is  so  evenly  divided,  that  only  one 
Yellow  candidate  can  be  returned,  and  only  one  Blue  has  a 
chance,  it  was  my  intention  last  night  to  retire  from  the  contest, 
and  thus  put  an  end  to  all  bickerings  and  ill-blood — (Hold  your 
tongues  there,  can't  you!) — I  say  honestly,  I  should  have  pre- 
ferred the  return  of  my  distinguished  and  talented  young  neph- 
ew— honorable  relation — to  my  own;  but  he  would  not  hear 
of  it;  and  talked  all  our  Committee  into  the  erroneous  but  high- 
minded  notion,  that  the  town  would  cry  shame  if  the  nephew 
rode  into  Parliament  by  breaking  the  back  of  the  uncle."  (Loud 
cheers  from  the  mob,  and  partial  cries  of  "  We'll  have  you  both !") 

"  You'll  do  no  such  thing,  and  you  know  it;  hold  your  jaw," 
resumed  Dick,  with  imperious  good-humor.  "  Let  me  go  on, 
can't  you? — time  presses.  In  a  word,  my  nephew  resolved  to 
retire,  if,  at  two  o'clock  this  day,  there  was  no  chance  of  return- 
ing both  of  us;  and  there  is  none.  Now,  then,  the  next  thing 
for  the  Yellows  who  have  not  yet  voted,  is  to  consider  how  they 
will  give  their  second  votes.  If  I  had  been  the  man  to  retire, 
why,  for  certain  reasons,  I  should  have  recommended  them  to 
split  with  Leslie — a  clever  chap,  and  pretty  considerable  sharp." 

"  Hear,  hear,  hear  !  "  cried  the  Baron,  lustily. 

"But  I'm  bound  to  say  that  my  nephew  has  an  opinion  of  his 
own — as  an  independent  Britisher,  let  him  be  twice  your  nephew, 
ought  to  have;  and  his  opinion  goes  the  other  way,  and  so  does 
that  of  our  Committee." 

"  Sold  !  "  cried  the  Baron;  and  some  of  the  crowd  shook  their 
heads,  and  looked  grave — especially  those  suspected  of  a  wish 
to  be  bought. 

"  Sold  ! — pretty  fellow  you,  with  the  nosegay  in  your  button- 
hole, to  talk  of  selling!  You  who  wanted  to  sell  your  own 
client — and  you  know  it.  [Levy  recoiled.]  Why,  gentlemen, 
that's  Levy,  the  Jew,  who  talks  of  selling  !  And  if  he  asperses 
the  character  of  this  constituency,  I  stand  here  to  defend  it;  and 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  44! 

there  stands  the  parish  pump,  with  a  handle  for  the  arm  of 
Honesty,  and  a  spout  for  the  lips  of  Falsehood  !" 

At  the  close  of  this  magniloquent  period,  borrowed,  no  doubt, 
from  some  great  American  orator,  Baron  Levy  involuntarily  re- 
treated toward  the  shelter  of  the  polling-booth,  followed  by  some 
frowning  Yellows,  with  very  menacing  gestures. 

"  But  the  calumniator  sneaks  away;  leave  him  to  the  reproach 
of  his  conscience,"  resumed  Dick,  with  a  generous  magnanimity. 

"SOLD  !  [the  word  rang  through  the  place  like  the  blast  of  a 
trumpet] — sold  !  No,  believe  me,  not  a  man  who  votes  for 
Egerton  instead  of  Fairfield  will,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned,  be 
a  penny  the  better  [chilling  silence] — or  [with  a  scarce  perceiv- 
able wink  toward  the  anxious  faces  of  the  Hundred  and  Fifty  who 
filled  the  background] — or  a  penny  the  worse.  [Loud  cheers 
from  the  Hundred  and  Fifty,  and  cries  of '  Noble  !  j  I  don't  like 
the  politics  of  Mr.  Egerton.  But  I  am  not  only  a  politician — 
I  am  a  MAN  !  The  arguments  of  our  respected  Committee — 
persons  in  business,  tender  husbands,  and  devoted  fathers— have 
weight  with  me.  I  myself  am  a  husband  and  a  father.  If  a 
needless  contest  be  prolonged  to  the  last,  with  all  the  irritation 
it  engenders,  who  suffer? — why,  the  tradesman  and  the  opera- 
tive. Partiality,  loss  of  custom,  tyrannical  demands  for  house- 
rent,  notices  to  quit — in  a  word,  the  screw  !  " 

"  Hear,  hear !  "  and  "  Give  us  the  Ballot  !  " 

"  The  Ballot — with  all  my  heart,  if  I  had  it  about  me  !  And  if 
we  had  the  Ballot,  I  should  like  to  see  a  man  dare  to  vote  Blue. 
[Loud  cheers  from  the  Yellows.]  But,  as  we  have  not  got  it,  we 
must  think  of  our  families.  And  I  may  add,  that  though  Mr. 
Egerton  may  come  again  into  office,  yet  [added  Dick,  solemnly] 
I  will  do  my  best,  as  his  colleague,  to  keep  him  straight;  and 
your  own  enlightenment  (for  the  schoolmaster  is  abroad)  will 
show  him  that  no  minister  can  brave  public  opinion,  nor  quarrel 
with  his  own  bread  and  butter.  [Much  cheering.]  In  these 
times  the  aristocracy  must  endear  themselves  to  the  middle  and 
working  class;  and  a  member  in  office  has  much  to  give  away  in 
the  Stamps  and  Excise,  in  the  Customs,  the  Post  Office,  and 
other  State  departments  in  this  rotten  old — I  mean  this  magnifi- 
cent empire — by  which  he  can  benefit  his  constituents,  and  rec- 
oncile the  prerogatives  of  aristocracy  with  the  claims  of  the  peo- 
ple— more  especially,  in  this  case,  the  people  of  the  borough  of 
Lansmere.  [Hear,  hear.] 

"  And  therefore,  sacrificing  party  inclinations  (since  it  seems 
that  I  can  in  no  way  promote  them)  on  the  altar  of  General  Good 
Feeling,  I  cannot  oppose  the  resignation  of  my  nephew— hon- 


442  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

orable  relation — nor  blind  my  eyes  to  the  advantages  that  may 
result  to  a  borough  so  important  to  the  nation  at  large,  if  the 
electors  think  fit  to  choose  my  Right  Honorable  broth — I  mean 
the  Right  Honorable  Blue  candidate — as  my  brother  colleague. 
Not  that  I  presume  to  dictate,  or  express  a  wish  one  way  or  the 
other — only,  as  a  Family  Man,  I  say  to  you,  Electors  and  Free- 
men, having  served  your  country  in  returning  me,  you  have  nobly 
won  the  right  to  think  of  the  little  ones  at  home." 

Dick  put  his.  hand  to  his  heart,  bowed  gracefully,  and  retired 
from  the  balcony  amidst  unanimous  applause. 

In  three  minutes  more,  Dick  had  resumed  his  place  in  the 
booth  in  his  quality  of  candidate.  A  rush  of  Yellow  electors 
.poured  in,  hot  and  fast.  Up  came  Emanuel  Trout,  and,  in  a 
firm  voice,  recorded  his  vote — "Avenel  and  Egerton."  Every 
man  of  the  Hundred  and  Fifty  so  polled.  To  each  question, 
"Whom  do  you  vote  for  ?"  "Avenel  and  Egerton"  knelled  on 
the  ears  of  Randal  Leslie  with  "  damnable  iteration."  The  young 
man  folded  his  arms  across  his  breast  in  dogged  despair.  Levy 
had  to  shake  hands  for  Mr.  Egerton,  with  a  rapidity  that  took 
away  his  breath.  He  longed  to  slink  away — longed  to  get  at 
L'Estrange,  whom  he  supposed  would  be  as  wroth  at  this  turn 
in  the  wheel  of  fortune  as  himself.  But  how,  as  Egerton's  repre- 
sentative,escape  from  the  continuous  gripes  of  those  horny  hands? 
Besides,  there  stood  the  parish  pump,  right  in  face  of  the  booth, 
and  some  huge  truculent-looking  Yellows  loitered  round  it,  as  if 
ready  to  pounce  on  him  the  instant  he  quitted  his  present  sanc- 
tuary. Suddenly  the  crowd  round  the  booth  receded — Lord 
L'Estrange's  carriage  drove  up  to  the  spot,  and  Harley,  stepping 
from  it,  assisted  out  of  the  vehicle  an  old  gray-haired  paralytic 
man.  The  old  man  stared  round  him,  and  nodded  smilingly  to 
the  mob.  "  I'm  here — I'm  come;  I'm  but  a  poor  creature,  but 
I'm  a  good  Blue  to  the  last !  " 

"  Old  John  Avenel — fine  old  man  !  "  cried  many  a  voice. 

And  John  Avenel,  still  leaning  on  Harley's  arm,  tottered  into 
the  booth,  and  plumped  for  "  Egerton." 

"  Shake  hands,  father,"  said  Dick,  bending  forward,  "  though 
you'll  not  vote  for  me." 

"  I  was  a  Blue  before  you  were  born,"  answered  the  old  man, 
tremulously.  "  But  I  wish  you  success  all  the  same,  and  God 
bless  you,  my  boy  !  " 

Even  the  poll-clerks  were  touched;  and  when  Dick,  leaving 
his  place,  was  seen  by  the  crowd  assisting  Lord  L'Estrange  to 
place  poor  John  again  in  the  carriage — that  picture  of  family 
love  in  the  midst  of  political  difference — of  the  prosperous, 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  443 

wealthy,  energetic  son,  who,  as  a  boy,  had  played  at  marbles  in 
the  very  kennel,  and  who  had  risen  in  life  by  his  own  exertions, 
and  was  now  virtually  M.P .  for  his  native  town — tending  on  the 
broken-down,  aged  father,  whom  even  the  interests  of  a  son  he 
was  so  proud  of  could  not  win  from  the  colors  which  he  asso- 
ciated with  truth  and  rectitude — had  such  an  effect  upon  the 
rudest  of  the  mob  there  present,  that  you  might  have  heard  a 
pin  fall — till  the  carriage  drove  away  back  to  John's  humble 
home;  and  then  there  rose  such  a  tempest  of  huzzas  !  John 
Avenel's  vote  for  Egerton  gave  another  turn  to  the  vicissitudes 
of  that  memorable  election.  As  yet  Avenel  had  been  ahead  of 
Audley;  but  a  plumper  in  favor  of  Egerton,. from  Avenel's  own 
father,  set  an  example  and  gave  an  excuse  to  many  a  Blue  who 
had  not  yet  voted,  and  could  not  prevail  on  himself  to  split  his 
vote  between  Dick  and  Audley;  and  therefore,  several  leading 
tradesmen,  who,  seeing  that  Egerton  was  safe,  had  previously 
resolved  not  to  vote  at  all,  came  up  in  the  last  hour,  plumped  for 
Egerton,  and  carried  him  to  the  head  of  the  poll;  so  that  pool 
John,  whose  vote,  involving  that  of  Mark  Fairfield,  had  secured 
the  first  opening  in  public  life  to  the  young  ambition  of  the 
unknown  son-in-law,  still  contributed  to  connect  with  success 
and  triumph,  but  also  with  sorrow,  and,  it  may  be,  with  death, 
the  names  of  the  high-born  Egerton  and  the  humble  Avenel. 

The  great  town-clock  strikes  the  hour  of  four;  the  returning- 
officer  declares  the  poll  closed;  the  formal  announcement  of  the 
result  will  be  made  later.  But  all  the  town  knows  that  Audley 
Egerton  and  Richard  Avenel  are  the  members  for  Lansmere. 
And  flags  stream,  and  drums  beat,  and  men  shake  each  other 
by  the  hand  heartily;  and  there  is  talk  of  the  chairing  to-mor- 
row; and  the  public-houses  are  crowded;  and  there  is  an  indis- 
tinct hubbub  in  street  and  alley,  with  sudden  bursts  of  uproar- 
ious shouting;  and  the  clouds  to  the  west  look  red  and  lurid 
round  the  sun,  which  has  gone  down  behind  the  church-tower — 
behind  the  yew-trees  that  overshadow  the  quiet  grave  of  Nora 
Avenel. 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

AMIDST  the  darkening  shadows  of  twilight,  Randal  Leslie 
walked  through  Lansmere  Park  toward  the  house.  He  had 
slunk  away  before  the  poll  was  closed — crept  through  by-lanes, 
and  plunged  into  the  leafless  copses  of  the  Earl's  stately  pasture- 
grounds.  Amidst  the  bewilderment  of  his  thoughts — at  a  loss 
to  conjecture  how  this  strange  mischance  had  befallen  him — 
inclined  to 'ascribe  it  to  Leonard's  influence  over  Avenel — but 


444  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

suspecting  Harley,  and  half  doubtful  of  Baron  Levy,  he. sought 
to  ascertain  what  fault  of  judgment  he  himself  had  committed—- 
what wile  he  had  forgotten — what  thread  in  his  web  he  had  left 
ragged  and  incomplete.  He  could  discover  none.  His  ability 
seemed  to  him  unimpeachable — lotus,  feres,  atgue  rotundus.  And 
then  there  came  across  his  breast  a  sharp  pang — sharper  than 
that  of  baffled  ambition — the  feeling  that  he  had  been  deceived 
and  bubbled,  and  betrayed.  For  so  vital  a  necessity  to  all  liv- 
ing men  is  TRUTH,  that  the  vilest  traitor  feels  amazed  and 
wronged — feels  the  pillars  of  the  world  shaken,  when  treason 
recoils  on  himself.  "That  Richard  Avenel,  whom  I  trusted, 
could  so  deceive  me  !  "  murmured  Randal,  and  his  lip  quivered. 

He  was  still  in  the  midst  of  the  park,  when  a  man  with  a  yel- 
low cockade  in  his  hat,  and  running  fast  from  the  direction  of 
the  town,  overtook  him  with  a  letter,  on  delivering  which  the 
messenger,  waiting  for  no  answer,  hastened  back  the  way  he  had 
come.  Randal  recognized  Avenel's  hand  on  the  address — 
broke  the  seal,  and  read  as  follows: — • 

{Private  and  Confidential?) 

"  DEAR  LESLIE, — Don't  be  down-hearted — you  will  know  to- 
night or  to-morrow  why  I  have  had  cause  to  alter  my  opinion 
as  to  the  Right  Honorable;  and  you  will  see  that  I  could  not, 
as  a  Family  Man,  act  otherwise  than  I  have  done.  Though  I 
have  not  broken  my  word  to  you— for  you  remember  that  all 
the  help  I  promised  was  dependent  on  my  own  resignation,  and 
would  go  for  nothing  if  Leonard  resigned  instead-^-yet  I  feel 
you  must  think  yourself  rather  bamboozled.  But  I  have  been 
obliged  to  sacrifice  you,  from  a  sense  of  Family  Puty,  as  you 
will  soon  acknowledge.  My  own  nephew  is  sacrificed  also;  and 
I  have  sacrificed  my  own  concerns,  which  -require  the  whole 
man  of  me  for  the  next  year  or  two  at  Screwstown.  So  we  are 
all  in  the  same;  boat,  though  you  may  think  you  are  set  adrift 
by  yourself.  But  I  don't  mean  to  stay  in  Parliament.  I  shall 
Uke  the  Chiltern  Hundreds,  pretty  considerable  soon.  And  if 
you  keep  well  with  the  Blues,  I'll  do  my  best  with  trie  Yellows 
to  let  you  walk  over  the  course  in  my  stead.  For  1  don't  think 
Leonard  will  want  to'starid  again.  And  so  a  word  to  the  wise — 
and  you  may  yet  be  member  fpr  Lansmere.  ,  R.  A." 

In  this  letter,  Randal,  despite  all  his  acuteness,  could  not  de- 
tect the  honest  compunction  of  the  writer.  He  could  at  first 
only  look  at  the  worst  side  of  human  nature,  and  fancy  that  it 
was  a  paltry  attempt  to  stifle  his  just  anger  and  insure  his  dis- 
cretion. But,  on  second  thoughts,  it  struck  him  that  Dick  might 
yery  naturally  be  glad  to  be  released  to  his  mill,  and  get  9.  quid 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  445 

pro  quo  out  of  Randal,  under  the  comprehensive  title — "repay- 
ment of  expenses."  Perhaps  Dick  was  not  sorry  to  wait  until 
Randal's  marriage  gave  him  the  means  to  make  the  repayment. 
Nay,  perhaps  Randal  had  been  thrown  over  for  the  present,  in 
order  to  wring  from  him  better  terms  in  a  single  election.  Thus 
reasoning,  he  took  comfort  from  his  belief  in  the  mercenary 
motives  of  another.  True,  it  might  be  but  a  short  disappoint- 
ment. Before  the  next  Parliament  was  a  month  old,  he  might 
yet  take  his  seat  in  it  as  member  for  Lansmere.  But  all  would 
depend  on  his  marriage  with  the  heiress;  he  must  h.asten  that. 

Meanwhile  it  was  necessary  to  knit  and  gather  up  all  his 
thought,  courage,  and  presence  of  mind.  How  he  shrunk  from 
return  to  Lansmere  House — from  facing  Egerton,  Harley — all. 
But  there  was  no  choice.  He  would  have  to  make  it  up  with 
the  Blues — to  defend  the  course  he  had  adopted  in  the  Com- 
mittee-Room. There,  no  doubt,  was  Squire  Hazeldean  await- 
ing him  with  the  purchase-money  for  the  lands  of  Rood — there 
was  the  Duke  di  Serrano,  restored  to  wealth  and  honor — there 
was  his  promised  bride,  the  great  heiress,  on  whom  depended 
all  that  could  raise  the  needy  gentleman  into  wealth  and  posi- 
tion. Gradually,  with  the  elastic  temper  that  is  essential  to  a 
systematic  schemer,  Randal  Leslie  plucked  himself  from  the 
pain  of  brooding  over  a  plot  that  was  defeated,  to  prepare  him- 
self for  consummating  those  that  yet  seemed  so  near  success. — 
After  all,  should  he  fail  in  regaining  Egerton's  favor,  Egerton 
was  of  use  no  more.  He  might  rear  his  head,  and  face  out 
what  some  might  call  "  ingratitude,"  provided  he  could  but  sat- 
isfy the  Blue  Committee,  Dull  dogs,  how  could  he  fail  to  do 
that !  He  could  easily  talk  over  the  Machiavellian  sage.  He 
should  have  small  difficulty  in  explaining  all  to  the  content  of 
Audley's. distant  brother,  the  Squire.  Harley  alone — but  Levy 
had  so  positively  assured  him  that  Harley  was  not  sincerely 
anxious  for  Egerton;  and  as  to  the  more  important  explanation 
relative  to  Peschiera,  surely  what,  had  satisfied  Violante's  father 
ought  to  satisfy;  a  man  who  had  no  peculiar  right  to  demand 
explanations  at  all;  and  if  these  explanations  did.  not  satisfy, 
the  onus  to  disprove  them  must  rest  with  Harley;  and  who  or 
what  could  contradict  Randal's  plausible  assertions — assertions 
in  support  of  which  he  himself  could  summon^  a  witness  in 
Baron  Levy  ?  Thus  nerving  himself  to  all  that  could  task  his 
powers,  Randal  Leslie  crossed  the  threshold  of  Lansmere  House; 
and  in  the  hall  he  found  the  Baron  awaiting  him. 

"I  can't  account/'  said  Levy,  "  for  what  has  gone  so  cross  in 
this  confounded  election,  it  is  L'Estrange  that  puzzles  me; 


44^  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

but  I  know  that  he  hates  Egerton.  I  know  that  he  will  prove 
that  hate  by  one  mode  of  revenge,  if  he  has  lost  it  in  another. — 
But  it  is  well,  Randal,  that  you  are  secure  of  Hazeldean's  money 
and  the  rich  heiress's  hand;  otherwise — " 

"Otherwise,  what  ?  " 

"  I  should  wash  my  hands  of  you,  won  cher;  for,  in  spite  of 
all  your  cleverness,  and  all  I  have  tried  to  do  for  you,  somehow 
or  other  I  begin  to  suspect  that  your  talents  will  never  secure 
your  fortune.  A  carpenter's  son  beats  you  in  public  speaking, 
and  a  vulgar  mill-owner  tricks  you  in  private  negotiation.  De- 
cidedly, as  yet,  Randal  Leslie,  you  are — a  failure.  And,  as  you 
so  admirably  said,  '  a  man  from  whom  we  have  nothing  to  hope 
or  fear,  we  must  blot  out  of  the  map  of  the  future.'  " 

Randal's  answer  was  cut  short  by  the  appearance  of  the  groom 
of  the  chambers. 

"My  lord  is  in  the  saloon,  and  requests  you  and  Mr.  Leslie  will 
do  him  the  honor  to  join  him  there."  The  two  gentlemen  followed 
the  servant  up  the  broad  stairs. 

The  saloon  formed  the  centre  room  of  the  suite  of  apartments. 
From  its  size  it  was  rarely  used  save  on  state  occasions.  It  had 
the  chilly  and  formal  aspect  of  rooms  reserved  for  ceremony. 

Riccabocca,  Violante,  Helen,  Mr.  Dale,  Squire  Hazeldean, 
and  Lord  L'Estrange,  were  grouped  together  by  the  cold  Floren- 
tine marble  table,  not  littered  with  books  and  female  work,  and 
the  endearing  signs  of  habitation,  that  give  a  living  smile  to  the 
face  of  home  ;  nothing  thereon  save  a  great  silver  candelabrum, 
that  scarce  lighted  the  spacious  room,  and  brought  out  the  por- 
traits on  the  wall  as  apart  of  the  assembly, looking,  as  portraits 
do  look,  with  searching,  curious  eyes  upon  every  eye  that  turns 
to  them. 

But  as  soon  as  Randal  entered,  the  Squire  detached  himself 
from  the  group,  and,  coming  to  the  defeated  candidate,  shook 
hands  with  him  heartily. 

"Cheer  up,  my  boy;  'tis  no  shame  to  be  beaten.  Lord 
L'Estrange  says  you  did  your  best  to  win,  and  man  can  do  no 
more.  Awd-I'm  glad,  Leslie,  that  we  don't  meet  for  our  little 
business  till  the  election  is  over  ;  for,  after  annoyance,  something 
pleasant  is  twice  as  acceptable.  I've  the  money  in -my  pocket. 
Hush— ^and  I  say,  my  -dear,  dear  boy,  I  cannot  find  but  where 
Frank  is ;  but  is  it  really  all  off  with  that  foreign  woman— eh?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  sir  ;  I  hope  so.  I'll  talk  to  you  about  it  when 
we  can  be  alone.  We  may  slip  away  presently,  I  trust." 

"I'll  tell  you  a  secret  scheme  of  mine  and  Harry's,"  said  the 
Squire, in  Q  still  low  whisper.  "We  must  drive  that  marchiorf- 


VARIETIES  IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  447 

ess,  or  whatever  she  is,  out  of  the  boy's  head,  and  put  a  pretty 
English  girl  into  it  instead.  That  will  settle  him  in  life  too. 
And  I  must  try  and  swallow  that  bitter  pill  of  \.\\t  post-obit. 
Harry  makes  worse  of  it  than  I  do,  and  is  so  hard  on  the  poor 
fellow  that  I've  been  obliged  to  take  his  part.  I've  no  idea  of 
being  under  petticoat  government — it  is  not  the  way  with  the 
Hazeldeans.  Well,  but  to  come  back  to  the  point — whom  do 
you  think  I  mean  by  the  pretty  girl?" 

"Miss  Sticktorights  ? " 

"  Zounds,  no  ! — your  own  little  sister,  Randal.  Sweet  pretty 
face  !  Harry  liked  her  from  the  first,  and  then  you'll  be  Frank's 
brother,  and  your  sound  head  and  good  heart  will  keep  him 
right.  And  as  you  are  going  to  be  married  too  (you  must  tell 
me  all  about  that  later),  why,  we  shall  have  two  marriages,  per- 
haps, in  the  family  on  the  same  day." 

Randal's  hand  grasped  the  Squire's,  and  with  an  emotion  of 
human  gratitude — -for  we  know  that,  hard  to  all  else,  he  had 
natural  feelings  for  his  fallen  family ;  and  his  neglected  sister 
was  the  one  being  on  earth  whom  he  might  almost  be  said  to  love. 
With  all  his  intellectual  disdain  for  honest,  simple  Frank,  he  knew 
no  one  in  the  world  with  whom  his  young  sister  could  be  more 
secure  and  happy.  Transferred  to  the  roof,  and  improved  by 
the  active  kindness,  of  Mrs.  Hazeldean — blest  in  the  manly  affec- 
tion of  one  not  too  refined  to  censure  her  own  deficiencies  of 
education — what  more  could  he  ask  for  his  sister,  as  he  pictured 
her  to  himself,  with  her  fair  hair  hanging  over  her  ears,  and  her 
mind  running  into  seed  over  some  trashy  novel.  But  before  he 
could  reply,  Violante's  father  came  to  add  his  own  philosophical 
consolations  to  the  Squire's  downright  comfortings. 

"  Who  could  ever  count  on  popular  caprice?  The  wise  of  all 
ages  had  despised  it.  In  that  respect,  Horace  and  Machiavelli 
were  of  the  same  mind,"  etc.,  etc.  "But,"  said  the  Duke,  with 
emphatic  kindness,  "perhaps  your  very  misfortune  here  may 
serve  you  elsewhere.  The  female  heart  is  prone  to  pity,  and 
ever  eager  to  comfort.  Besides,  if  I  am  recalled  to  Italy,  you 
will  have  leisure  to  come  with  us,  and  see  the  land  where,  of  all 
others,  ambition  can  be  most  readily  forgotten,  even  [added  the 
Italian,  with  a  sigh] — even  by  her  own  sons  ! " 

Thus  addressed  by  both  Hazeldean  and  the  Duke,  Randal  re? 
covered  his  spirits.  It  was  clear  that  Lord  L'Estrange  had  not 
conveyed  to  them  any  unfavorable  impression  of  his  conduct  in 
the  Committee-room.  While  Randal  had  been  thus  engaged, 
Levy  had  made  his  way  to  Harley,  who  retreated  with  the  Baron 
into  the  bay  of  the  great  window. 


44$  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  Well,  my  lord,  do  you  comprehend  this  conduct  on  the  part 
of  Richard  Avenel?  He  secure  Egerton's  return? — he  !  " 

"What  so  natural,  Baron  Levy — his  own  brother-in-law? " 

The  Baron  started,  and  turned  very  pale. 

"But  how  did  he  know  that  ?  I  never  told  him.  I  meant 
indeed—" 

"  Meant,  perhaps,  to  shame  Egerton's  pride  at  the  last,  by 
publicly  declaring  his  marriage  with  a  shopkeeper's  daughter.  A 
very  good  revenge  still  left  to  you  ;  but  revenge  for  what  ?  A 
word  with  you,  now,  Baron,  that  our  acquaintance  is  about  to  close 
for  ever.  You  know  why  I  have  cause  for  resentment  against 
Egerton.  I  do  but  suspect  yours  ;  will  you  make  it  clear  to  me?" 

"My  lord,  my  lord,"  faltered  Baron  Levy,  "J,  too,  wooed  Nora 
Avenel  as  my  wife ;  I,  too,  had  a  happier  rival  in  the  haughty 
worldling  who  did  not  appreciate  his  own  felicity ;  I,  too — in  a 
word,  some  women  inspire  an  affection  that  mingles  with  the 
entire  being  of  a  man,  and  is  fused  with  all  the  currents  of  his 
life-blood ;  Nora  Avenel  was  one  of  those  women." 

Harley  was  startled.  This  burst  of  emotion  from  a  man  so 
corrupt  and  cynical  arrested  even  the  scorn  he  felt  for  the  usurer. 
Levy  soon  recovered  himself.  "  But  our  revenge  is  not  baffled 
yet.  Egerton,  if  not  already  in  my  power,  is  still  in  yours.  His 
election  may  save  him  from  arrest,  but  the  law  has  other  modes 
of  public  exposure  and  effectual  ruin." 

"  For  the  knave,  yes — as  I  intimated  to  you  in  your  own  house — 
you  who  boast  of  your  love  to  Nora  Avenel,  and  know  in  your 
heart  that  you  were  her  destroyer — you  who  witnessed  her 
marriage,  and  yet  dared  to  tell  her  that  she  was  dishonored!" 

"My  lord — I — how  could  you  know — I  mean,  how  think 
that — that — "  faltered  Levy,  aghast. 

"  Nora  Avenel  has  spoken  from  her  grave,"  replied  Harley, 
solemnly.  "  Learn  that,  wherever  man  commits  a  crime,  Heaven 
finds  a  witness  ! "  urr 

"It  is  on  me,  then,"  said  Levy,  wrestling  against  a  supersti- 
tious thrill  at  his  heart — "on  me  that  you  now  concentrate  your 
vengeance  ;  and  I  must  meet  it  as  I  may.  But  I  have  fulfilled 
my  part  of  our  compact.  I  have  obeyed  you  implicitly — and — " 

"  I  will  fulfil  my  part  of  our  bond,  and  leave  you  undisturbed 
in  your  wealth." 

"  I  knew  I  might  trust  to  your  lordship's  honor,"  exclaimed 
the  usurer,  in  servile  glee. 

"And  this  vile  creature  nursed  the  same  passions  as  myself; 
nml  but  yesterday  we  were  partners  in  the  same  purpose,  and 
influenced  by  the  same  thought,"  muttered  Harley  to  himself. 


VARIEtlES   IN    ENGLISH   LIFE.  440 

"Yes,"  he  said  aloud,  "  I  dare  not,  Baron  Levy,  constitute  my- 
self your  judge.  Pursue  your  own  path — all  roads  meet  at  last 
before  the  common  tribunal.  But  you  are  not  yet  released  from 
our  compact ;  you  must  do  some  good  in  spite  of  yourself. 
Look  yonder,  where  Randal  Leslie  stands,  smiling  secure,  between 
the  two  dangers  he  has  raised  up  for  himself.  And  as  Randal 
Leslie  himself  has  invited  me  to  be  his  judge,  and  you  are  aware 
that  he  cited  yourself  this  very  day  as  his  witness,  here  I  must  ex- 
pose the  guilty — for  here  the  innocent  still  live,and  need  defence." 

Harley  turned  away,  and  took  his  place  by  the  table.  "  I  have 
wished, "said  he, raising  his  voice,  "to  connect  with  the  triumph 
of  my  earliest  and  dearest  friend  the  happiness  of  others  in 
whose  welfare  I  feel  an  interest.  To  you,  Alphonso,  Duke  di 
Serrano,  I  now  give  this  despatch,  received  last  evening  by  a 

special  messenger  from  the  Prince  Von ,  announcing  your 

restoration  to  your  lands  and  honors." 

The  Squire  stared  with  open  mouth.  "  Rickeybockey  aduke? 
Why,  Jemima's  a  duchess !  Bless  me,  she  is  actually  crying  !  " 
And  his  good  heart  prompted  him  to  run  to  his  cousin  and  cheer 
her  up  a  bit. 

Violante  glanced  at  Harley,  and  flung  herself  on  her  father's 
breast.  Randal  involuntarily  rose,  and  moved  to  the  Duke's  chair. 

"And  you,  Mr.  Randal  Leslie,"  continued  Harley,  "though 
you  have  lost  your  election,  see  before  you  at  this  moment  such 
prospects  of  wealth  and  happiness,  that  I  shall  only  have  to 
offer  you  congratulations  to  which  those  that  greet  Mr.  Audley 
Egerton  may  well  appear  lukewarm  and  insipid,  provided  you 
prove  that  you  have  not  forfeited  the  right  to  claim  that  promise 
which  the  Duke  di  Serrano  has  accorded  to  the  suitor  of  his 
daughter's  hand.  Some  doubts  resting  on  my  mind,  you  have 
volunteered  to  dispel  them.  I  have  the  duke's  permission  to 
address  to  you  a  few  questions,  and  I  now  avail  myself  of  your 
offer  to  reply  to  them." 

"Now— and  here, my  lord  ?"said  Randal,  glancing  round  the 
room,  as  if  deprecating  the  presence  of  so  many  witnesses. 

"  Now — and  here.  Nor  are  those  present  so  strange  to  your 
explanations  as  your  question  would  imply.  Mr.  Hazeldean,  it 
so  happens  that  much  of  what  I  shall  say  to  Mr.  Leslie  concerns 
your  son." 

Randal's  countenance  fell.  An  uneasy  tremor  now  seized  him. 

"My  son! — Frank  !  Oh,  then,  of  course,  Randal  will  speak 
out.  Speak,  my  boy." 

Randal  remained  silent.  The  Duke  looked  at  his  working 
face,  and  drew  away  his  chair. 


450  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

"  Young  man,  can  you  hesitate? "  said  he.  "  A  doubt  is  ex- 
pressed which  involves  your  honor." 

"  'Sdeath!  "  cried  the  Squire,  also  gazing  on  Randal's  cower- 
ing eye  and  quivering  lip — "What  are  you  afraid  of  ?." 

"Afraid  !  "  said  Randal,  forced  into  speech,  and  with  a  hol- 
low laugh— "  afraid  ?— I  ?  What  of  ?  I  was  only  wondering 
what  Lord  L'Estrange  could  mean." 

"  I  will  dispel  that  wonder  at  once.  Mr.  Hazeldean,  your  son 
displeased  you  first  by  his  proposals  of  marriage  to  the  Marchesa 
di  Negra  against  your  consent  ;  secondly  by  a  post-obit  bond 
granted  to  Baron  Levy.  Did  you  understand  from  Mr.  Randal 
Leslie  that  he  had  opposed  or  favored  the  said  marriage — that 
he  had  countenanced  or  blamed  the  said  post-obit?" 

"Why,  of  course,"  cried  the  Squire,  "that  he  had  opposed 
both  the  one  and  the  other." 

"Is  it  so,  Mr.  Leslie  ?" 

"  My  lord — I— I — my  affections  for  Frank,  and  my  esteem 
for  his.  respected  father — I-r-rl — "  He  nerved  himself,  and  went 
on  with  firm  voice  :  "  Of  course  I  did  all  I  could  to  dissuade 
Frank  from  the  marriage  ;  and  as  to  the  post-obit,  I  know  noth- 
ing about  it." 

"  So  much  at  present  for  this  matter.  I  pass  On  to  the  graver 
one,  that  affects  your  engagement  with  the  Duke  di  Serrano's 
daughter.  I  understand  from  you,  Duke,  that  to  save  your 
daughter  from  the  snares  of  Count  di  Peschiera,  and  in  the  be- 
lief that  Mr.  Leslie  shared  in  your  dread  of  the  Count's  designs, 
you,  .while  in  exile  and  in  poverty,  promised  to  that  gentleman 
your  daughter's  hand  ?  When  the  probabilities  of  restoration 
to  your  principalities  seemed  well-nigh  certain,  you  confirmed 
that  promise  on  learning  from  Mr.  Leslie  that  he  had,  however 
ineffectively,  struggled  to  preserve  your  heiress  from  a  perfidi- 
ous snare.  Is  it  not  so  ? " 

"  Certainly.  Had  I  succeeded  to  a  throne,  I  could  not  recall 
the  promise  I  had  given  in  penury  and  banishment — I  could 
not  refuse  to  him  who  would  have  sacrificed  worldly  ambition 
in  wedding  a  penniless  bride,  the  reward  of  his  own  generosity. 
My  daughter  subscribes  to  my  views." 

Violante  trembled,  and  her  hands  were  locked  together  ;  but 
her  gaze  was  fixed  on  Harley. 

Mr.  Dale  wiped  his  eyes,  and  thought  of.  the  poor  refugee 
feeding  on  minnows,  and  preserving  himself  from  debt  amongst 
the  shades  of  the  Casino. 

"  Your  answer  becomes  you,  Duke,"  resumed  Harley.  "But 
should  it  be  proved  that  Mr.  Lcslir,  instead  of  wooing  the  Prin.' 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  451 

cess  for  herself,  actually  calculated  on  the  receipt  of  money  for 
transferring  her  to  Count  Peschiera — instead  of  saving  her  from 
the  danger  you  dreaded,  actually  suggested  the  snare  from  which 
she  was  delivered — would  you  stilldeem  your  honorengaged  to — " 

"Such  a  villain!  No,  surely  not !"  exclaimed  the  Duke. 
"  But  this  is  a  groundless  hypothesis  !  Speak,  Randal." 

"  Lord  L'Estrange  cannot  insult  me  by  deeming  it  otherwise 
than  a  groundless  hypothesis,"  said  Randal,  striving  to  rear 
his  head. 

"  I  understand  then,  Mr.  Leslie,  that  you  scornfully  reject 
such  a  supposition  ?  " 

"  Scornfully — yes.  And,"  continued  Randal,  advancing  a 
step,  "  since  the  supposition  has  been  made,  I  demand  from 
Lord  L'Estrange,  as  his  equal  (for  all  gentlemen  are  equals 
where  honor  is  to  be  defended  at  the  cost  of  life),  either  instant 
retractation  or  instant  proof." 

"That's  the  first  word  you  have  spoken  like  a  man,"  cried 
the  Squire.  "  I  have  stood  my  ground  myself  for  a  less  cause. 
I  have  had  a  ball  through  my  right  shoulder." 

"Your  demand  is  just,"  said  Harley,  unmoved.  "  I  cannot 
give  the  retractation — I  will  produce  the  proof." 

He  rose  and  rang  the  bell;— the  servant  entered,  received  his 
whispered  order,  and  retired.  There  was  a  pause  painful  to  all. 
Randal, however,ran  over  in  his  fearful  mind  what  evidence  could 
be  brought  against  him— and  foresaw  none.  The  folding-doors 
of  the  saloon  were  thrown  open,  and  the  servant  announced — 
THE  COUNT  DI  PESCHIERA. 

.A  bombshell  descending  through  the  roof  could  not  have 
produced  a  more  Startling  sensation.  Erect,  bold,  with  all  the 
imposing  effect  of  his  form  and  bearing,  the  Count  strode  into 
the  centre  of  the  ring;  and,  after  a  slight  bend  of  haughty  courtesy, 
which  comprehended  all  present,  reared  up  his  lofty  head,  and 
looked  round,  with  calm  in  his  eye  and  a  curve  on  his  lip — the 
self-assured,  magnificent,  high-bred  Daredevil; 

"  Duke  di  Serrano,"  said  the  Count  in  English,  turning  toward 
his  astounded  kinsman,  and  in  a  voice  that,  slow,  clear,  and  firm, 
seemed  to  fill  the  room,  "  I  returned  to  England  on  the  receipt 
of  a  letter  from  my  Lord  L'Estrange,  and  with  a  view,  it  is  true, 
of  claiming  at  his  hands  the  satisfaction  which  men  of  our  birth 
accord  to  each  other,  where  affront,  from  what  cause  soever,  has 
been  given  or  received,  Nay,  fair  kinswoman," — and  the  Count, 
with  a  slight  but  grave  smile,  bowed  to  Violante,  who  had  ut- 
tered a  faint  cry — "that  intention  is  abandoned.  If  I  have 
adopted  too  lightly  the  old  country  maxim,  that '  ajl  stratagems 


452  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

are  fair  in  love,'  I  am  bound  also  to  yield  to  my  Lord  L'Estr,ange's 
argument,  that  the  counter  stratagems  must  be  fair  also.  And, 
after  all,  it  becomes  me  better  to  laugh  at  my  defeat,  than  to 
confess  myself  gravely  mortified  by  an  ingenuity  more  success- 
ful than  my  own."  The  Count  paused,  and  his  eye  lightened 
with  a  sinister  fire,  which  ill  suited  the  raillery  of  his  tone,  and  the 
polished  ease  of  his  bearing.  "  Ma  foi !  "  he  continued,  "it  is 
permitted  me  to  speak  thus,  since  at  least  I  have  given  proofs  of 
my  in  difference  to  danger,  and  my  good  fortune  when  exposed  to 
it.  Within  the  last  six  years  I  have  had  the  honor  to  fight  nine 
duels,  and  the  regret  to  wound  five,  and  dismiss  from  the  world 
four,  as  gallant  and  worthy  gentlemen  as  ever  the  sun  shone  upon." 

"  Monster !  "  faltered  the  Parson. 

The  Squire  stared  aghast,  and  mechanically  rubbed  the  shoul- 
der which  had  been  lacerated  by  Captain  Dashmore's  bullet. 
Randal's  pale  face  became  yet  more  pale,  and  the  eye  he  had 
fixed  upon  the  Count's  hardy  visage  quailed  and  fell. 

"  But,"  resumed  the  Count,  with  a  graceful  wave  of  the  hand, 
"  I  have  to  thank  my  Lord  L'Estrange  for  reminding  me  that 
a  man  whose  courage  is  above  suspicion,  is  privileged  not  only 
to  apologize  if  he  has  injured  another,  but  to  accompany  apology 
with  atonement.  Duke  di  Serrano,  it  is  for  that  purpose  that  I 
am  here.  My  lord,  you  have  signified  your  wish  to  ask  me  some 
questions  of  serious  import  as  regards  the  Duke  and  his  daugh- 
ter— I  will  answer  them  without  reserve." 

"Monsieur  le  Comte"  said  Harley,  "  availing  myself  of  your 
courtesy,  I  presume  to  inquire  who  informed  you  that  this  young 
lady  was  a  guest  under  my  father's  roof?  " 

"My  informant  stands  yonder— Mr.  Randal  Leslie.  And  I 
call  upon  Baron  Levy  to  confirm  my  statement." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  the  Baron,  slowly,  and  as  if  overmastered 
by  the  tone  and  mien  of  an  imperious  chieftain. 

There  came  a  low  sound  like  a  hiss  from  Randal's  livid  lips. 

"And  was  Mr.  Leslie  acquainted  with  your  project  for  secur- 
ing the  person  and  hand  of  your  young  kinswoman  ?" 

"Certainly — and  Baron  Levy  knows  it."  The  Baron  bowed 
assent.  "  Permit  me  to  add — for  it  is  due  to  a  lady  nearly  re- 
lated to  myself — that  it  was,  as  I  have  since  learned,  certain  erro- 
neous representations  made  to  her  by  Mr.  Leslie,  which  alone  in- 
duced that  lady,  after  my  own  arguments  had  failed,  to  lend  her 
aid  to  a  project  which  otherwise  she  would  have  cpndemned  as 
strongly  as,  Duke  di  Serrano,  I  now  with  unfeigned  sincerity 
do  myself  condemn  it." 

There  was  about  the  Count,  as  he  thus  spoke,  so  much 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  453 

personal  dignity  which,  whether  natural  or  artificial,  imposes 
for  the  moment  upon  human  judgment — a  dignity  so  supported 
by  the  singular  advantages  of  his  superb  stature,  his  handsome 
countenance,  his  patrician  air,  that  the  Duke,  moved  by  his  good 
heart,  extended  his  hand  to  the  perfidious  kinsman,  and  forgot 
all  the  Machiavellian  wisdom  which  should  have  told  him  how 
little  a  man  of  the  Count's  hardened  profligacy  was  likely  to  be 
influenced  by  any  purer  motives,  whether  to  frank  confession 
or  to  manly  repentance.  The  Count  took  the  hand  thus  extended 
to  him,  and  bowed  his  face,  perhaps  to  conceal  the  smile  which 
would  have  betrayed  his  secret  soul.  Randal  still  remained  mute, 
and  pale  as  death.  His  tongue  clove  to  his  mouth.  He  felt 
that  all  present  were  shrinking  from  his  side.  At  last,  with  a 
violent  effort,  he  faltered  out,  in  broken  sentences — 

"  A  charge  so  sudden  may  well — may  well  confound  me.  But — 
but — who  can  credit  it  ?  Both  the  law  and  common  .sense  pre- 
suppose some  motive  for  a  criminal  action  ;  what  would  be  my 
motive  here  ?  I — myself  the  suitor  for  the  hand  of  the  Duke's 
daughter — /  betray  her  !  Absurd — absurd.  Duke — Duke,  I 
put  it  to  your  own  knowledge  of  mankind — who  ever  goes  thus 
against  his  own  interest  and — and  his  own  heart  ?  " 

This  appeal,  however  feebly  made,  was  not  without  effect  pn 
the  philosopher.  "That  is  true,"  said  the  Duke,  dropping  his 
kinsman's  hand;  "  I  see  no  motive." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Harley,  "Baron  Levy  may  here  enlighten  us. 
Do  you  know  of  any  motive  of  self-interest  that  could  have 
actuated  Mr.  Leslie  in  assisting  the  Count's  schmes?" 

Levy  hesitated.  The  Count  took  up  the  word.  "Pardieu!"  said 
he,  in  his  clear  tone  of  determination  and  will — "Pardieu!  I  can 
have  no  doubt  thrown  on  my  assertion,  least  of  all  by  those  who 
knowof  its  truth;  and  Icall  upon  you, BaronLevy,tostatewhether, 
in  case  of  my  marriage  with  the  Duke's  daughter,  I  had  not 
agreed  to  present  my  sister  with  a  sum,  to  which  she  alleged  some 
ancient  claim,  and  which  would  have  passed  through  your  hands." 

"Certainly,  that  is  true,"  said  the  Baron. 

"  And  would  Mr.  Leslie  have  benefited  by  any  portion  of  that 
sum  ?  " 

Levy  paused  again. 

"  Speak,  sir,"  said  the  Count,  frowning. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  the  Baron,  "that  Mr.  Leslie  was  anxious  to 
complete  a  purchase  of  certain  estates  that  had  once  belonged  to 
his  family,  and  that  the  Count's  marriage  with  the  Signorina,  and 
his  sister's  marriage  with  Mr.  Hazeldean,  would  have  enabled  me 
to  accommodate  Mr,  Leslie  with  a  Joan  to  effect  that  purchase," 


454  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

"What !  what !  "  exclaimed  the  Squire,  hastily  buttoning  his 
breast-pocket  with  one  hand,  while  he  seized  Randal's  arm  with 
the  other — "my  son's  marriage  !  You  lent  yourself  to  that,  too  ? 
Don't  look  so  like  a  lashed  hound !  Speak  out  like  a  man,  if 
man  you  be  ! " 

"  Lent  himself  to  that,  my  good  sir ! "  said  the  Count.  "  Do 
you  suppose  that  the  Marchesa  di  Negra  could  have  conde- 
scended to  an  alliance  with  a  Mr.  Hazeldean?" 

"Condescended! — a  Hazeldean  of  Hazeldean!"  exclaimed 
the  Squire,  turning  fiercely,  and  half-choked  with  indignation. 

"  Unless," continued  the  Count,  imperturbably,  "she  had  been 
compelled  by  circumstances  to  do  that  said  Mr.  Hazeldean  the 
honor  to  accept  a  pecuniary  accommodation,  which  she  had  no 
other  mode  to  discharge.  And  here,  sir,  the  family  of  Hazel- 
dean,  I  am  bound  to  say,  owe  a  great  debt  of  gratitude  to  Mr. 
Leslie;  for  it  was  he  who  most  forcibly  represented  to  her  the 
necessity  for  this  mesalliance ;  and  it  was  he,  I  believe,  who  sug- 
gested to  my  friend  the  Baron  the  mode  by  which  Mr.  Hazel- 
dean  was  best  enabled  to  afford  the  accommodation  my  sister 
deigned  to  accept." 

"Mode  ! — \te  post-obit!"  ejaculated  the  Squire,  relinquishing 
his  hold  of  Randal,  to  lay  his  gripe  upon  Levy. 

The  Baron  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Any  friend  of  Mr.  Hazel- 
dean's  would  have  recommended  the  same,  as  the  most  econom- 
ical mode;of  raising  money." 

Parson  Dale,  who  had  at  first  been  more  shocked  than  any  one 
present  at  these  gradual  revelations  of  Randal's  treachery,  now 
turning  his  eyes  toward  the  young  man,  was  so  seized  with  com- 
miseration at  the  sight  of  Randal's  face;  that  he  laid  his  hand 
on  Harley's  arm,  and  whispered  him — "Look,  look  at  that 
countenance  ! — and  one  so  young  !  Spare  him,  spare  him!  " 

"  Mr.  Leslie,"  said  Harley,  in  softened  tones,  "believe  me  that 
nothing  short  of  justice  to  the  Duke  di  Serrano, — justice  even 
to  my  young  friend  Mr.  Hazeldean,  has  compelled  me  to  this 
painful  duty.  Here  let  all  enquiry  terminate." 

"And, "said  the  Count,  with  exquisite  blandness,  "since  I 
have  been  informed  by  my  Lord  L'Estrange,  that  Mr.  Leslie 
has  represented  as  a  serious  act  on  his  part  that  personal  chal- 
lenge to  myself  which  I  understood  was  but  a  pleasant  and 
amicable  arrangement  in  our  baffled  scheme — let  me  assure  Mr. 
Leslie,  that  if  he  be  not  satisfied  with  the  regret  that  I  now  ex- 
press for  the  leading  share  I  have  taken  in  these  disclosures,  I 
am  wholly  at  Mr.  Leslie's  service." 

"Peace,  homicide,"  cried  the  Parson,  shuddering;  and  he 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  45$ 

glided  to  the  side  of  the  detected  sinner,  from  whom  all  else 
had  recoiled  in  loathing. 

Craft  against  craft,  talent  against  talent,  treason  against  trea- 
son— in  all  this  Randal  Leslie  would  have  risen  superior  to 
Giulio  di  Peschiera.  But  what  now  crushed  him,  was  not  the 
superior  intellect — it  was  the  sheer  brute  power  of  audacity  and 
nerve.  Here  stood  the  careless,  unblushing  villain,  making  light 
of  his  guilt,  carrying  it  away  from  disgust  itself,  with  resolute 
look  and  front  erect.  There  stood  the  abler,  subtler,  profounder 
criminal — cowering,  abject,  pitiful ;  the  power  of  mere  intel- 
lectual knowledge  shivered  into  pieces  against  the  brazen  metal 
with  which  the  accident  of  constitution  often  arms  some  ig- 
nobler  nature.  -  -•  • 

The  contrast  was  striking,  and  implied  that  truth  so  universally 
felt,  yet  so  little  acknowledged  in  actual  life,  that  .men  with 
audacity  and  force  of  character  can  subdue  and  paralyze  those 
far  superior  to  themselves  in  ability  and  intelligence.  It  was 
these  qualities  which  made  Peschiera  Randal's  master;  nay,  the 
very  physical  attributes  of  the  Count,  his  very  voice  and  form, 
his  bold  front  and  unshrinking  eye,  overpowered  the  acuter 
mind  of  the  refining  schemer,  as  in  a  popular  assembly  some 
burly  Cleon  cows  into  timorous  silence  every  dissentient  sage. 
But  Randal  turned  in  sullen  impatience  from  the  Parson's  whis- 
per, that  breathed  comfort  or  urged  repentance,  and  at  length 
said,  with  clearer  tones  than  he  had  yet  mustered — 

"  It  is  not  a  personal  conflict  with  the  Count  di  Peschiera  that 
can  vindicate  my  honor;  and  I  disdain  to  defend  myself  against 
the  accusations  of  a  usurer,  and  of  a  man  who — "  .  : 

"Monsieur  !"  said  the  Count,  drawing  himself  up, 

"A  man  who,"  persisted  Randal,  though  he  trembled  visibly, 
"by  his  own  confession,  was  himself  guilty  of  all  the  schemes  in 
which  he  would  represent  me  as  his  accomplice,  and  who  now, 
not  clearing  himself,  would  yet  convict  another — " 

"  Cher  petit  Monsieur!"  said  the  Count,  with  his  grand  air  of 
disdain,  "  when  men  like  me  make  use  of  men  like  you,  we  re- 
ward them  for  a  service  if  rendered,  or  discard  them  if  the  ser- 
vice be  not  done  ;  and  if  I  condescend  to  confess  and  apologize 
for  any  act  I  have  committed,  surely  Mr.  Randal  Leslie  might 
do  the  same  without  disparagement  to  his  dignity.  But  I  should 
never,  sir,  have  taken  the  trouble  to  appear  against  you,  had  you 
not,  as  I  learn,  pretended  to  the  hand  of  the  lady  whom  I  had 
hoped,  with  less  presumption,  to  call  my  bride;  and  in  this,  how 
can  I  tell  that  you  have  not  tricked  and  betrayed  me?  Isthere  any- 
thing in  ourpast  acquaintance  that  warrants  me  to  believe  that, in- 


456  MY  NOVEL  ;  Oft, 

stead  of  serving  me,  you  sought  but  to  serve  yourself  ?  Be  that  as 
it  may,  I  had  but  one  mode  of  repairing  to  the  head  of  my  house 
the  wrongs  I  have  done  him — and  that  was  by  saving  his  daughter 
from  a  derogatory  alliance  with  an  impostor  who  had  abetted  my 
schemes  for  hire,  and  who  now  would  filch  for  himself  their  fruit." 

"  Duke  !  "  exclaimed  Randal. 

The  Duke  turned  his  back.  Randal  extended  his  hands  to 
the  Squire.  "  Mr.  Hazeldean — what?  you,  too,  condemn  me, 
and  unheard  ? " 

"  Unheard  !— zounds,  no  !  If  you  have  anything  to  say,  speak 
truth,  and  shame  the  devil." 

"  I  abet  Frank's  marriage  ! — I  sanction  the  post-obit! — Oh  !  " 
cried  Randal, clinging  to  a  straw,  "if  Frankhimself  were  buthere!" 

Harley's  compassion  vanished  before  this  sustained  hypocrisy. 

"You  wish  for  the  presence  of  Frank  Hazeldean.  It  is  just." 
Harley  opened  the  door  of  the  inner  room,  and  Frank  appeared 
at  the  entrance. 

"  My  son — my  son  ! "  cried  the  Squire,  rushing  forward,  and 
clasping  Frank  to  his  broad  fatherly  breast. 

This  affecting  incident  gave  a  sudden  change  to  the  feelings 
of  the  audience,  and  for  a  moment  Randal  himself  was  forgotten. 
The  young  man  seized  that  moment.  Reprieved,  as  it  were, 
from  the  glare  of  contemptuous  accusing  eyes — slowly  he  crept 
to  the  door,  slowly  and  noiselessly  as  the  viper,  when  it  is 
wounded,  drops  its  crest  and  glides  writhing  through  the  grass. 
Levy  followed  him  to  the  threshold,  and  whispered  in  his  ear — 

"I  could  not  help  it — you  would  have  done  the  same  by  me. 
You  see  you  have  failed  in  everything;  and  when  a  man  fails 
completely,  we  both  agreed  that  we  must  give  him  up  altogether." 

Randal  said  not  a  word,  and  the  Baron  marked  his  shadow 
fall  on  the  broad  stairs,  stealing  down,  down,  step  after  step, 
till  it  faded  from  the  stones. 

"But  he  was  of  some  use,"  muttered  Levy.  "His  treachery 
and  his  exposure  will  gall  the  childless  Egerton.  Some  little 
revenge  still !  " 

The  Count  touched  the  arm  of  the  musing  usurer — 

"  J'ai  bien  joutf man  rdle,  riest-ce  pas?"— (I  have  well  played 
my  part,  have  I  not?) 

"  Your  part !  Ah  !  but,  my  dear  Count,  I  do  not  quite  under- 
stand it." 

"  Ma  foi — you  are  passably  dull.  I  had  just  be<en  landed  in 
France,  when  a  letter  from  L'Estrange  reached  me.  It  wa3 
couched  as  an  invitation,  which  I  interpreted  to— the  duello* 
Such  invitations  I  never  refuse.  I  replied.  I  came  hither— 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  457 

took  my  lodgings  at  an  inn.  My  lord  seeks  me  last  night.  I 
begin  in  the  tone  you  may  suppose.  Pardieu!  he  is  clever, 

milord!  He  shows  me  a  letter  from  the  Prince  Von ,  Al- 

phonso's  recall,  my  own  banishment.  He  places  before  me,  but 
with  admirable  suavity,  the  option  of  beggary  and  ruin,  or  an 
honorable  claim  on  Alphonso's  gratitude.  And  as  for  that  petit 
Monsieur,  do  you  think  I  could  quietly  contemplate  my  own 
tool's  enjoyment  of  all  I  had  lost  myself?  Nay,  more,  if  that 
young  Harpagore  were  Alphonso's  son-in  law,  could  the  Duke: 
have  a  whisperer  at  his  ear  more  fatal  to  my  own  interests  ?  To 
be  brief,  I  saw  at  a  glance  my  best  course.  I  have  adopted  it. 
The  difficulty  was  to  extricate  myself  as  became  a  man  lde  sang 
et  de  feu.'  If  I  have  done  so,  congratulate  me.  Alphonso  has 
taken  my  hand,  and  I  now  leave  it  to  him — to  attend  to  my 
fortunes,  and  clear  up  my  repute." 

"'If  you  are  going  to  London,"  said  Levy,  "my  carriage,  ere 
this,  must  be  at  the  door,  and  I  shall  be  proud  to  offer  you  a  seat, 
and  converse  with  you  on  your  prospects.  But,  peste  !  man  cher, 
your  fall  has  been  from  a  great  height,  and  any  other  man  would 
have  broken  his  bones." 

"  Strength  is  ever  light,"  said  the  Count,  smiling  ;  "  and  it  does 
not  fall ;  it  leaps  down  and  rebounds." 

Levy  looked  at  the  Count,  and  blamed  himself  for  having  dis- 
paraged Peschiera  and  overrated  Randal. 

While  this  conference  went  on,  Harley  was  by  Violante's  side. 

"I  have  kept  my  promise  to  you,"  said  he,  with  a  kind  of  ten- 
der humility.  "Are  you  still  so  severe  on  me?" 

"  Ah  !  "  answered  Violante,  gazing  on  his  noble  brow,  with  all 
a  woman's  pride  in  her  eloquent,  admiring  eyes — "  I  have  heard 
from  Mr.  Dale  that  you  have  achieved  a  conquest  over  yourself, 
which  makes  me  ashamed  to  think  that  I  presumed  to  doubt  how 
your  heart  would  speak  when  a  moment  of  wrath  (though  of  wrath 
so  just)  had  passed  away." 

"  No,  Violante — do  not  acquit  me  yet ;  witness  my  revenge  (for 
I  have  not  foregone  it),  and  then  let  my  heart  speak,  and  breathe 
its  prayer  that  the  angel  voice,  which  it  now  beats  to  hear,  may 
still  be  its  guardian  monitor." 

"  What  is  this  ?"  cried  an  amazed  voice  ;  and  Harley,  turning 
round,  saw  that  the  Duke  was  by  his  side  ;  and,  glancing  with  lu- 
dicrous surprise,  now  to  Harley,  now  to  Violante,  "Am  I  to  un- 
derstand that  ycfu— " 

"  Have  freed  you  from  one  suitor  for  this  dear  hand,  to  become, 
myself,  your  petitioner  ! " 

"  Corpo  di  Bacco  \  "  cried  the  sage,  almost  embracing  Harley, 


MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

"  this,  indeed,  is  joyful  news.  But  I  must  not  again  make  a  rash 
pledge — not  again  force  my  child's  inclinations.  And  Violante, 
you  see,  is  running  away." 

The  Duke  stretched  out  his  arm,  and  detained  his  child.  He 
drew  her  to  his  breast,  and  whispered  in  her  ear.  Violante  blushed 
crimson,  and  rested  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  Harley  eagerly 
pressed  forward. 

"  There,"  said  the  Duke,  joining  Harley's  hand  with  his  daugh- 
ter's—"I  don't  think  I  shall  hear  much  more  of  the  convent ;  but 
anything  of  this  sort  I  never  suspected.  If  there  be  a  language 
in  the  world  for  which  there  is  no  lexicon  nor  grammar,  it  is  that 
which  a  woman  thinks  in,  but  never  speaks." 

"  It  is  all  that  is  left  of  the  language  spoken  in  Paradise,"  said 
Harley. 

"  In  the  dialogue  between  Eve  and  the  serpent — yes,"  quoth  the 
incorrigible  sage.— "But  who  eomeshere  ? — our  friend  Leonard." 

Leonard  now  entered  the  room  ;  but  Harley  could  scarcely 
greet  him  before  he  was  interrupted  by  the  Count. 

"Milord"  said  Peschiera,  beckoning  him  aside,  "I  have  ful- 
filled my  promise,  and  I  will  now  leave  your  roof.  Baron  Levy 
returns  to  London,  and  offers  me  a  seat  in  his  carriage,  which  is 
already,  I  believe,  at  your  door.  The  Duke  and  his  daughter  will 
readily  forgive  me,  if  I  do  not  ceremoniously  bid  them  farewell. 
In  our  altered  positions,  it  does  not  become  me  too  intrusively  to 
claim  kindred  ;  it  became  me  only  to  remove,  as  1  trust  I  have 
done,  a  barrier  against  the  claim.  If  you  approve  my  conduct, 
you  will  state  your  own  opinion  to  the  Duke."  With  a  profound 
salutation,  the  Count-turned  to  depart ;  nor  did  Harley  attempt 
to  stay  him,  butattendedhim  down  the  stairs  witli  polite  formality. 

"  Remember  only,  my  lord,  that  I  solicit  •nothing.  I  may  al- 
low myself  to  accept.  Voilct,  tout"  He  bowed  again,  with  the 
inimitable  grace  of  the  old  regime,  and  stepped  into  the  Baron's 
travelling-carriage. 

Levy,  who  had  lingered  behind,  paused  to. accost  L'Estrange. 

"Your  lordship  will  explain  to  Mr.  Egerton  how  his  adopted 
son  deserved  his  esteem,  and  repaid  his  kindness.  For  the  rest, 
though  you  have  bought  up  the  more  pressing  and  immediate  de- 
mands on  Mr.  Egerton,  I  fear  that  even  your  fortune  will  not  en- 
able you  .to  clear  those  liabilities,  which  will  leave  him,  perhaps, 
a  pauper !"  jhfiil 

"  Baron  Levy,"  said  Harley,  abruptly,  "if  I  have  forgiven  Mr. 
Egerton,  cannot  you  too  forgive  ?  Me  lie  has  wronged — you  have 
wronged  him  and  more  foully." 

"No,  my  lord,  I  cannot  forgive  him.     You  he  has  never  hu- 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  4$$ 

miliated — you  he  has  never  employed  for  his  wants,  and  scorned 
as  his  companion.  You  have  never  known  what  it  is  to  start  in 
life  with  one  whose  fortunes  were  equalto  your  own,  whose  tal- 
ents were  not  superior.  Look  you,  Lord  L  Estrange — in  spite 
of  this  difference  between  me  and  Egerton,  that  he  has  squan- 
dered the  wealth  that  he  gained  without  effort,  while  I  have  con- 
verted the  follies  of  others  into  my  own  ample  revenues — the 
spendthrift  in  his  penury  has  the  respect  and  position  which  mil- 
lions cannot  bestow  upon  me.  You  would  say  that  I  am  a  usurer, 
and  he  is  a  statesman.  But  do  you  know  what  I  should  have 
been,  had  I  not  been  born  the  natural  son  of  a  peer?  Can  you 
guess  what  I  should  have  been,  if  Nora  Avenel  had  been  my  wife  ? 
The  blot  on  my  birth,  and  the  blight  on  my  youth.-'— and  the 
knowledge  that  he  who  was  rising  every  year  into  the  rank  which 
entitled  him  to  reject  me  as  a  guest  at  his  table — he  whom  the 
world  called  the  model  of  a  gentleman — was  a  coward  and  a  liar 
to  the  friend  of  his  youth  ;  all  this  made  me  look  on  the  world 
with  contempt ;  and,  despising  Audley  Egerton,  I  yet  hated  him 
and  envied.  You,  whom  he  wronged,  stretch  your  hand  as  be- 
fore to  the  great  statesman  ;  from  my  touch  you  would  shrink 
as  pollution.  My  lord,  you  may  forgive  him  whom  you  love  and 
pity  ;  I  cannot  forgive  him  whom  I  scorn  and  envy.  Pardon  my 
prolixity.  I  now  quit  your  house." 

The  Baron  moved  a  step^-then  turning  back,  said  with  a  with- 
ering sneer— 

"But  you  will  tell  Mr.  Egerton  how  I  helped  to  expose  the 
son  he  adopted  !  I  thought  of  the  childless  man  when  your  lord- 
ship imagined  I  was  but  in  fear  of  your  threats.  Ha  !  ha  ! — that 
will  sting." 

The  Baron  gnashed  his  teeth  as,  hastily  entering  the  carriage, 
he  drew  down  the  blinds.  The  post-boys  cracked  their  whips, 
and  the  wheels  rolled  away. 

"Who  can  judge,"  thought  Harley,  "through  what  modes 
retribution  comes  home  to  the  breast?  That  man  is  chastised 
in  his  wealth^-ever  gnawed  by  desire  for  what  his  wealth  can- 
not buy  !  "  He  roused  himself,  cleared  his  brow,  as  from  a  thought 
that  darkened  and  troubled  -and^  entering  the  saloon,  laid  his 
hand  upon  Leonard's  shoulder,  and  looked,  rejoicing,  into  the 
poet's  mild,  honest,  lustrous  eyes.  "Leonard,"  said  he,  gently, 
"your  hour  is  come  at  last." 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

AUDLEY  EGERTON  was  alone  in  his  apartment.  A  heavy  sleep 
had  come  over  him,  shortly  after  Harley  and  Randal  had 


MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

the  house  in  the  early  morning  ;  and  that  sleep  continued  till  late 
in  the  day.  AH  the  while  the  town  of  Lansmere  had  been  dis- 
tracted in  his  cause-r— all  the  while  so  many  tumultuous  passions 
had  run  riot  in  the  contest  that  .was  to  close  or  re-open,  for  the 
statesman's  ambition,  the  Janus  gates  of  political  war — the  ob- 
ject of  so  many  fears  and  hopes,  schemes  and  counter-schemes, 
had  slumbered  quietly  as  an  infant  in  the  cradle.  He  woke  but 
in  time  to  receive  Harley's  despatch,  announcing  the  success  of 
his  election  ;  and  adding,  "Before  the  night  you  shall  embrace 
your  son.  Do  not  join  us  below  when  I  return.  Keep  calm— 
we  will  come  to  you.Vi  - 

In  fact,  though  not  aware  of  the  dread  nature  of  Audley's 
complaint,  with  its  warning  symptoms;  Lord  L'Estrange  wished 
to  spare  his  friend  the  scene  of  Randal's  exposure. . 

On  the  receipt  of -that  letter,  Egerton.  rose:  'At  the  prospect 
of  seeing  his  son — Nora's  son — the  very  memory  of  his  disease 
vanished.  The  poor,  weary  j  over-labored  heart  indeed  beat  loud, 
and  with  many  a  jerk  and  spasm.  He  heeded  it  not.  The  vic- 
tory, that  restored  him  to  the  sole  life  for  which  he  had  hitherto 
cared  to  live,  was  clean  forgotten.  Nature  claimed  her  own — 
claimed  it  in  scorn  of  death,  and  in  oblivion  of  renown. 

There  sat  the  man,  dressed  with  his  habitual  precision.;  the 
black  coat,  buttoned  across  the  broad  breast ;  his  countenance, 
so  mechanically  habituated  to  self-control,  still  revealing  little 
of  emotion,  though  the  sickly  flush  came  and  went  on  the  bronzed 
cheek,  and  the  eye  watched  the  hand  of  the  clock,  and  the  ear 
hungered  for  a  foot-tread  along  the  corridor.  At  length  the  sound 
was  heard — steps — many  steps.  He  sprang  to  his  feet— he  stood 
on  the  hearth.  Was  the  hearth  to  be  solitary  no  more?  Harley 
entered  first.  Egerton's  eyes  rested  on  him  eagerly  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  strained  onward  across  the  threshold.  Leonard  came 
next — Leonard  Fairneld,  whom  he  had  seen  as  his  opponent! 
He  began  to  suspect— to  conjecture— to  see  the  mother's  tender 
eyes  in  the  son's  manly  face.  Involuntarily  he  opened  his  arms; 
but,  Leonard  remaining  still,  let  them  fall  with  a  deep  sigh,  and 
fancied  himself  deceived,  .••<•»;•. 

"Friend, "said  Harley,  "I  give  to  you  a  son  proved  in  adversi- 
ty,andwho  has  fought  his  own  way  to  fame.  Leonard,intheman 
to  whom  I  prayed  you  to  sacrifice  your  own  ambition— of  whom 
you  have  spoken  with  such  worthy  praise,-— whosecareer  of  honor 
you  have  promoted, — and  whose  life  unsatisfied  by  those  honors, 
you  will  soothe  with  your  filial  love^ — behold  the  husband  of  Nora 
Avenel!  Kneel  to  your  father!,  Oh,Audky,.ei«braceyour  son  !" 

"  Here — here,"  exclaimed  Egerton,as  Leonard  bent  his  knee — • 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  46  i 

"  here  to  my  heart ! — Look  at  me  with  those  eyes  [-"-kindly,  for- 
givingly; they  are  your  mother's  !  "  His  proud  head  sunk  on  his 
son's  shoulder. 

"But  this  is  not  enough,"  said  Harley,  leading  Helen,  and 
placing  her  .by  Leonard's  side ;  "you  must  open  your  heart  for 
more.  Take  into  its  folds. my  sweet  ward  and  daughter.  What 
is  a  home  without  the  smite  of  a  woman?  They  have  loved 
each  other  from  children.  Audley,  yours  be  the  hand  to  join—- 
yours be  the  lips  to  bless." 

Leonard  started  anxiously.  "Oh,  sir  ! — oh,  my  father — this 
generous  sacrifice  may  not  be  ;  for  he — he  who. has  saved  me 
for  this  surpassing  joy — 'he  too  loves -her  !  " 

"Nay,  Leonard,"  said  Harley,  smiling,  "I  am  not  so  neglect- 
ful of  myself.  Another  home  woos  you,  Audley.  He  whom 
you  long  so  vainly  sought  to  reconcile  to  life,  exchanging  mourn- 
ful dreams  for  happy  duties — he,  too,  presents  you  to  his  bride. 
Love  her  for  my  sake — for  your  own.  She  it  is,  not  I,  who  pre- 
sides over  this  hallowed  reunion.  But  for  her,  I  should  have 
been  a  blinded,  vindictive,  guilty,  repentant  man  ;  and-r— "  Vio- 
lante's  soft  hand  was  on  his  lips. 

"Thus,"  said  .the  Parson,  with  mild  solemnity,  "man  finds 
that  the  Saviour's  precepts,  'Let  not  the  sun  go  down  upon  thy 
wrath,'  and  '  Love  one  another,'  are  clues  that  conduct  us  through 
the  labyrinth  of  human  life,  when  the  schemes  of  fraud  and  hate 
snap  asunder,  and  leave  us  lost  amid  the  maze." 

Egerton  reared  his  head,  as  if  to  answer  ;  and  all  present  were 
struck  and  appalled  by  the  sudden  change  that  had  come  over 
his  countenance.  There  was  a  film  upon  the  eye — a  shadow  on 
the  aspect ;  the  words  failed  his  lips — he  sunk  on  the  seat  be- 
side him.  The  left  hand  rested  droopingly  upon  the  piles  of 
public  papers  and  official  documents,  and:  the  fingers  played 
with  them,  as  the  bedridden  sufferer  plays  with  the  coverlid  he 
will  soon  exchange  for  the  winding-sheet.  But  his  right  hand 
seemed  to  feel,  as  through  the  dark,  for  the  recovered  son ;  and 
having  touched  what  it  sought,  feebly  drew  Leonard  near  and 
nearer.  Alas !  that  blissful  PRIVATE  LIFE — that  close  centre 
round  the  core  of  being  in  the  individual  man — so  long  missed 
and  pined  for — slipped  from  him,  as  it  were,  the  moment  it  re- 
appeared ;  hurried  away,  as  the  circle  on  the  ocean,  which  is 
scarce  seen  ere  it  vanishes  amidst  infinity.  Suddenly  both  hands 
were  still;  the  head  fell  back.  Joy  had  burst  asunder  the  last 
ligaments,  so  fretted  away  in  unrevealing  sorrow.  Afar,  their 
sound  borne  into  that  room,  the  joy-bells  were  pealing  triumph  ; 
mobs  roaring  out  huzzas  ;  the  weak  cry  of  John  Avenel  might 


MY    NOVEL  J    OR, 

be  blent  in  those  shouts,  as  the  drunken  zealots  reeled  by  his 
cottage-door,  and  startled  the  screaming  ravens  that  reeled  round 
the  hollow  oak.  The  boom  which  is  sent  from  the  waves  on  the 
surface  of  life,  while  the  deeps  are  so  noiseless  in  their  march, 
was  wafted  on  the  wintry  air  into  the  chamber  of  the  statesman 
it  honored,  and  over  the  grass  sighing  low  upon  Nora's  grave. 
But  there  was  one  in  the  chamber,  as  in  the  grave,  for  whom 
the  boom  on  the  wave  had  no  sound,  and  the  march  of  the  deep 
had  no  tide.  Amidst  promises  of  home,  and  union,  and  peace, 
and  fame.  Death  strode  into  the  household  ring,  and  seating  it- 
self, calm  and  still,  looked  lifelike  ;  warm  hearts  throbbing 
round  it ;  lofty  hopes  fluttering  upward  ;  Love  kneeling  at  its 
feet;  Religion,  with  lifted  finger,  standing  by  its  side. 

;A   .i!0(    *Of>V.'    3-fliOrf  TJj'ijo;: 

FINAL  CHAPTER. 

SCENE. —  The  Hall  in  the  Old  Tower  of  CAPTAIN  ROLAND  DE 

CAXTON. 

"Bur  you  have  not  done?"  said  Augustine  Caxton. 

PISISTRATUS. — What  remains  to  do  ? 

MR.  CAXTON. — What! — why  the  Final  Chapter! — the  last 
news  yoii  can  give  us  of  those  whom  you  have  introduced  to 
our  liking  or  dislike. 

PISISTRATUS.— Surely  it  is  more  dramatic  to  close  the  work 
with  a  scene  that  completes  the  main  designs  of  the  plot,  and 
leave  it  to  the  prophetic  imagination  of  all  whose  flattering  curi- 
osity is  still  not  wholly -satisfied,  to  trace  the  streams  of  each 
several  existence,  when  they  branch  off  again  from  the  lake  in 
which  their  waters  converge,  and  by  which  the  sibyl  has  con- 
firmed and  made  clear  the  decree,  that  "Conduct  is  Fate." 

MR.  CAXTON. — More  dramatic,  I  grant ;  but  you  have  not 
written  a  drama.  A  novelist  should  be  a  comfortable,  garru- 
lous, communicative,  gossipingfortune-teller;  not  a  grim,  lacon- 
ical, oracular  sibyl.  1  like  a  novel  that  adopts  all  the  old-fash- 
ioned customs  prescribed  to  its  art  by  the  rules  of  the  Masters, 
more  especiallya  novel  which  you  style  "My  Novel,  ''par  emphasis. 

CAPTAIN  ROLAND. — A  most  vague  and  impracticable  title, 
"  My  Novel."  It  must  really  be  changed  before  the  work  goes 
in  due  form  to  the  public. 

MR.  SQUILLS. — Certainly  the  present  titlecannotbe  even  pro- 
nounced by  many  without  inflicting  a  shock  upon  their  nervous 
system.  Do  you  think,  for  instance,  that  my  friend,  Lady  Pris- 
cilln  Graves— who  is  a  great  novel  reader,  indeed,  but  holds  all 
female  writers  unfeminine  deserters  to'the  standard  of  Man — 


VARIETIES    IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  463 

could  ever  come  out  with,  "  Pray,  sir,  have  you  had  time  to  look 
at — MY  Novel?"  She  would  rather  die  first.  And  yet  to  be 
silent  altogether  on  the  latent  acquisition  to  the  circulating- 
libraries,  would  bring  on  a  functional  derangement  of  her  lady- 
ship's organs  of  speech.  Or  how  could  pretty  Miss  Dulcet — 
all  sentiment,  it  is  true,  but  all  bashful  timidity — appal  Captain 
Smirk  from  proposing,  with,  "Did  you  not  think  the  Parson's 
sermon  a  little  too  dry  in  MY  Novel?"  It  will  require  a  face 
of  brass,  or  at  least  a  long  course  of  citrate  of  iron,  before  a  re- 
spectable lady  or  unassuming  young  gentleman,  with  a  proper 
dread  of  being  taken  for  scribblers,  could  electrify  a  social  circle 
with,  "  The  reviewers  don't  do  justice  to  the  excellent  things 
in — MY  Novel." 

CAPTAIN  ROLAND.— Awful  consequences,  indeed,  may  arise 
from  the  mistakes  such  a  title  gives  rise  to. — Counsellor  Dig- 
well,  for  instance — a  lawyer  of  literary  tastes,  but  whose  career 
at  the  bar  was  long  delayed  by  an  unjust  suspicion  amongst  the 
attorneys  that  he  had  written  a  "  Philosophical  Essay  " — imagine 
such  a  man  excusing  himself  for  being  late  at  a  dinner  of  big- 
wigs, with,  "  I  could  not  get  away  from — MY  Novel."  It  would 
be  his  professional  ruin!  I  am  not  fond  of  lawyers  in  general, 
but  still  I  would  not  be  a  party  to  taking  the  bread  out  of  the 
mouth  of  those  with  a  family;  and  Digwell  has  children — the 
tenth  an  innocent  baby  in  arms. 

MR.  CAXTON. — As  to  Digwell  in  particular,  and  lawyers  in 
general,  they  are  too  accustomed  to  circumlocution,  to  expose 
themselves  to  the  danger  your  kind  heart  apprehends  ;  but  I  al- 
low that  a  shy  scholar  like  myself,  or  a  grave  college  tutor,  might 
be  a  little  put  to  the  blush  if  he  were  to  blurt  forth  inadvert- 
ently with — "Don't  waste  your  time  over  trash  like— MY  Novel." 
And  that  thought  presents  to  us  another  and  more  pleasing  view 
of  this  critical  question.  The  title  you  condemn  places  the  work 
under  universal  protection.  Lives  there  a  woman  so  dead  to 
self-love  as  to  say,  "What  contemptible  stuff  is- — MY  Novel?" 
Would  he  or  she  not  rather  be  impelled  by  that  strong  impulse 
of  an  honorable  and  virtuous  heart,  which  moves  us  to  stand  as 
well  as  we  can  with  our  friends,  to  say,  "Allow  that  there  is 
really  a  good  thing  now  and  then  in — MY  Novel."  Moreover, 
as  a  novel  aspires  to  embrace  most  of  the  interests  or  the  passions 
that  agitate  mankind — to  generalize,  as  it  were,  the  details  of 
life  that  come  home  to  us  all — so,  in  reality,  the  title  denotes 
that,  if  it  be  such  as  the  author  may  not  unworthily  call  his 
Novel,  it  must  also  be  such  as  the  reader,  whoever  he  be;  may 
appropriate  in  part  to  himself,  representing  his  own  ideas — ex- 


464  MY    NOVEL  ;   OR, 

pressing  his  own  experience — reflecting,1  if  not  in  full,  at  least  in 
profile,  his  own  personal  identity.  Thus,  when  we  glance  at  the 
looking-glass  in  anotherman's  room,  our  likeness  for  the  moment 
appropriates  the  mirror  ;  and  according  to  the  humor  in  which 
we  are,  or  the  state  of  our  spirits  and  health,  we  say  to  ourselves, 
"Bilious  and  yellow  ! — I  might  as  well  take  care  of  my  diet !  " 
Or,  "  Well,  I've  half  a  mind  to  propose  to  dear  Jane ;  I'm  not 
such  an  ill-looking  dog  as  I  thought  for  !  "  Still,  whatever  result 
from  that  glance  at  the  mirror,  we  never  doubt  that  'tis  our  like- 
ness we  see  ;  and  each  says  to  the  phantom  reflection,  "Thou 
art  myself,"  though  the  mere  article  of  furniture  that  gives  the 
reflection  belongs  to  another.  It  is  my  likeness  if  it  be  his  glass. 
And  a  narrative  that  is  true  to  the  Varieties  of  Life  is  Every 
Man's  Novel,  no  matter  from  what  shores,  by  what  rivers,  by  what 
bays, in  what  pits,  were  extracted  the  sands  and  the  silex,  the  pearl- 
ash,  the  nitre  and  quicksilver,  which  form  its  materials;  no  mat- 
ter who  the  craftsman  who  fashioned  its  form;  no  matter  who  the 
vender  that  sold,  or  the  customer  who  bought;  still,  if  I  but  recog- 
nize some  trait  of  myself, 'tis  my  likeness  that  makes  it  "Mv  Novel," 

MR.  SQUILLS  (puzzled,  and  therefore  admiring). — Subtle, 
sir — very  subtle.  Fine  organ  of  Comparison  in  Mr.  Caxton's 
head,  and  much  called  into  play  this  evening.  i 

MR.  CAXTON  (benignly).— Finally,  the  author,  by  this  most 
admirable  and  much-signifying  title,  dispenses  with  allnecessity 
of  practice.  He  need  insinuate  no  merits — :he  need  extenuate  no 
faults;  for,  by  calling  his  work  thus  curtly  "  My  Novel,"  he  doth 
delicately  imply  that  it  is  no  use  wast  ing  talk  about  faults  or  merits. 

PISISTRATUS  (amazed). — How  is  that,  sir? 

MR.  CAXTON. — What  so  clear?  You  imply  that,  though  a 
better  novel  may  be  written  by  others,  yon  do  not  expect  to  write 
a  novel  to  which,  taken  as  a  novel,  you  would  more  decisively 
ajnd  unblushingly  prefix  that  voucher  of  personal  authorship  and 
identity  conveyed  in  the  monosyllable  "  My."  And  if  you  have 
written  your  best,  let  it  be  ever  so  bad,  what  can  any  man  of 
candor  and  integrity  require  more  from  you  ?•  Perhaps  you  will 
say  that,  if  you  had  lived  two  thousand  years  ago,  you  might  have 
called  it  The  Novel,  or  the  Golden  Novel,  as  Lucius  calls  his  story 
"  The  Ass"  ;  and  Apuleius,  to  distinguish  his  own  more  elaborate 
Ass  from  all  Asses  preceding  it,  called  his  tale  "The  Golden 
Ass."  But  living  in  the  present  day,  such  a  designation — imply- 
ing a  merit  in  general,  not  the  partial  and  limited  merit  corre- 
sponding only  with  your  individual  abilities — would  be  presump- 
tuous and  offensive.  True — I  here  anticipate  the  observation 
J  see  Squills  is  about  to  make— ' 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  46$ 

SQUILLS. — I,  sir  ? — 

MR.  CAXTON. — You  would  say  that,  as  Scarron  called  his  work 
of  fiction  "  The  Comic  Novel,"  so  Pisistratus  might  have  called 
his  "  The  Serious  Novel,"  or  "  The  Tragic  Novel."  But,  Squills, 
that  title  would  not  have  been  .inviting  nor  appropriate,  and 
would  have  been  exposed  to  comparison  with  Scarron,  who,  being 
dead,  is  inimitable.  Wherefore — to  put  the  question  on  the  ir- 
refragable basis  of  mathematics — wherefore,  as  A  B,  "My  Novel," 
is  not  equal  to  BC,  "The  Golden  Novel,"  nor  to  D  E,  "The 
Serious  or  Tragic  Novel,"  it  follows,  that  A  B,  "  My  Novel,"  is 
equal  toP  C  "PisistratusCaxton,"and  P  C,"PisistratusCaxton," 
must  therefore  be  just  equal,  neither  more  nor  less,  to  AB,  "My 
Novel," — which:  was  to  be  demonstrated.:  My  father  looked 
around  triumphantly,  and  observing  that  Squills  was  dumb- 
founded, and  the  rest  of  his  audience  posed,  he  added  mildly; 

"And  so  now,  nonquieta  movere,  proceed  with  the  Final  Chap- 
ter, and  tell  us  first  what  became  of  that  youthful  Giles  Over- 
reach, who  was  himself  his  own  Marrall?" 

"Ay!  "said  the  Captain,  "what  became  of  Randal  Leslie? 
Did  he  repent  and  reform  ?  " 

"Nay,"  quoth  my  father,  with  a  mournful  shake  of  the  head, 
"  you  can  regulate  the  warm  tide  of  wild  passion — you  can  light 
into  virtue  the  dark  errors  of  ignorance;  but  where  the  force  of 
the  brain  does  but  clog  the  free  action  of  the  heart — where  you 
have  to  deaL,  not  with  ignorance  misled,  but  intelligence  cor- 
rupted— small  hope  of  reform;  for  reform  here  will  need  reor- 
ganization. I  have  somewhere  read  (perhaps  in  Hebrew  tradi- 
tion) that  of  the  t\vo;orders  of  fallen  spirits — the  Angels  of  Love, 
and  the  Angels  of  Knowledge — the  first  missed  the  stars  they 
had  lost,  and  wandered  back  through  the  darkness,  one  by  one 
into  heaven;  but  the  last,  lighted  on  by  their  own  lurid  splen- 
dors, said,  '  Wherever  we  go,  there  is  heaven! '  And  deeper  and 
lower  descending,  lost  their  shape  and  their  nature,  till,  deformed 
and  obscene,  the  bottomless  pit  closed  around  them." 

MR.  SQUILLS. — I  should  not  have  thought,  Mr.  Caxton,thata 
book-man  like  you  would  be  thus  severe  upon  Knowledge. 

MR.  CAXTON  (in  wrath). — Severe  upon  knowledge!  O  Squills 
— Squills — Squills !  Knowledge  perverted  is  knowledge  no  lon- 
ger. Vinegar,  which,  exposed  to  the  sun,  breeds  small  serpents, 
or  at  least  slimy  eels,  not  comestible,  once  was  wine.  If  I  say 
to  my  grand-children,  "  Don't  drink  that  sour  stuff,  which  the 
sun  itself  fills  with  reptiles";  does  that  prove  me  a  foe  to  sound 
sherry?  Squills,  if  you  had  but  received  a  scholastic  educa- 
tion, you  woul4know  t,he  wise  maxim  thatsaith,  "  AU  things  the 


466  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

worst  are  corruptions  from  things  originally  designed  as  the 
best."  Has  not  freedom  bred  anarchy,  and  religion  fanaticism  ? 
And  if  I  blame  Marat  calling  for  blood,  or  Dominic  racking  a 
heretic,  am  I  severe  on  the  religion  that  canonized  Francis  de 
Sales,  or  the  freedom  that  immortalized  Thrasybulus  ? 

Mr.  Squills,  dreading  a  catalogue  of  all  the  saints  in  the  cal- 
endar, and  an  epitome  of  ancient  history,  exclaimed  eagerly, — 
"Enough  sir— I  am  convinced!" 

MR.  CAXTON. — Moreover,  I  have  thought  it  a  natural  stroke 
of  art  in  Pisistratus,  to  keep  Randal  Leslie,  in  his  progress  toward 
the  rot  of  the  intellect  unwholesomely  refined,  free  from  all  the 
salutary  influences  that  deter  ambition  from  settling  into  egotism. 
Neither  in  his  slovenly  home,  nor  from  his  classic  tutor  at  his 
preparatory  school,  does  he  seem  to  have  learned  any  truths, 
religious  or  moral,  that  might  give  sap  to  fresh  shoots,  when  the 
first  rank  growth  was  cut  down  by  the  knife;  and  I  especially 
noted,  as  illustrative  of  Egerton,  no  less  than  of  Randal,  that 
though  the  statesman's  occasional  hints  of  advice  to  his//W«^/ 
are  worldly-wise  in  their  way,  and  suggestive  of  honor  as  befit- 
ting the  creed  of  a  gentleman,  they  are  not  such  as  much  influ- 
ence a  shrewd  reasoner  like  Randal,  whom  the  example  of  the 
playground  at  Eton  had  not  served  to  correct  of  the  arid  self- 
seeking  which  looked  to  knowledge  for  no  object  but  power.  A 
man  tempted  by  passions  like  Audley,  or  seduced  into  fraud  by 
a  cold  subtle  spirit  like  Leslie,  will  find  poor  defence  in  the  ele- 
gant precept,  "  Remember  to  act  as  a  gentleman."  Such  moral 
embroidery  adds  a  beautiful  scarf  to  one's  armor;  but  it  is  not 
the  armor  itself !  Ten  o'clock-— as  I  live — Push  on,  Pisistratus! 
and  finish  the  chapter. 

MRS.  CAXTON  (benevolently). — Don't  hurry.  Begin  with  that 
odious  Randal  Leslie,  to  oblige  your  father;  but  there  are  others 
whom  Blanche  and  I  care  much  more  to  hear  about. 

Pisistratus,  since  there  is  no  help  for  it,  produces  a  supple- 
mentary manuscript,  which  proves  that,  whatever  his  doubt  as 
to  the  artistic  effect  of  a  Final  Chapter,  he  had  foreseen  that  his 
audience  would  not  be  contented  without  one. 


Randal  Leslie,  late  at  noon  the  day  after  he  quitted  Lansmere 
Park,  arrived  ori  foot  at  his  father's  house.  He  had  walked  all 
the  way,  and  through  the  solitudes  of  the  winter  night;  but  he 
was  not  sensible  of  fatigue  till  the  dismal  home  closed  round 
him, with  its  air  of  hopeless  ignoble  poverty;  and  then  he  sunk 
upon  the  floor,  feeling  himself  a  ruin  amidst  the  ruins.  He  made 
no  disclosure  of  what  had  passed  to  his.  relations,  Miserable 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  467 

man,  there  was  not  one  to  whom  he  could  confide,  or  from  whom 
he  might  hear  the  truths  that  connect  repentance  with  consola- 
tion! After  some  weeks  passed  in  sullen  and  almost  unbroken 
silence,  he  left  as  abruptly  as  he  had  appeared,  and  returned  to 
London.  The  sudden  death  of  a  man  like  Egerton  had,  even  in 
those  excited  times,  created  intense,  though  brief  sensation. 
The  particulars  of  the  election,  that  had  been  given  in  detail  in 
the  provincial  papers,  were  copied  into  the  London  journals; — 
among  those  details,  Randal  Leslie's  conduct  in  the  committee- 
room,  with  many  an  indignant  comment  on  selfishness  and  in- 
gratitude. The  political  world  of  all  parties  formed  one  of  those 
judgments  on  the  great  man's  poor  dependent,  which  fix  a  stain 
upon  the  character,  and  place  a  barrier  in  the  career  of  ambi- 
tious youth.  The  important  personages  who  had  once  noticed 
Randal  for  Audley's  sake,  and  who,  on  their  subsequent  and  not 
long-deferred  restoration  to  power,  could  have  made  his  fortune, 
passed  him  in  the  streets  without  a  nod.  He  did  not  venture 
to  remind  Avenel  of  the  promise  to  aid  him  in  another  election 
for  Lansmere,  nor  dream  of  filling  up  the  vacancy  which  Eger- 
ton's  death  had  created.  He  was  too  shrewd  not  to  see  that  all 
hope  of  that  borough  was  over;  he  would  have  been  hooted  in 
the  streets  and  pelted  from  the  hustings.  Forlorn  in  the  vast 
metropolis  as  Leonard  had  once  been,  in  his  turn  he  loitered  on 
the  bridge,  and  gazed  on  the  remorseless  river.  He  had  neither 
money  nor  connections — nothing  save  talents  and  knowledge  to 
force  his  way  back  into  the  lofty  world  in  which  all  had  smiled 
on  him  before;  and  talents  and  knowledge,  that  had  been  exert- 
ed to  injure  a  benefactor,  made  him  but  the  more  despised.  But 
even  now,  Fortune,  that  had  bestowed  on  the  pauper  heir  of  Rood 
advantages  so  numerous  and  so  dazzling,  out  of  which  he  had 
cheated  himself,  gave  him  a  chance,  at  least  of  present  independ- 
ence, by  which,  with  patient  toil,  he  might  have  won,  if  not  to 
the  highest  places,  at  least  to  a  position  in  which  he  could  have 
forced  the  world  to  listen  to  his  explanations,  and  perhaps  receive 
hisexcuses:  the  ^5000  that  Audley  designed  for  him,  and  which 
in  a  private  memorandum  the  statesman  had  entreated  Harley 
to  see  safely  rescued  from  the  fangs  of  the  law,  were  made  over 
to  Randal  by  Lord  L'Estrange's  solicitor;  but  this  sum  seemed 
to  him  so  small  after  the  loss  of  such  gorgeous  hopes,  and  the 
up-hill  path  seemed  so  slow  after  such  short  cuts  to  power,  that 
Randal  looked  upon  the  unexpected  bequest  simply  as  an  apology 
for  adopting  no  profession.  Stung  to  the  quick  by  the  contrast 
between  his  past  and  his  present  place  in  the  English  world,  he 
hastened  abroad.  There,  whether  in  distraction  from  thought, 


468  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

or  from  the  curiosity  of  a  restless  intellect  to  explore  the  world 
of  things  yet  untried,  Randal  Leslie,  who  had  hitherto  been  so 
dead  to  the  ordinary  amusements  of  youth,  plunged  into  the 
society  of  damaged  gamesters  and  third-rate  roue's.  In  this  com- 
panionship his  very  talents  gradually  degenerated,  and  their  ex- 
ercise upon  low  intrigues  and  miserable  projects  but  abased  his 
social  character,  till,  sinking  step  after  step  as  his  funds  decayed, 
he  finally  vanished  out  of  the  sphere  in  which  even  profligates  still 
retain  the  habits,  and  cling  to  the  castf,  of  gentlemen.  His  father 
died;  the  neglected  property  of  Rood  devolved  on -Randal,  but 
out  of  its  scanty  proceeds  he  had  to  pay  the  portions  of  his 
brother  and  sister,  and  his  mother's  jointure;  the  surplus  left 
was  scarcely  visible  in  the  executor's  account.  The  hope  of  re- 
storing the  home  and  fortunes  of  his  forefathers  had  long  ceased. 
What  were  the  ruined  hall  and  its  bleak  wastes,  without  that  hope 
which  had  once  dignified  the  wreck  and  the  desert?  Rewrote 
from  St.  Petersburg,  ordering  the  sale  of  the  property.  No  one 
great  proprietor  was  a  candidate  for  the  unpromising  investment; 
it  was  sold  in  lots  among  small  freeholders  and  retired  traders. 
A  builder  bought  the  Hall  for  its  materials.  Hall,  lands,  and 
name  were  blotted  out  of  the  map  and  the  history  of  the  county. 

The  widow,  Oliver,  and  Juliet  removed  to  a  provincial  town 
in  another  shire.  :  Juliet  married  an  ensign  in  a  marching  regi- 
ment, and  died  of  neglect  after  childbirth.  MFS.  Leslie  did  not 
long  survive  her.  Oliver  added  to  his  little  fortune  by  mar- 
riage with  the  daughter  of  a  retail  tradesman,  who  had  amassed  a 
few  thousand  pounds.  He  set  up  a  brewery,  and  contrived  to 
live  without  debt;  though  a  large  family,  and  his  own  constitu- 
tional inertness,  extracted  from  his  business  small  profits  and  no 
savings.  Nothing  of  Randal  had  been  heard  of  for  years  after 
the  sale  of  Rood,  except  that  he  had  taken  up  his  residence 
either  in  Australia  or  the  United  States;  it  was  not  known  which, 
but  presumed  to  be  the  latter.  Still  Oliver  had  been  brought  up 
with  so  high  a  veneration  of  his  brother's  talents,  that  he  cher- 
ished the  sanguine  belief  that  Randal  would  some  day  appear, 
wealthy  and  potent,  like  the  uncle  in  a  comedy;  lift  up  the 
sunken  family,  and  rear  into  graceful  ladies -and  accomplished 
gentlemen  the  clumsy  little  boys  and  the  vulgar  little  girls,  who 
now  crowded  round  Oliver's  dinner-table,  with  appetites  alto- 
gether disproportioned  to  the  size  of  the  joints. 

One  winter  day,  when  from  the  said  dinner-table  wife  and 
children  had  retired,  and  Oliver  sat  sipping  his  half-pint  of  bad 
port,  and  looking  over  unsatisfactory  accounts, a  thin  terrier,  lying 
on  the  threadbare  rug  by  the  niggard  fire,  sprang  up  and  barked 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  469 

fiercely.  Oliver  lifted  his  dull  blue  eyes,  and  saw  opposite  to  him, 
at  the  window,  a  human  face.  The  face  was  pressed  close  to  the 
panes,  and  was  obscured  by  the  haze  which  the  breath  of  its  lips 
drew  forth  from  the  frosty  rime  that  had  gathered  on  the  glass. 

Oliver,  alarmed  and  indignant,  supposing  this  intrusive  spec- 
tator of  his  privacy  to  be  some  bold  and  lawless  tramper,  stepped 
out  of  the  room,  opened  the  front  door,  and  bade  the  stranger 
go  about  his  business;  while  the  terrier  still  more  inhospitably 
yelped  and  snapped  at  the  stranger's  heels.  Then  a  hoarse 
voice  said,  "Don't  you  know  me,  Oliver?  I  am  your  brother 
Randal!  Call  away  your  dog,  and  let  me  in."  Oliver  stared 
aghast — he  could  not  believe  his  slow  senses — -he  could  not  rec- 
ognize his  brother  in  the  gaunt  grim  apparition  before  him. 
But  at  length  he  came  forward,  gazed  into  Randal's  face,  and, 
grasping  his  hand  in  amazed  silence,  led  him  into  the  little  par- 
lor. Not  a  trace  of  the  well-bred  refinement  which  had  once 
characterized  Randal's  air  and  person  was  visible.  His  dress 
bespoke  the  last  stageof  that  terrible  decay  which  is  significantly 
called  the  "shabby  genteel."  His  mien  was  that  of  the  skulk- 
ing, timorous,  famished  vagabond.  As  he  took  off  his  greasy 
tattered  hat,  he  exhibited,  though  still  young  in  years,  the  signs 
of  premature  old  age.  His  hair,  once  so  fine  and  silken,  was  of 
a  harsh  iron-gray,  bald  in  ragged  patches;  his  forehead  and  vis- 
age were  ploughed  into  furrows;  intelligence  was  still  in  the  as- 
pect, but  an  intelligence  that  instinctively  set  you  on  your  guard — 
sinister — gloomy — menacing. 

Randal  stopped  short  all  questioning.  He  seized  the  small 
modicum  of  wine  on  the  table,  and  drained  it  at  a  draught. 
"Pooh,"  said  he,  "have  you  nothing  that  warms  a  man  better 
than  this?":  Oliver,  who  felt  as  if  under  the  influence  of  a  fright- 
ful dream,  went  to  a  cupboard  and  took  out  a  bottle  of  brandy 
three-parts  full.  Randal  snatched  at  it  eagerly,  and  put  his  lips 
to  the  mouth  of  the  bottle.  "Ah,"  said  he, after  a  short  pause, 
"this  comforts;  now  give  me  food."  Oliver  hastened  himself 
to  serve  his  brother;  in  fact,. he  felt  ashamed  that  event  he  slip- 
shod maid-servant  should  see  his  Visitor.  When  he  returned 
with  such  provisions  as  he  could  extract  from  the  larder,  Ran- 
dal was  seated  by  the  fire,  spreading  over  the  embers  emaciated 
bony  hands  like  the  talons  of  a  vulture. 

He  devoured  the  cold  meat  set  before  him  with  terrible  vo- 
racity, and  nearly  finished  the  spirits  left  in  the  bottle;  but  the 
last  had  no  effect  in  dispersing  his  gloom.  Oliver  stared  at  him  in 
fear — the  terrier  continued  to  utter  a  low  suspicious  growl. 

"  You  wotfld  know  my  history  ?  "  at  length  said  Rand'ii,  bluntly 


MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

"  It  is  sliort.  I  have  tried  for  fortune  and  failed — I  .am  without 
a  penny  and  without  a  hope.  You  seem  poor — I  suppose  you 
cannot  much  help  me.  Let  me  at  least  stay  with  you  for  a 
time — I  know  not  where  else  to  look  for  bread  and  for  shelter." 

Oliver  burst  into  tears,  and  cordially  bade  his  brother  welcome. 
Randal  remained  some  weeks  at  Oliver's  house,  never  stirring 
out  of  the  doors,  and  not  seeming  to  notice,  though  he  did  not 
scruple  to  use,  the  new  habiliments  which  Oliver  procured  ready- 
made,  and  placed,  without  remark,  in  his  room.  But  his  pres- 
ence soon  became  intolerable  to  the  mistress  of  the  house,  and 
oppressive  even  to  its  master.  Randal,  who  had  once  been  so 
abstemious  that  he  had  even  regarded  the  most  moderate  use  of 
wine  as  incompatible  with  clear  judgment  and  vigilant  observa- 
tion, had  contracted  the  habit  of  drinking  spirits  at  all  hours  of 
the  day;  but  though  they  sometimes  intoxicated  him  into  stupor, 
they  never  unlocked  his  heart  nor  enlivened  his  sullen  mood. 
If  he  observed  less  acutely  than  of  old,  he  could  still  conceal 
just  as  closely.  Mrs.  Oliver  Leslie,  at  first  rather  awed  and 
taciturn,  grew  cold  and  repelling,  then  pert  and  sarcastic,  at  last 
undisguisedly  and  vulgarly  rude.  Randal  made  no  retort;  but 
his  sneer  was  so  galling  that  the  wife  flew  at  once  to  her  husband, 
and  declared  that  either  she  or  his  brother  must  leave  the  house. 
Oliver  tried  to  pacify  and  compromise,  with  partial  success;  and, 
a  few  days  afterward,  he  came  to  Randal  and  said,  timidly, 
"You  see,  my  wife  brought  me  nearly  all  I  possess,  and  you 
don't  condescend  to  make  friends  with  her.  Your  residence  here 
must  be  as  painful  to  you  as  to  me.  But  I  wish  tp  see  you  pro- 
vided for;  and. I  could  offer  you  something — only  it  seems,  at 
first  glance,  so  beneath — " 

"Beneath  what?"  interrupted  Randal,  witheringly.  "What 
I  was — or  what  I  am?  Speak  out !  " 

"To  be  sure  you  are  a  scholar;  and  I've  heard  you  say  fine 
things  about  knowledge,  and  so  forth;  and  you'll  have  plenty 
of  books  at  your  disposal,  no  doubt;  and  you  are  still  young,  and 
may  rise — and — " 

"  Hell  and  torments! — Be  quick — say  the  worst  or  the  best!" 
cried  Randal,  fiercely. 

"  Well  then,"  said  poor  Oliver,  still  trying  to  soften  the  in- 
tended proposal,  "  you  must  know  that  our  poor  sister's  husband 
was  nephew  to  Dr.  Felpem,  who  keeps  a  very  respectable  school. 
He  is  not  learned  himself,  and  attends  chiefly  to  arithmetic  and 
book-keeping,  and  such  matters — but  he  wants  an  usher  to  teach 
the  classics;  for  some  of  the  boys  go  to  college.  And  I  have 
written  to  him,  just  to  sound — I  did  not  mention  your  name  till 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  471 

I  knew  if  you  would  like  it;  but  he  will  take  my  recommenda- 
tion. Board — lodging — fifty  pounds  a  year;  in  short,  the  place 
is  yours  if  you  like  it." 

Randal  shivered  from  head  to  foot,  and  was  long  before  he 
answered.  "Well,  be  it  so;  I  have  come  to  that.  Ha,  ha!  yes, 
knowledge  is  power!"  He  paused  a  few  moments.  "So,  the 
old  Hall  is  razed  to  the  ground,  and  you  are  a  tradesman  in  a 
small  country  town,  and  my  sister  is  dead,  and  I  henceforth  am — 
John  Smith !  You  say  that  you  did  not  mention  my  name  to  the 
schoolmaster — still  keep  it  concealed;  forget  that  I  once  was  a 
Leslie.  Our  tie  of  brotherhood  ceases  when  I  go  from  your  hearth. 
Write,  then,  to  your  head -master,  who  attends  to  arithmetic,  and 
secure  the  rank  of  his  usher  in  Latin  and  Greek  for — John  Smith!" 

Not  many  days  afterward,  t\\e  prot/gfoi  Audley  Egerton  en- 
tered on  his  duties  as  usher  in  one  of  those  large  cheap  schools, 
which  comprise  a  sprinkling  of  the  sons  of  gentry  and  clergymen 
designed  for  the  learned  professions,  with  a  far  larger  proportion 
of  the  sons  of  traders,  intended,  some  for  the  counting-house, 
some  for  the  shop  and  the  till.  There,  to  this  day,  under  the 
name  of  John  Smith,  lives  Randal  Leslie. 

It  is  probably  not  pride  alone  that  induces  him  to  persist  in 
that  change  of  name,  and  makes  him  regard  as  perpetual  the 
abandonment  of  the  one  that  he  took  from  his  forefathers,  and 
with  which  he  had  once  identified  his  vaulting  ambition  ;  for 
shortly  after  he  had  quitted  his  brother's  house,  Oliver  read  in 
the  weekly  newspaper,  to  which  he  bounded  his  lore  of  the  times 
in  which  he  lived,  an  extract  from  an  American  journal,  wherein 
certain  mention  was  made  of  an  English  adventurer  who,  amongst 
other  aliases,  had  assumed  the  name  of  Leslie — that  extract 
caused  Oliver  to  start,  turn  pale,  look  round,  and  thrust  the 
paper  into  the  fire.  From  that  time  he  never  attempted  to  vio- 
late the  condition  Randal  had  imposed  on  him — never  sought 
to  renew  their  intercourse,  nor  to  claim  a  brother.  Doubtless, 
if  the  adventurer  thus  signalized  was  the  man  Oliver  suspected, 
whatever  might  be  imputed  to  Randal's  charge  that  could  have 
paled  a  brother's  cheek,  it  was  none  of  the  hlore  violent  crimes 
to  which  law  is  inexorable,  but  rather  (in  that  progress  made  by 
ingratitude1  and  duplicity,  with  Need  and  Necessity  urging  them 
on),  some  act  of  dishonesty  which  may  just  escape  from  the  law, 
to  sink,  without  redemption,  the  name.  However  this  be,  there 
is  nothing  in  Randal's  present  course  of  life  which  fo-febodes 
any  deeper  fall.  He  has  known  what  it  is  to  want  bread,  and 
his  former  restlessness  subsides  into  cynic  apathy. 

He  lodges  in  the  town  near  the  school,  and  thus  the  debasing 


472  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

habit  of  unsocial  besotment  is  not  brought  under  the  eyes  of  iiis 
superior.  The  dram  is  his  sole  luxury — if  it  be  suspected,  it  is 
thought  to  be  his  sole  vice.  He  goes  through  the  ordinary 
routine  of  tuition  with  average  credit;  his  spirit  of  intrigue  occa- 
sionally shows  itself  in  attempts  to  conciliate  the  favor  of  the  boys 
whose  fathers  are  wealthy — who  are  born  to  higher  rank  than  the 
rest;  and  he  lays  complicated  schemes  to  be  asked  home  for  the 
holidays.  But  when  the  schemes  succeed,  and  the  invitation 
comes,  he  recoils  and  shrinks  back — he  does  not  dare  to  show 
himself  on  the  borders  of  the  brighter  world  he  once  hoped  to 
sway;  he  fears  that  he  may  be  discovered  to  be — a  Leslie !  On 
such  days,  when  his  taskwork  is  over,  he  shuts  himself  up  in  his 
room,  locks  the  door,  and  drugs  himself  into  insensibility. 

:  Once  he  found  a  well-worn  volume  running  the  round  of  de- 
lighted school-boys — took  it  up,  and  recognized  Leonard's  ear- 
liest work,  which  had,  many  years  before,  seduced  himself  into 
pleasant  thoughts  and  gentle  emotions.  He  carried  the  book  to 
his  own  lodgings — read  it  again;  and  when  he  returned  it  to  its 
young  owner,  some  of  the  leaves  were  stained  with  tears.  Alas  ! 
perhaps  but  the  maudlin  tears  of  broken  nerves,  not  of  the 
awakened  soul — for  the  leaves  smelt  strongly  of  whiskey.  Yet, 
after  that  re-perusal,  Randal  Leslie  turned  suddenly  to  deeper 
studies  than  his  habitual  drudgeries  required.  He  revived  and 
increased  his  early  scholarship ;  he  chalked  the  outline  of  a  work  of 
great  erudition,  in  which  the  subtlety  of  his  intellect  found  field  in 
learned  and  acute  criticism.  But  he  has  never  proceeded  far  in 
this  work.  After  each  irregular  and  spasmodic  effort,  the  pen 
drops  from  his  hand,  and  he  mutters,  "  But  to  what  end  ?  I  can 
never  now  raise  a  name.  Why  give  reputation  to — John  Smith  ? " 

Thus  he  drags  on  his  life;  and  perhaps,  when  he  dies,  the 
fragments  of  his  learned  work  may  be  discovered  in  the  desk 
of  the  usher,  and  , -serve  as  hints  to  some  .crafty  student,  who 
may  filch  ideas  and  repute  from  the  dead  Leslie,  as  Leslie  had 
filched  them  from.  the.  living  Burley. 

While  what  may  be.  called  poetical  justice  has  thus  evolved 
itself  from  the  schemes  in  which  Randal  Leslie  had  wasted  rare 
intellect  in  baffling  his  own  fortunes,  no  outward  signs  of  ad- 
versity evince  the  punishment  of  Providence  on  the  head  of  the 
more  powerful  offender,  Baron  Levy.  No  fall  in  the  Funds  has 
shaken  the  sumptuous  fabric,  built  from  the  ruined  houses  of 
Other  mep.  Baron  Levy  is  still  Baron  Levy  the  millionaire ;  but 
J,;doubt  if  at  heart  he  be  not  more  acutely  miserable  than  Ran- 
dal Leslie,  the  usher.  For  Levy  is  a  man  who  has  Admitted  the 
fiercer  passions  intp  his  philosophy  of  life  ;  he  has  not  the  pale 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  473 

blood  and  torpid  hear.t  which  allow  the  scotched  adder  to  doze 
away  its  sense  of  pain.  Just  as  old  age  began  to  creep  upon 
the  fashionable  usurer  he  fell  in  love  with  a  young  opera-dancer, 
whose  light  heels  had  turned  the  lighter  heads  of  half  the 
Elegants  of  Paris  and  London.  The  craft  of  the  dancer  was 
proof  against  all  lesser  bribes  than  that  of  marriage  ;  and  Levy 
married  her.  From  that  moment  his  house,  Louis  Quinze,  was 
more  crowded  than  ever  by  the  high-born  dandies  whose  society 
he  had  long  so  eagerly  courted.  That  society  became  his  curse. 
The  Baroness  was  an  accomplished  coquette j  and  Levy  (with 
whom,  as  we  have  seen,  jealousy  was  the  predominant  passion) 
was  stretched  on  an  eternal  rack.  His  low  estimate  of  human 
nature — his  disbelief  in  the  possibility  of  virtue — added  strength 
to  the  agony  of  his  suspicions,  and  provoked  the  very  dangers 
he  dreaded.  His  sole  self-torturing  task  was  that  of  the  spy 
upon  his  own  hearth.  His  banquets  were  haunted  by  a  spectre; 
the  attributes  of  his  wealth  were  as  the  goad  and  the  scourge 
of  Nemesis.  His  gay  cynic  smile  changed  into  a  sullen  scowl — 
his  hair  blanched  into  white — his  eyes  were  hollow  with  one 
consuming  care.  Suddenly  he  left  his  costly  house;  left  London; 
abjured  all  the  society  which  it  had  been  the  joy  of  his  wealth 
to  purchase  ;  buried  himself  and  his  wife  in  a  remote  corner  of 
the  provinces;  and  there  he  still  lives.  He  seeks  in  vain  to 
occupy  his  days  with  rural  pursuits;  he  to  whom  the  excitements 
of  a  metropolis,  with  all  its  corruption  and  its  vices,. were. the 
sole  sources  of  the  turbid  stream  that  he  called  "pleasure." 
There,  too,  the  fiend  of  jealousy  still  pursues  him  ;  he  prowls 
round  his  demesnes  with  the  haggard  eye  and  furtive  step  of  a 
thief ;  he  guards  his  wife  as  a  prisoner,  for  she  threatens  every 
day  to  escape.  The  life  of  a  man  who  had  opened  the  prison 
to  so  many  is  the  life  of  a  jailer.  His  wife  abhors  him,  and 
does  not  conceal  it;  and  still  slavishly  he  dotes  on  her.  Accus- 
tomed to  the  freest  liberty — demanding  applause  and  admira- 
tion as  her  rights — wholly  uneducated,  vulgar  in  mind,  coarse  in 
language,  violent  in  temper — the  beautiful  Fury  he  has  brought 
to  his  home,  makes  that  home  a  hell.  Tlius,  what(m'ight  seem 
to  the  superficial  most  enviable,  is  to.  their  possessor  most  hate- 
ful. He  dares  not  ask  a  soul  to  see  how  he  spends  his  gold- — 
he  has  shrunk  into  a  mean  and  niggardly,  expenditure,  and  com- 
plains of  reverse  and  poverty,  in  order  to  excuse  himself  to  his 
wife  for  debarring  her  the  enjoyments  which  she  anticipated 
from  the  Money-Bags  she  had  married.  A  vague  consciousness 
?f  retribution  :has, awakened  remorse,  to  add  to  his  other  stings. 
1  the  remors.e  coming  from  superstition,  not  rejigior*  (sent. 


474  MY  NOVEL  ;  OR, 

from  below,  not  descending  from  above),  brings  with  it  none  of 
the  consolations  of  a  genuine  repentance.  He  never  seeks  to 
atone — never  dreams  of  some  redeeming  good  action.  His  riches 
flow  around  him,  spreading  wider  and  wider  out  of  his  own  reach. 

The  Count  di  Peschiera  was  not  deceived  in  the  calculations 
which  had  induced  him  to  affect  repentance,  and  establish  a 
claim  upon  his  kinsman.  He  received  from  the  generosity  of 
the  Duke  di  Serrano  an  annuity  not  disproportionate  to  his  rank, 
and  no  order  from  his  court  forbade  his  return  to  Vienna.  But, 
in  the  very  summer  that  followed  his  visit  to  Lansmere,  his 
career  came  to  an  abrupt  close.  At  Baden-Baden  he  paid 
court  to  a  wealthy  and  accomplished  Polish  widow ;  and  his 
fine  person  and  terrible  repute  awed  away  all  rivals  save  a 
young  Frenchman,  as  daring  as  himself,  and  much  more  in 
love.  A  challenge  was  given  and  accepted.  Peschiera  ap- 
peared on  the  fatal  ground  with  his  customary  sang-froid,  hum- 
ming an  opera  air,  and  looked  so  diabolically  gay  that  his  oppo- 
nent's nerves  were  affected  in  spite  of  his  courage,  and,  the  French- 
man's trigger  going  off  before  he  had  even  taken  aim,  to  his  own  in- 
effable astonishment,  he  shot  the  Count  through  the  heart,  dead. 

Beatrice  di  Negra  lived  for  some  years  after  her  brother's  death 
in  strict  seclusion,  lodging  within  a  convent,  though  she  did 
not  take  the  veil,  as  she  at  first  proposed.  In  fact,  the  more 
she  saw  of  the  sisterhood,  the  more  she  found  that  human 
regrets  and  human  passions  (save  in  some  rarely  gifted  natures) 
find  their  way  through  the  barred  gates  and  over  the  lofty  walls. 
Finally,  she  took  up  her  abode  in  Rome,  where  she  is  esteemed 
for  a  life  not  only  marked  by  strict  propriety,  but  active 
benevolence.  She  cannot  be  prevailed  on  to  accept  from  the 
Duke  more  than  a  fourth  of  the  annuity  that  had  been  bestowed 
on  her  brother  ;  but  she  has  few  wants,  save  those  of  charity  ; 
and  when  charity  is  really  active,  it  can  do  so  much  with  so 
little  gold  !  She  is  not  known  in  the  gayer  circles  of  the  city  ; 
but  she  gathers  around  her  a  small  society  composed  chiefly  of 
artists  ajnd  scholars,  and  is  never  so  happy  as  when  she  can  aid 
some  child  of  genius — more  especiallyif  his  country  be  England. 

The  Squire  and  his  wife  still  flourish  at  Hazeldean,  where 
Captain  Barnabas  Higginbotham  has  taken  up  his  permanent 
abode.  The  Captain  is  a  confirmed  hypochondriac,  but  he 
brightens  up  now  and  then  when  he  hears  of  any  illness  in  the 
family  of  Mr.  SharpeCurrte,  arid,  atsudh  times,  is  heard  torriur- 
mur,  "  If  those  seven  sickly  children  should  go  off,  I  might 
have  very  great — EXPECTATIONS."  For  the  which  he  had  been 
roundly  scolded  by  the  Squire,  and  gravely  preached  at  by  the 


VARIETIES  IN   KNaLI««   LIFE.  475 

Parson.  Upon  both,  however,  he  takes  his  revenge  in  a  fair  and 
gentlemanlike  way,  three  times  a  week,  at  the  whist-table,  the 
Parson  no  longer  having  the  Captain  as  his  constant  partner, 
since  a  fifth  now  generally  cuts,in  at  the  table — in  the  person  of 
that  old  enemy  and  neighbor,  Mr.  Sticktorights.  The  Parson, 
thus  fighting  his  own  battles  unallied  to  the  Captain,  observes 
with  melancholy  surprise  that  there  is  a  long  run  of  luck  against 
him,  and  that  he  does  not  win  so  much  as  he  used  to  do.  For- 
tunately that  is  the  sole  trouble — except  Mrs.  Dale's  "little 
tempers,"  to  which  he  is  accustomed — that  ever  disturbs  the 
serene  tenor  of  the  Parson's  life.  We  must  now  explain  how 
Mr.  Sticktorights  came  to  cut  in  at  the  Hazeldean  whist-table. 
Frank  has  settled  at  the  Casino  with  a  wife  who  suits  him  ex- 
actly, and  that  wife  was  Miss  Sticktorights.  It  was  two  years 
before  Frank  recovered  the  disappointment  with  which  the  loss 
of  Beatrice  saddened  his  spirits,  but  sobered  his  habits  and  awoke 
his  reflection.  An  affection,  however  misplaced  and  ill-requited, 
if  honestly  conceived  and  deeply  felt,  rarely  fails  to  advance  the 
self-education  of  man.  Frank  became  steady  and  serious  ;  and, 
on  a  visit  to  Hazeldean,  met  at  a  country  ball  Miss  Sticktorights, 
and  the  two  young  persons  were  instantly  attracted  toward  each 
other,  perhaps  by  the  very  feud  that  had  so  long  existed  between 
their  houses.  The  marriage  settlements  were  nearly  abandoned, 
at  the  last  moment,  by  a  discussion  between  the  parents  as  to 
the  Right  of  Way.  But  the  dispute  was  happily  appeased  by 
Mr.  Dale's  suggestion,  that  as  both  properties  would  be  united 
in  the  children  of  the  proposed  marriage,  all  cause  for  litiga- 
tion would  naturally  cease,  since  no  man  would  go  to  law  with 
himself.  Mr.  Sticktorights  and  Mr.  Hazeldean,  however,  agreed 
in  the  precaution  of  inserting  a  clause  in  the  settlements  (though 
all  the  lawyers  declared  that  it  could  not  be  of  any  legal  avail), 
by  which  it  was  declared  that  if,  in  default  of  heritable  issue 
by  the  said  marriage,  the  Sticktorights  estates  devolved  on  some 
distant  scion  of  the  Sticktorights  family,  the  right  of  way  from 
the  wood  across  the  waste  land  would  still  remain  in  the  same 
state  of  delectable  dispute  in  which  it  then  stood.  There  seems, 
however,  little  chance  of  a  lawsuit  thus  providentially  bequeathed 
to  the  misery  of  distant  generations — since  two  sons  and  two 
daughters  are  already  playing  at  hide-and-seek  on  the  terrace 
where  Jackeymo  once  watered  the  orange-trees,  and  in  the  bel- 
videre  where  Riccabocca  had  studied  his  Machiavelli. 

Jackeymo,  though  his  master  has  assessed  the  long  arrears  of 
his  wages  at  a  sum  which  would  enable  him  to  have  orange- 
groves  and  servants  of  his  own,  still  clings  to  his  former  duties, 


47^  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

and  practises  his  constitutional  parsimony.  His  only  apparent 
deviation  into  profusion  consists  in  the  erection  of  a  chapel  to 
his  sainted  namesake,  to  whom  he  burns  many  a  votive  taper  ;- — 
the  tapers  are  especially  tall,  and  their  sconces  are  wreathed 
with  garlands  whenever  a  letter  with  a  foreign  post-mark  brings 
good  news  of  the  absent  Violante  and  her  English  lord. 

Riccabocca  was  long  before  he  reconciled  himself  to  the  pomp 
of  his  principalities  and  his  title  of  Duke.  Jemima  accommo- 
dated herself  much  more  readily  to  greatness,  but  she  retained 
all  her  native  Hazeldean  simplicity  at  heart,  and  is  adored  by 
the  villagers  around  her,  especially  by  the  youth  of  both  sexes, 
whom  she  is  always  ready  to  marry  and  to  portion  ; — convinced, 
long  ere  this,  of  the  redeemable  qualities  of  the  male  sex  by  her 
reverence  for  the  Duke,  who  continues  to  satirize  women  and 
wedlock,  and  deem  himself — thanks  to  his  profound  experience 
of  the  one,  and  his  philosophical  endurance  of  the  other — the 
only  happy  husband  in  the  world.  Longer  still  was  it  before 
the  sage,  who  had  been  so  wisely  anxious  to  rid  himself  of  the 
charge  of  a  daughter,  could  wean  his  thoughts  from  the  remem- 
brance of  her  tender  voice  and  loving  eyes.  Not,  indeed,  till 
he  seriously  betook  himself  to  the  task  of  educating  the  son  with 
whom,  according  to  his  scientific  prognostics,  Jemima  presented 
him  shortly  after  his  return  to  his  native  land.  The  sage 
began  betimes  with  his  Italian  proverbs,  full  of  hard-hearted 
worldly  wisdom,  and  the  boy  was  scarce  out  of  the  hornbook 
before  he  was  introduced  to  Machiavelli.  But  somehow  or  other 
the  simple  goodness  of  the  philosopher's  actual  life,  with  his  high- 
wrought  patrician  sentiments  of  integrity  and  honor,  so  counter- 
act the  theoretical  lessons,  that  the  heir  of  Serrano  is  little  likely 
to  be  made  more  wise  by  the  proverbs,  or  more  wicked  by  the 
Machiavelli,  than  those  studies  hav.e  practically  made  the  pro- 
genitor, whose  opinions  his  countrymen  still  shame  with  the 
title  of  "Alphonso  the  Good." 

The  Duke  long  cherished  a  strong  curiosity  to  know  what  had 
become  of  Randal.  He  never  traced  the  adventurer  to  his  clos- 
ing scene.  But  once  (years  before  Randal  had  crept  into  his 
present  shelter),  in  a  visit  of  inspection  to  the  hospital  at  Genoa, 
the  Duke,  with  his  peculiar  shrewdness  of  observation  in  all 
matters  except  those  which  concerned  himself,  was  remarking 
to  the  officer  in  attendance,  "  that  for  one  dull  honest  man, 
whom  fortune  drove  to  the  hospital  or  the  jail,  he  had  found, 
on  investigation  of  their  antecedents,  three  sharp-witted  knaves 
who  had  thereto  reduced  themselves  " — when  his  eye  fell  upon 
a  man  asleep  in  one  of  the  sick- wards,  and  recognizing  the  face, 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  477 

not  then  so  changed  as  Oliver  had  seen  it,  he  walked  straight  up, 
and  gazed  upon  Randal  Leslie. 

"  An  Englishman,"  said  the  official.  "  He  was  brought  hither 
insensible,  from  a  severe  wound  on  the  head,  inflicted,  as  we 
discovered,  by  a  well-known  chevalier  d'industrie  who  declared 
that  the  Englishman  had  outwitted  and  cheated  him.  That  was 
not  very  likely,  for  a  few  crowns  were  all  we  could  find  on  the 
Englishman's  person,  and  he  had  been  obliged  to  leave  his  lodg- 
ings for  debt.  He  is  recovering — but  there  is  fever  still." 

The  Duke  gazed  silently  on  the  sleeper,  who  was  tossing 
restlessly  on  his  pallet,  and  muttering  to  himself  ;  then  he  placed 
his  purse  in  the  official's  hand.  "  Give  this  to  the  Englishman," 
said  he  ;  "  but  conceal  my  name.  It  is  true — it  is  true — the 
proverb  is  very  true  " — resumed  the  Duke,  descending  the  stairs 
— Pitt  pelli  di  volpi  che  di  asini  vanno  inpellicciaria."  (More 
hides  of  foxes  than  of  asses  find  their  way  to  the  tanner's.) 

Dr.  Morgan  continues  to  prescribe  globules  for  grief,  and  to 
administer  infinitesimally  to  a  mind  diseased.  Practising  what 
he  prescribes,  he  swallows  a  globule  of  "  caustic  "  whenever  the 
sight  of  a  distressed  fellow-creature  moves  him  to  compassion — 
a  constitutional  tendency  which,  he  is  at  last  convinced,  admits  of 
no  radical  cure.  For  the  rest,  his  range  of  patients  has  notably 
expanded  ;  and  under  his  sage  care  his  patients  unquestionably 
live  as  long — as  Providence  pleases.  No  allopathist  can  say  more. 

The  death  of  poor  John  Burley  found  due  place  in  the  obitu- 
ary of  "  literary  men."  Admirers,  unknown  before,  came  for- 
ward and  subscribed  for  a  handsome  monument  to  his  memory 
in  Kensal  Green.  They  would  have  subscribed  for  the  relief  of 
his  widow  and  children,  if  he  had  left  any.  Writers  in  maga- 
zines thrived  for  some  months  on  collections  of  his  humorous 
sayings,  anecdotes  of  his  eccentricities,  and  specimens  of  the 
eloquence  that  had  lightened  through  the  tobacco- reek  of  tavern 
and  club-room.  Leonard  ultimately  made  a  selection  from  his 
scattered  writings,which  found  place  in  standard  libraries,  though 
their  subjects  were  either  of  too  fugitive  an  interest,  or  treated 
in  too  capricious  a  manner,  to  do  more  than  indicate  the  value 
of  the  ore  had  it  been  purified  from  its  dross  and  subjected  to 
the  art  of  the  mint.  These  specimens  could  not  maintain  their 
circulation  as  the  coined  money  of  Thought,  but  they  were 
hoarded  by  collectors  as  rare  curiosities.  Alas,  poor  Burley  ! 

The  Pompleys  sustained  a  pecuniary  loss  by  the  crash  of  a  rail- 
way company,  in  which  the  Colonel  had  been  induced  to  take 
several  shares  by  one  of  his  wife's  most  boasted  "connections," 
whose  estate  the  said  railway  proposed  to  traverse,  on  paying 


478  MY  NOVEL;  OR, 

^400  an  acre,  in  that  golden  age  when  railway  companies  re- 
spected the  rights  of  property.  The  Colonel  was  no  longer  able, 
in  his  own  country,  to  make  both  ends  meet  at  Christmas.  He 
is  now  straining  hard  to  achieve  that  feat  in  Boulogne,  and  has 
in  the  process  grown  so  red  in  the  face,  that  those  who  meet  him 
in  his  morning  walk  on  the  pier,  bargaining  for  fish,  shake  their 
heads  and  say,  "  Old  Pompley  will  go  off  in  a  fit  of  apoplexy  ;  a 
great  loss  to  society  ;  genteel  people  the  Pompleys  !  and  very 
highly  '  connected.'  " 

The  vacancy  created  in  the  borough  of  Lansmere  by  Audley 
Egerton's  death  was  filled  up  by  our  old  acquaintance  Haveril 
Dashmore,whohad  unsuccessfully  contested  that  seat  on  Egerton's 
first  election.  The  naval  officer  was  now  an  admiral,  and  perfect- 
ly reconciled  to  the  Constitution,  with  all  its  alloy  of  aristocracy. 

Dick  Avenel  did  not  retire  from  Parliament  as  soon  as  he  had 
anticipated.  He  was  not  able  to  persuade  Leonard,  whose  brief 
fever  of  political  ambition  was  now  quenched  in  the  calm  foun- 
tain of  the  Muse,  to  supply  his  place  in  the  senate,  and  he  felt 
that  the  house  of  Avenel  needed  one  representative.  He  con- 
trived, however,  to  devote,  for  the  first  year  or  two,  much  more 
of  his  time  to  his  interests  at  Screwstown  than  to  the  affairs  of 
his  country,  and  succeeded  in  baffling  the  over-competition  to 
which  he  had  been  subjected,  by  taking  the  competitor  into 
partnership.  Having  thus  secured  a  monopoly  at  Screwstown, 
Dick,  of  course,  returned  with  great  ardor  to  his  former  enlight- 
ened opinions  in  favor  of  free-trade.  He  remained  some  years 
in  Parliament ;  and  though  far  too  shrewd  to  venture  out  of  his 
depth  as  an  orator,  distinguished  himself  so  much  by  his  expos- 
ure of  "humbug  "  on  an  important  committee,  that  he  acquired 
a  very  high  reputation  as  a  man  of  business,  and  gradually  be- 
came so  in  request  amongst  the  members  who  moved  for  "  Select 
Committees,"  that  he  rose  into  consequence  ;  and  Mrs.  Avenel, 
courted  for  his  sake,  more  than  her  own,  obtained  the  wish  of 
her  heart,  and  was  received  as  an  acknowledged  habitude  into  the 
circles  of  fashion.  Amidst  these  circles,  however,  Dick  found 
that  his  home  entirely  vanished  ;  and  when  he  came  home  from 
the  House  of  Commons,  tired  to  death,  at  two  in  the  morning, 
disgusted  at  always  hearing  that  Mrs.  Avenel  was  not  yet  returned 
from  some  fine  lady's  ball,  he  formed  a  sudden  resolution  of  cut- 
ting Parliament,  Fashion,  and  London  altogether  ;  withdrew  his 
capital,  now  very  large,  from  his  business  ;  bought  the  remain- 
ing estates  of  Squire  Thornhill ;  and  his  chief  object  of  ambition 
is  in  endeavoring  to  coax  or  bully  out  of  their  holdings  all  the 
small  freeholders  round,  who  had  subdivided  amongst  them,  into 


VARIETIES   IN   ENGLISH   LIFE.  479 

poles  and  furlongs,  the  fated  inheritance  of  Randal  Leslie.  An 
excellent  justice  of  the  peace,  though  more  severe  than  your 
old  family  proprietors  generally  are ;  a  spirited  landlord,  as  to 
encouraging  and  making,  at  a  proper  percentage,  all  permanent 
improvements  on  the  soil,  but  formidable  to  meet  if  the  rent  be 
not  paid  to  the  day,  or  the  least  breach  of  covenant  be  heed- 
lessly incurred  in  a  farm  that  he  could  let  for  more  money  ; — 
employing  a  great  many  hands  in  productive  labor,  but  exacting 
rigorously  from  all  the  utmost  degree  of  work  at  the  smallest 
rate  of  wages  which  competition  and  the  poor-rate  permit ; — the 
young  and  robust  in  his  neighborhood  never  stinted  in  work,  and 
the  aged  and  infirm,  as  lumber  worn  out,  stowed  away  in  the 
workhouse ; — Richard  Avenel  holds  himself  an  example  to  the 
old  race  of  landlords;  and  taken  altogether,  is  no  very  bad  speci- 
men of  the  rural  civilizers  whom  the  application  of  spirit  and 
capital  raise  up  in  the  new. 

From  the  wrecks  of  Egerton's  fortune,  Harley,  with  the  aid 
of  his  father's  experience  in  business,  could  not  succeed  in  sav- 
ing, for  the  statesman's  sole  child  and  heir,  more  than  a  few 
thousand  pounds;  and  but  for  the  bonds  and  bills  which,  when 
meditating  revenge,  he  had  bought  from  Levy,  and  afterward 
thrown  into  the  fire — paying  dear  for  that  detestable  whistle — •• 
even  this  surplus  would  not  have  been  forthcoming. 

Harley  privately  paid  out  of  his  own  fortune  the  ^£5000 
Egerton  had  bequeathed  to  Leslie  ;  perhaps  not  sorry,  now  that 
the  stern  duty  of  exposing  the  false  wiles  of  the  schemer  was  ful- 
filled, to  afford  some  compensation  even  to  the  victim  who  had 
so  richly  deserved  his  fate:  and  pleased,  though  mournfully,  to 
comply  with  the  solemn  request  of  the  friend  whose  offence  was 
forgotten  in  the  remorseful  memory  of  his  own  projects  of  revenge. 

Leonard's  birth  and  identity  were  easily  proved,  and  no  one 
appeared  to  dispute  them.  The  balance  due  to  him  as  his  father's 
heir,  together  with  the  sum  Avenel  ultimately  paid  to  him  for 
the  patent  of  his  invention,  and  the  dowry  which  Harley  insisted 
upon  bestowing  on  Helen,  amounted  to  that  happy  competence 
which  escapes  alike  the  anxieties  of  poverty  and  (what  to  one  of 
contemplative  tastes  and  retired  habits  are  often  more  irksome 
to  bear)  the  show  and  responsibilities  of  wealth.  His  father's 
death  made  a  deep  impression  upon  Leonard's  mind  ;  but  the 
discovery  that  he  owed  his  birth  to  a  statesman  of  so  great  a  re- 
pute, and  occupying  a  position  in  society  so  conspicuous,  con- 
tributed not  to  confirm,  but  to  still,  the  ambition  which  had  for 
a  short  time  diverted  him  from  his  more  serene  aspirations.  He 
had  no  longer  to  win  a  rank  which  might  equal  Helen's.  He 


480  MY   NOVEL  ;   OR, 

had  no  longer  a  parent,  whose  affections  might  be  best  won 
through  pride.  The  memories  of  his  earlier  peasant-life,  and  his 
love  for  retirement — in  which  habit  confirmed  the  constitutional 
tendency — made  him  shrink  from  what  a  more  worldly  nature 
would  have  considered  the  enviable  advantages  of  a  name  that 
secured  the  entrance  into  the  loftiest  sphere  of  our  social  world. 
He  wanted  not  that  name  to  assist  his  own  path  to  a  rank  far 
more  durable  than  that  which  kings  can  confer.  And  still  he  re- 
tained in  the  works  he  had  published,  and  still  he  proposed  to 
bestow  on  the  works  more  ambitious  that  he  had,  in  leisure 
and  competence,  the  facilities  to  design  with  care,  and  complete 
with  patience,  the  name  he  had  himself  invented,  and  linked 
with  the  memory  of  the  low-born  mother.  Therefore,  though 
there  was  some  wonder,  in  drawing-rooms  and  clubs,  at  the  news 
of  Egerton's  first  unacknowledged  marriage,  and  some  curiosity 
expressed  as  to  what  the  son  of  that  marriage  might  do — and 
great  men  were  prepared  to  welcome,  and  fine  ladies  to  invite 
and  bring  out,  the  heir  to  the  statesman's  grave  repute — yet 
wonder  and  curiosity  soon  died  away ;  the  repute  soon  passed 
out  of  date,  and  its  heirs  were  soon  forgotten.  Politicians  who 
fall  short  of  the  highest  renown  are  like  actors  ;  no  applause  is 
so  vivid  while  they  are  on  the  stage — no  oblivion  so  complete 
when  the  curtain  falls  on  the  last  farewell. 

Leonard  saw  a  fair  tomb  rise  above  Nora's  grave,  and  on  the 
tomb  was  engraved  the  word  WIFE,  which  vindicated  her  be- 
loved memory.  He  felt  the  warm  embrace  of  Nora's  mother,  no 
longer  ashamed  to  own  her  grandchild  ;  and  even  old  John  was 
made  sensible  that  a  secret  weight  of  sorrow  was  taken  from  his 
wife's  stern  silent  heart.  Leaning  on  Leonard's  arm,  the  old 
man  gazed  wistfully  on  Nora's  tomb,  and  muttering — "  Eger- 
ton  !  Egerton  !  '  Leonora,  the  first  wife  of  the  Right  Honorable 
Audley  Egerton  !  '  Ha !  I  voted  for  him.  She  married  the  right 
color.  Is  that  the  date  ?  Is  it  so  long  since  she  died  ?  Well,  well ! 
I  miss  her  sadly.  But  wife  says  we  shall  both  now  see  her  soon; 
and  wife  once  thought  we  should  never  see  her  again — never ; 
but  I  always  knew  better.  Thank  you,  sir.  I  am  a  poor  creature, 
but  these  tears  don't  pain  me — quite  otherwise.  I  don't  know 
why,  but  I'm  very  happy.  Where  is  my  old  woman?  She  does 
not  mind  how  much  I  talk  about  Nora  now.  Oh,  there  she  is  ! 
Thank  you,  sir,  humbly  !  but  I'd  rather  lean  on  my  old  woman — 
I'm  more  used  to  it;  and — wife,  when  shall  we  go  to  Nora?" 

Leonard  had  brought  Mrs.  Fairfield  to  see  her  parents,  and 
Mrs.  Avenel  welcomed  her  with  unlooked-for  kindness.  The 
name  inscribed  upon  Nora's  tomb  softened  the  mother's  heart 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  481 

to  her  surviving  daughter.  As  poor  John  had  said — "She  could 
now  talk  about  Nora"  ;  and  in  that  talk,  she  and  the  child  she 
had  so  long  neglected  discovered  how  much  they  had  in  com- 
mon. So  when,  shortly  after  his  marriage  with  Helen,  Leonard 
went  abroad,  Jane  Fairfield  remained  with  the  old  couple. 
After  their  death,  which  was  within  a  day  of  each  other,  she  re- 
fused, perhaps  from  pride,  to  take  up  her  residence  with  Leon- 
ard, but  she  settled  near  the  home  which  he  subsequently  found 
in  England.  Leonard  remained  abroad  for  some  years.  A  quiet 
observer  of  the  various  manners  and  intellectual  development 
of  living  races — a  rapt  and  musing  student  of  the  monuments 
that  revive  the  dead — his  experience  of  mankind  grew  large  in 
silence,  and  his  perceptions  of  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful  bright- 
ened into  tranquil  art  under  their  native  skies. 

On  his  return  to  England  he  purchased  a  small  house  amidst 
the  most  beautiful  scenes  of  Devonshire,  and  there  patiently 
commenced  a  work  in  which  he  designed  to  bequeath'  to  his 
country  his  noblest  thoughts  in  their  fairest  forms.  Some  men 
best  develop  their  ideas  by  constant  exercise  ;  their  thoughts 
spring  from  their  brain  ready-armed  and  seek,  like  the  fabled 
goddess,  to  take  constant  part  in  the  wars  of  men.  And  such  are, 
perhaps,  on  the  whole,  the  most  vigorous  and  lofty  writers;  but 
Leonard  did  not  belong  to  this  class.  Sweetness  and  serenity 
were  the  main  characteristics  of  his  genius;  and  these  were  deep- 
ened by  his  profound  sense  of  his  domestic  happiness.  To 
wander  alone  with  Helen  by  the  banks  of  the  murmurous  river — 
to  gaze  with  her  on  the  deep  still  sea — to  feel  that  his  thoughts, 
even  when  most  silent,  were  comprehended  by  the  intuition  of 
love,  and  reflected  on  that  translucent  sympathy  so  yearned  for 
and  so  rarely  found  by  poets — these  were  the  Sabbaths  of  his 
soul,  necessary  to  fit  him  for  its  labors — for  the  Writer  has  this 
advantage  over  other  men,  that  his  repose  is  not  indolence.  His 
duties,  rightly  fulfilled,  are  discharged  to  earth  and  men  in  other 
capacities  than  those  of  action.  If  he  is  not  seen  among  those 
who  act,  he  is  all  the  while  maturing  some  noiseless  influence, 
which  will  guide  or  illumine,  civilize  or  elevate,  the  restless  men 
whose  noblest  actions  are  but  the  obedient  agencies  of  the 
thoughts  of  writers.  Call  not,  then,  the  Poet  whom  we  place 
amidst  the  Varieties  of  Life,  the  sybarite  of  literary  ease,  if  re- 
turning on  Summer  eves,  Helen's  light  footstep  by  his  musing 
side,  he  greets  his  sequestered  home,  with  its  trellised  flowers 
smiling  out  from  amidst  the  lonely  cliffs  in  which  it  is  embedded; 
while  lovers  still,  though  wedded  long,  they  turn  to  each  other, 
with  such  deep  joy  in  their  speaking  eyes,  grateful  that  the 


4^2  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

world,  with  its  various  distractions  and  noisy  conflicts,  lies  so  far 
from  their  actual  existence — only  united  to  them  by  the  happy 
link  that  the  writer  weaves  invisibly  with  the  hearts  that  he 
moves  and  the  souls  that  he  inspires.  No  !  Character  and  cir- 
cumstances alike  unfitted  Leonard  for  the  strife  of  the  thronged 
literary  democracy  ;  they  led  toward  the  development  of  the 
gentler  and  purer  portions  of  his  nature — to  the  gradual  sup- 
pression of  the  more  combative  and  turbulent.  The  influence  of 
the  happy  light  under  which  his  genius  so  silently  and  calmly 
grew,  was  seen  in  the  exquisite  harmony  of  its  colors,  rather  than 
the  gorgeous  diversities  of  their  glow.  His  contemplation,  intent 
upon  objects  of  peaceful  beauty,  and  undisturbed  by  rude  anx- 
ieties and  vehement  passions,  suggested  only  kindred  repro- 
ductions to  the  creative  faculty  by  which  it  was  vivified;  so  that 
the  whole  man  was  not  only  a  poet,  but,  as  it  were,  a  poem — a 
living  idyl,  calling  into  pastoral  music  every  reed  that  sighed  and 
trembled  along  the  stream  of  life.  And  Helen  was  so  suited  to  a 
nature  of  this  kind,  she  so  guarded  the  ideal  existence  in  which 
it  breathes !  All  the  little  cares  and  troubles  of  the  common 
practical  life  she  appropriated  so  quietly  to  herself — the  stronger 
of  the  two,  as  should  be  a  poet's  wife,  in  the  necessary  house- 
hold virtues  of  prudence  and  forethought.  Thus,  if  the  man's 
genius  made  the  home  a  temple,  the  woman's  wisdom  gave  to 
the  temple  the  security  of  the  fortress.  They  have  only  one 
child — a  girl ;  they  call  her  Nora.  She  has  the  father's  soul-lit 
eyes,  and  the  mother's  warm  human  smile.  She  assists  Helen  in 
the  morning's  noiseless  domestic  duties;  she  sits  in  the  evening 
at  Leonard's  feet,  while  he  reads  or  writes.  In  each  light  grief 
of  childhood  she  steals  to  the  mother's  knee;  but  in  each  young 
impulse  of  delight,  or  each  brighter  flash  of  progressive  reason, 
she  springs  to  the  father's  breast.  Sweet  Helen,  thou  hast  taught 
her  this,  taking  to  thyself  the  shadows  even  of  thine  infant's  life, 
and  leaving  to  thy  partner's  eyes  only  its  rosy  light ! 

But  not  here  shall  this  picture  of  Helen  close.  Even  the 
Ideal  can  only  contemplate  its  purpose  by  connection  with  the 
Real.  Even  in  solitude  the  writer  must  depend  upon  Mankind. 

Leonard  at  last,  has  completed  the  work,  which  has  been  the 
joy  and  the  labor  of  so  many  years — the  work  which  he  regards 
as  the  flower  of  all  his  spiritual  being,  and. to  which  he  has  com- 
mitted all  the  hopes  that  unite  the  creature  of  to-day  with  the 
generations  of  the  future.  The  work  has  gone  through  the  press, 
each  line  lingered  over  with  the  elaborate  patience  of  the  artist, 
loath  to  part  with  the  thought  he  has  sculptured  into  form,  while 
an  improving  touch  can  be  imparted  by  the  chisel.  He  has 


VARIETIES  IN  ENGLISH  LIFE.  483 

accepted  an  invitation  from  Norreys.  In  "the  reckless  excite- 
ment (strange  to  him,  since  his  first  happy  maiden  effort)  he  has 
gone  to  London.  Unrecognized  in  the  huge  metropolis,  he  has 
watched  to  see  if  the  world  acknowledged  the  new  tie  he  has 
woven  between  its  busy  life  and  his  secluded  toil.  And  the 
work  came  out  in  an  unpropitious  hour  ;  other  things  were  oc- 
cupying the  public  ;  the  world  was  not  at  leisure  to  heed  him, 
and  the  book  did  not  penetrate  into  the  great  circle  of  readers. 
But  a  savage  critic  had  seized  on  it,  and  mangled,  distorted, 
deformed  it,  confounding  together  defect  and  beauty  in  one 
mocking  ridicule  ;  and  the  beauties  have  not  yet  found  an  ex- 
ponent, nor  the  defects  a  defender  ;  and  the  publisher  shakes 
his  head,  points  to  groaning  shelves,  and  delicately  hints  that 
the  work  which  was  to  be  the  epitome  of  the  sacred  life  within 
life,  does  not  hit  the  taste  of  the  day.  Leonard  thinks  over  the 
years  that  his  still  labor  has  cost  him,  and  knows  that  he  has 
exhausted  the  richest  mines  of  his  intellect,  and  that  long  years 
will  elapse  before  he  can  recruit  that  capital  of  ideas  which  is 
necessary  to  sink  new  shafts,  and  bring  to  light  fresh  ore  ;  and 
the  deep  despondency  of  intellect,  frustrated  in  its  highest  aims, 
has  seized  him,  and  all  he  has  before  done  is  involved  in  failure 
by  the  defeat  of  the  crowning  effort.  Failure,  and  irrecoverable, 
seems  his  whole  ambition  as  writer ;  his  whole  existence  in  the 
fair  Ideal  seems  to  have  been  a  profitless  dream,  and  the  face 
of  the  Ideal  itself  is  obscured.  And  even  Norreys  frankly, 
though  kindly,  intimates  that  the  life  of  a  metropolis  is  essen- 
tial to  the  healthful  intuition  of  a  writer  in  the  intellectual 
wants  of  his  age ;  since  every  great  writer  supplies  a  want 
in  his  own  generation,  for  some  feeling  to  be  announced,  some 
truth  to  be  revealed  ;  and  as  this  maxim  is  generally  sound, 
as  most  great  writers  have  lived  in  cities,  Leonard  dares  not 
dwell  on  the  exceptions  ;  it  is  only  success  that  justifies  the  at- 
tempt to  be  an  exception  to  the  common  rule ;  and  with  the 
blunt  manhood  of  his  nature,  which  is  not  a  poet's,  Norreys 
sums  up  with,  "What  then?  One  experiment  has  failed;  fit 
your  life  to  your  genius,  and  try  again."  Try  again!  Easy 
counsel  enough  to  the  man  of  ready  resource  and  quick  com- 
bative mind  ;  but  to  Leonard,  how  hard  and  how  harsh  !  "  Fit 
his  life  to  his  genius!" — renounce  contemplation  and  Nature 
for  the  jostle  of  Oxford  Street ! — would  that  life  not  scare  away 
the  genius  for  ever?  Perplexed  and  despondent,  though  still 
struggling  for  fortitude,  he  returns  to  his  home,  and  there  at  his 
hearth  awaits  the  Soother,  and  there  is  the  voice  that  repeats 
the  passages  most  beloved,  and  prophesies  so  confidently  of 


484  MY    NOVEL  ;    OR, 

future  fame ;  and  gradually  all  around  smiles  from  the  smile  of 
Helen.  And  the  profound  conviction  that  Heaven  places  hu- 
man happiness  beyond  the  reach  of  the  world's  contempt  or 
praise,  circulates  through  his  system  and  restores  its  serene 
calm.  And  he  feels  that  the  duty  of  the  intellect  is  to  accom- 
plish and  perfect  itself — to  harmonize  its  sounds  into  music  that 
may  be  heard  in  Heaven,  though  it  wake  not  an  echo  on  thfe 
earth.  If  this  be  done,  as  with  some  men,  best  amidst  the  din 
and  the  discord,  be  it  so  ;  if,  as  with  him,  best  in  silence,  be  it 
so  too.  And  the  next  day  he  reclines  with  Helen  by  the  sea- 
shore, 'gazing  calmly  as  before  on  the  measureless  sunlit  ocean  ; 
and  Helen,  looking  into  his  face,  sees  that  it  is  sunlit  as  the 
deep.  His  hand  steals  within  her  own,  in  the  gratitude  that 
endears  beyond  the  power  of  passion,  and  he  murmurs  gently, 
"  Blessed  be  the  woman  who  consoles." 

The  work  found  its  way  at  length  into  fame,  and  the  fame 
sent  its  voices  loud  to  the  poet's  home.  But  the  applause  of  the 
world  had  not  a  sound  so  sweet  to  his  ear,  as  when,  in  doubt, 
humiliation,  and  sadness,  the  lips  of  his  Helen  had  whispered, 
"  Hope  !  and  believe." 

Side  by  side  with  this  picture  of  Woman  the  Consoler,  let  me 
place  the  companion  sketch.  Harley  L'Estrange,  shortly  after 
his  marriage  with  Violante,  had  been  induced,  whether  at  his 
bride's  persuasions,  or  to  dissipate  the  shadow  with  which  Eger- 
ton's  death  still  clouded  his  wedded  felicity,  to  accept  a  tem- 
porary mission,  half  military,  half  civil,  to  one  of  our  colonies. 
On  the  mission  he  had  evinced  so  much  ability,  and  achieved 
so  signal  a  success,  that  on  his  return  to  England  he  was  raised 
to  the  peerage,  while  his  father  yet  lived  to  rejoice  that  the  son 
who  would  succeed  to  his  honors  had  achieved  the  nobler  dig- 
nity of  honors  not  inherited,  but  won.  High  expectations  were 
formed  of  Harley's  parliamentary  success  ;  but  he  saw  that  suc- 
cess, to  be  durable,  must  found  itself  on  the  knowledge  of 
wearisome  details,  and  the  study  of  that  practical  business, 
which  jarred  on  his  tastes,  though  it  suited  his  talents.  Har- 
ley had  been  indolent  for  so  many  years — and  there  is  so  much 
to  make  indolence  captivating  to  a  man  whose  rank  is  secured, 
who  has  nothing  to  ask  from  fortune,  and  who  finds  at  his  home 
no  cares  from  which  he  seeks  a  distraction  ; — so  he  laughed  at 
ambition  in  the  whim  of  his  delightful  humors,  and  the  expec- 
tations formed  from  his  diplomatic  triumph  died  away.  But 
then  came  one  of  those  political  crises,  in  which  men  ordinarily 
indifferent  to  politics  rouse  themselves  to  the  recollection  that 
the  experiment  of  legislation  is  not  made  upon  dead  matter,  but 


VARIETIES   IN    ENGLISH    LIFE.  48$ 

on  the  living  form  of  a  noble  country.  And  in  both  Houses  of 
Parliament  the  strength  of  party  is  put  forth. 

It  is  a  lovely  day  in  spring,  and  Harley  is  seated  by  the  win- 
dow of  his  old  room  at  Knightsbridge — now  glancing  to  the 
lively  green  of  the  budding  trees — now  idling  with  Nero,  who, 
though  in  canine  old  age,  enjoys  the  sun  like  his  master — now 
repeating  to  himself,  as  he  turns  over  the  leaves  of  his  favorite 
Horace,  some  of  those  lines  that  make  the  shortness  of  life  the 
excuse  for  seizing  its  pleasures  and  eluding  its  fatigues,  which 
form  the  staple  morality  of  the  polished  epicurean — and  Vio- 
lante  (into  what  glorious  beauty  her  maiden  bloom  has  ma- 
tured !)  comes  softly  into  the  room,  seats  herself  on  a  low  stool 
beside  him,  leaning  her  face  on  her  hands,  and  looking  up  at 
him. through  her  dark,  clear,  spiritual  eyes;  and  as  she  contin- 
ues to  speak,  gradually  a  change  comes  over  Harley's  aspect — 
gradually  the  brow  grows  thoughtful,  and  the  lips  lose  their 
playful  smile.  There  is  no  hateful  assumption  of  the  would-be 
"  superior  woman  " — no  formal  remonstrance,  no  lecture,  no 
homily  which  grates  upon  masculine  pride,  but  the  high  theme 
and  the  eloquent  words  elevate  unconsciously  of  themselves, 
and  the  Horace  is  laid  aside — a  Parliamentary  Blue  Book  has 
been,  by  some  marvel  or  other,  conjured  there  in  its  stead — and 
Violante  now  moves  away  as  softly  as  she  entered.  Harley's 
hand  detains  her. 

"Not  so.  Share  the  task,  or  I  quit  it.  Here  is  an  extract  I  con- 
demn you  to  copy.  Do  you  think  I  would  go  through  this  labor 
if  you  were  not  to  halve  the  success  ? — halve  the  labor  as  well ! " 

And  Violante,  overjoyed,  kisses  away  the  implied  rebuke,  and 
sits  down  to  work,  so  demure  and  so  proud,  by  his  side.  I  do 
not  know  if  Harley  made  much  way  in  the  Blue  Book  that 
morning  ;  but  a  little  time  after  he  spoke  in  the  Lords,  and  sur- 
passed all  that  the  most  sanguine  had  hoped  from  his  talents. 
The  sweetness  of  fame  and  the  consciousness  of  utility  once  fully 
tasted,  Harley's  consummation  of  his  proper  destinies  was  secure. 
A  year  later,  and  his  voice  was  one  of  the  influences  of  England. 
His  boyish  love  of  glory  revived  ;  no  longer  vague  and  dreamy, 
but  ennobled  into  patriotism,  and  strengthened  by  purpose.  One 
night,  after  a  signal  triumph,  he  returned  home  with  his  father, 
who  had  witnessed  it,  and  Violante — who  all  lovely,  all  brilliant 
though  she  was,  never  went  forth  in  her  lord's  absence,  to  lower, 
among  fops  and  flatterers,  the  dignity  of  the  name  she  so  aspired 
to  raise — sprang  to  meet  him.  Harley's  eldest  son — a  boy  yet  in 
the  nursery — had  been  kept  up  later  than  usual ;  perhaps  Violante 
had  anticipated  her  husband's  triumph,  and  wished  her  son  to 


486  MY    NOVEL. 

share  it.  The  old  Earl  beckoned  the  child  to  him,  and  laying  his 
hand  on  the  infant's  curly  locks,  said  with  unusual  seriousness — 

"My  boy,  you  may  see  troubled  times  in  England  before  these 
hairs  are  as  gray  as  mine ;  and  your  stake  in  England's  honor 
and  peace  will  be  great.  Heed  this  hint  from  an  old  man  who 
had  no  talents  to  make  a  noise  in  the  world,  but  who  yet  has 
been  of  some  use  in  his  generation.  Neither  sounding  titles,  nor 
wide  lands,  nor  fine  abilities,  will  give  you  real  joy,  unless 
you  hold  yourself  responsible  for  all  to  your  God  and  to  your 
country  ;  and. when  you  are  tempted  to  believe  that  the  gifts 
you  may  inherit  from  both  entail  no  duties,  or  that  duties  are 
at  war  with  true  pleasure,  remember  how  I  placed  you  in  your 
father's  arms,  and  said, '  Let  him  be  as  proud  of  you  some  day, 
as  I  at  this  hour  am  of  him/  " 

The  boy  clung  to  his  father's  breast,  and  said  manfully,  "  I 
will  try  !"  Harley  bent  his  fair,  smooth  brow  over  the  young 
earnest  face,  and  said  softly,  "Your  mother  speaks  in  you  !  " 

Then  the  old  Countess,  who  had  remained  silent  and  listen- 
ing on  her  elbow-chair,  rose  and  kissed  the  Earl's  hand  rever- 
ently. Perhaps  in  that  kiss  there  was  the  repentant  consciousness 
how  far  the  active  goodness  she  had  often  secretly  undervalued 
had  exceeded,  in  its  fruits,  her  own  cold  unproductive  powers 
of  will  and  mind.  Then  passing  on  to  Harley,  her  brow  grew 
elate,  and  the  pride  returned. to  her  eye. 

"At  last,"  she  said,  laying  on  his  shoulder  that  light,  firm 
hand,  from  which  he  no  longer  shrunk — "at  last,  O  my  noble 
son,  you  have  fulfilled  all  the  promise  of  your  youth  !" 

"  If  so,"  answered  Harley,  "  it  is  because  I  have  found  what 
I  then  sought  in  vain."  He  drew  his  arm  around  Violante,  and 
added,  with  half  tender,  half  solemn  smile— "  Blessed  is  the 
woman  who  exalts  !  " 


So,  symbolled  forth  in  these  twin  and  fair  flowers  which  Eve 
saved  for  Earth  out  of  Paradise,  each  with  the  virtue  to  heal 
or  to  strengthen,  stored  under  the  leaves  that  give  sweets  to  the 
air; — here,soothingtheheart  when  the  worldbringsthetrouble — 
here,  recruiting  the  soul  which  our  sloth  or  our  senses  enervate, 
leave  we  woman,  at  least,  in  the  place  Heaven  assigns  to  her 
amidst  the  multiform  "Varieties,  of  Life." 

Farewell  to  thee,  gentle  Reader;  and  go  forth  to  the  world, 
O  MY  NOVEL  ! 


THE   END. 


m  f\f\  '" "'"  "•'•  llllllll   III 


